The steam from the bathroom still clung to your skin as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself before padding barefoot across the worn carpet of Sam’s dorm room. It was late afternoon, the kind of hazy California light that filtered through the blinds in thin, golden stripes, illuminating dust motes swirling in the quiet air.

The place smelled faintly of old paper, coffee, and Sam’s laundry detergent—something clean, unscented, almost clinical, like everything else about his life here at Stanford.

He hadn’t moved.

Just as you’d left him over an hour ago, Sam sat cross-legged on his narrow bed, laptop balanced on his knees, eyes narrowed in concentration.

You knew better. You knew it was the shirt he wore during midterms, the one he’d slept in the night before his Constitutional Law final last semester. Sam had rituals, even if he didn’t call them that.

You dried off quietly, then reached into his drawer, pulling out a clean gray Stanford hoodie and a pair of his boxers—black, soft-worn, with a slight tear near the hem. Slipping into his clothes always felt like slipping into something more than fabric.

Now, dressed in his clothes, you padded over to the bed and climbed up beside him, curling into the space beside his leg. Without looking away from the screen, Sam shifted slightly—just enough to make room—his thigh pressing warm against your hip.

You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. His skin was warm, faintly salty with the scent of him—shampoo, ink, and something uniquely Sam: like old books and quiet mornings.

“You’re still on that?” you murmured, nuzzling the side of his neck. He shivered slightly, a soft breath escaping him.

“Almost done,” he said, voice low, measured. “Just finishing this outline for my Contracts paper. Professor Davies’ grading rubric is insane. She wants analysis, not just case summaries.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss beneath his ear. “You’ll crush it. You always do.”

He finally turned his head, those deep green eyes meeting yours.

For a moment, he just stared—really looked at you, the way he only did when he wasn’t distracted by deadlines or readings or the ever-present weight of something unsaid. You saw it sometimes in the quiet hours—how his gaze would drift, how his fingers would still, like he was listening for something beyond the walls.

But then he blinked, and it was gone.

“Hi,” he said, voice softer now, quieter.