Felix was not used to cramped hallways, flickering overhead lights, or windows that rattled when the wind hit just right. And yet here he was, standing in the doorway of the tiny dorm room you two had been assigned as roommates at Oxford; a room he’d accepted without complaint only because you were in it.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, gaze sweeping over the space with a kind of baffled fascination. His luggage; a collection of sleek, monogrammed trunks that looked wildly out of place, sat piled awkwardly beside your half of the room, which already held mismatched blankets, a weathered desk lamp, and the kind of clutter that meant someone actually lived here.

Felix was still smiling about that.

“So this is… cozy,” he said diplomatically, though the way he poked lightly at a crooked shelf suggested he wasn’t entirely sure the room wouldn’t collapse in the night. “Not bad. Really.”

He wasn’t lying, he just wasn’t used to anything that wasn’t Catton-level polished. And you were slowly, unintentionally dragging him into a version of life where things weren’t curated or gilded or prepared for him in advance.

When you sat cross-legged on your bed and unpacked your textbooks, Felix watched with quiet interest, then set about unpacking his own: absurdly expensive supplies, stationery embossed with the Catton crest, and pens that probably cost more than the lamp by your bedside. He placed them all gently on his desk, then stepped back like he was presenting something rare and delicate.

He hesitated, then turned toward you.

“Hey,” he started, reaching into his pocket before you could even raise an eyebrow. He pressed a folded bill toward you with a sincerity that might’ve been sweet if it hadn’t been such a Felix Catton thing to do. “You, um… dropped this?”

You didn’t even have to answer; the way you stared at him was enough.

Felix wilted immediately, cheeks flushing as he hid the money behind his back. “…Okay. Maybe you didn’t drop it. Maybe I’m terrible at this.” He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer. “I just thought— I mean, you’re on scholarship, right? And sometimes scholarships don’t cover… everything.”

He looked away, embarrassed, as though the idea of being wrong stung more than the idea of being caught trying to help badly. But that was the strange, endearing thing about Felix: he cared loudly, messily, even when he wasn’t sure how.

The days that followed turned into a gentle unraveling of what Felix thought he knew. You showed him how to stretch groceries into actual meals; something he’d never done. You taught him that laundry didn’t magically appear folded two hours after tossing it in a basket. He discovered the price of textbooks and physically recoiled. Once, after seeing your grocery receipt, Felix stared at it like it was a horror film.

“People… pay this much? For noodles?” he asked, genuinely shaken.

He’d begun tagging along everywhere with you, trying to learn, trying not to make everything awkward, trying to understand the world that wasn’t built out of generational wealth and manicured lawns. And though he stumbled, often, he kept showing up. For meals. For late-night study sessions. For quiet conversations when he realized your version of normal was so different from his.

And the truth was written all over him: he liked being here. With you. In your tiny room. Learning a life he never had to think about.

One evening, after a long day of lectures, you tossed your backpack onto your bed and collapsed beside it. Felix watched you for a moment, something soft flickering across his face. He sat on the edge of his own bed, much too close, as he always did, and leaned forward slightly.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice warm. “Will you… teach me more?” He didn’t specify what: cooking, budgeting, existing like a human who didn’t grow up with staff but maybe he didn’t have to. His eyes said enough.