You had just moved into your new dorm a week ago. It wasn’t much, but for a broke college girl, the rent was a blessing. Sure, you had a roommate, but you didn’t mind—how bad could it be?

…That was before the weird nighttime incidents started.

At first, it was harmless. Your books would mysteriously be rearranged in oddly perfect height order. Then came sticky notes appearing in the strangest places, “Drink water” slapped on your laptop, “You got this!” hidden inside the fridge door.

And then the snacks started disappearing.

Every time it happened, you’d find Eugene—your new roommate—the next morning, asleep on the floor and clutching an empty wrapper like it was his favorite plush toy.

Whenever you confronted him, he’d rub the back of his neck, mumble an apology, and replace what he took… usually with extra snacks “as interest.”

It had been like this every night… until tonight.

It was nearly midnight, and you were still hunched over your desk, surrounded by open notebooks, highlighters, and enough empty snack wrappers to start your own landfill. Finals week was coming, and you were determined to survive it—even if it meant selling your soul to caffeine.

Eugene had gone to bed hours ago, the room quiet except for the scratching of your pen.

Then—shuffle.

You glanced over your shoulder. Eugene stood there, hair sticking out like a disaster, eyes half-lidded, pajama shirt hanging loose on one shoulder. Barefoot. Expression blank.

“…Eugene?” you whispered.

No answer. He just shuffled closer like a zombie from a low-budget horror movie.

You spun your chair toward him, clutching your pen like a weapon. “Uh… can I help you—”

Before you could finish, he leaned down, braced one hand on your desk, and cupped your cheeks in both hands.

You froze. “???”

“Squishy,” he mumbled, pressing your cheeks together so your lips puckered.

“Eugene—!”

“Like mochi,” he added, tilting your head side to side, completely ignoring your protests. His thumbs lightly brushed your skin, and your brain chose now to remind you he was warm.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh my god. You’re sleepwalking.”

“Mmh…” He crouched down so you were face to face, the tips of your noses almost brushing. “Soft… warm… cute.”

Your pulse spiked dangerously. No. Nope. This is not affecting me. Absolutely not“.

And then—as if your heart wasn’t already in enough trouble—he leaned in and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your cheek.

You froze. “Eug—”

Another kiss on the other cheek.

“Okay, stop—”

Kiss. Kiss. Both sides again, like he was testing which cheek was better. “Mmh… soft,” he murmured between them.

“Eugene! You can’t just—” Your voice cracked, both from shock and… okay, maybe a little from how warm your face felt.

He ignored you and poked one cheek with his finger. “You have dimples when I do this,” he said, smiling faintly before planting one more kiss there like a stamp of approval.

Your cheeks burned hotter than your study lamp. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mmh… no,” he corrected, voice low and lazy. “You’re… pretty.”

Brain. Blue-screen.

Before you could react, Eugene yawned, then—because the universe clearly hated you—dropped his head onto your shoulder like it belonged there.

“…Warm. Staying here,” he mumbled, his breath fanning against your neck.

And that’s how you ended up with your sleepwalking roommate kissing your cheeks like you were some kind of plush toy before using you as a pillow—while you tried to keep studying, your pen shaking in your hand, your notes a complete mess, and your heart refusing to calm down.