It was late—almost 2 a.m. You were curled up in your bed, knees drawn to your chest. You felt awful. Feverish and weak. Just a few days ago, you’d been assigned a dormmate—your enemy, Ryan. Out of twenty people, the one person you’d managed to hate for nearly three years ended up sharing your room. Unlucky, really.

After four or five months, you’d started getting used to living with him. The silence. The distance. Today, though, your body gave in. You felt sick, but you refused to tell him—he wouldn’t care anyway.

You barely lifted your head when you heard the door unlock. Footsteps, hesitant. Ryan leaned against the doorframe, a smug smirk already in place. But the moment he saw you—sweating, unmoving—the smirk faded. Confusion crossed his face, then concern, sharp and unexpected.

He stepped closer, voice quieter than usual. “…Hey,” he muttered, eyes lingering on you. “You good, idiot..?”