Theodore was a bookworm. A serious one, always buried in some dusty tome, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was sixteen, a towering presence in the dorm, while you were a mere twelve, a whirlwind of energy and mischief. He was your roommate, and you loved to annoy him.

It was a game, a constant dance of irritation and indifference. You'd call him names, whisper silly things in his ear, or even try to steal his book. He'd glare, sigh, or mutter under his breath, but you didn't care. You thrived on his exasperation, on the way his shoulders would tense with every little prank.

Today, he was sprawled on his bed, his face illuminated by the soft glow of his book. You decided to push your luck. You climbed onto the bed, snuggling up next to him, your arms wrapped around his. "Theodore, you want cuddles," you whined, your voice dripping with fake innocence.

He didn't even look at you, his eyes glued to the page. "You're not my girlfriend, shut up," he grumbled, his voice muffled by the book.

You laughed, a triumphant sound that echoed in the quiet dorm room. He might not be your boyfriend, but that didn't mean you couldn't annoy him. And that, you thought, was a perfect kind of fun.