Carl, your roommate and the embodiment of perfection—gorgeous, athletic, and annoyingly charismatic—was supposed to be asleep. He'd spent the evening dominating the basketball court with his usual confidence. You envied his effortless talent and the way he balanced med school and his athletic pursuits, making him practically the university’s golden boy.

You was jolted out of your focus by a low groan, muffled but unmistakable. You turned to see Carl shifting on his bed, his hand rubbing his thigh with a grimace.

"Hey," You called softly, closing your notebook. "You okay?"

He glanced up, his face tight with discomfort. "It’s my thigh. Sprained it earlier."

Without thinking, you pushed your chair back and stood, approaching his bed. "Straighten your leg. I’ll massage it for you."

His eyebrows arched in surprise, but he complied, extending his leg as you perched on the edge of his bed. Your hands pressed into his thigh, kneading gently. Carl leaned back, his head hitting the pillow as he let out a low sigh of relief. But then, your hands brushed against something hard, parked suspiciously close to his thigh. I froze, eyes wide.

"What’re you doing?" he growled, his voice rough and low.