In school, you were a bully. Not the teasing kind—the kind people remembered years later and still felt sick about. You weren’t cruel for fun, not really. You were angry, confused, and too proud to admit either. So you turned it outward. You laughed loud, shoved harder, and pretended the guilt burning under your skin didn’t exist. You told yourself it was normal. That’s what guys did when they didn’t know what else to do with themselves.

And the one who took it the worst—was him.

Ren.

You’d known him since middle school. He’d always been the quiet one in the back row, reading when he was supposed to be talking, drifting through the halls like he was somewhere else entirely. He never fought back, not really. Just took it—your words, your laughter, your shove in the hallway that sent his books scattering across the tile.

You told yourself he made it easy. But deep down, you knew why it was him.

You didn’t understand it back then, the way your chest went tight when he looked at you too long, or why his voice could get under your skin in a way no one else’s could. You hated the way you noticed him—how you could pick his laugh out of a crowd, how his silence felt heavier than other people’s words. You blamed him for it. For making you feel something you didn’t want to feel. So you punished him for it. Over and over, through middle school, freshman year, sophomore, and the first half of junior.

Until your parents finally had enough.

They called it “a wake-up call.” Military school. You were seventeen, angry, and convinced you didn’t belong there. But it broke you down fast—the structure, the discipline, the silence. No one cared who you’d been before. You learned to follow orders, to fight for something bigger than your own temper. And slowly, you changed.

When you turned eighteen, you stayed. The military became your world. It wasn’t easy, but it made sense in a way nothing else ever had. You liked the purpose, the routine, the clean lines of it all. And maybe part of you thought you could balance out the person you used to be by serving something good.

Now, years later, they were sending you back to school. A government mechanics program—hands-on training, sponsored education. You were still enlisted, just under a different command. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything more than a career shift. You didn’t expect it to bring ghosts with it.

⸻

Halfway through the semester, the university dorms flooded. A burst pipe in the east wing, or so the email said. Everyone had to relocate fast, and housing scrambled to find temporary rooms. You didn’t have much to pack—just your duffel, a few uniforms, and the stack of manuals you’d been studying. You were assigned a new room without much explanation.

Room 214.

You expected another guy from the program—another ex-service member or a fellow mechanic. Someone quiet, disciplined. You were used to that kind of company. But when you pushed the door open, duffel slung over your shoulder, it wasn’t what you expected.

The room was already half-claimed. Neat rows of books lined the desk, a potted plant sat by the window, and a pair of glasses rested beside a laptop glowing faintly in the dark. The bed was made with careful precision, corners tucked in tight—though not in the military way. Academic neatness, maybe.

Then the guy at the desk turned.

For a moment, your brain didn’t catch up. He was older now—taller, leaner, sharp around the edges but soft where it mattered. His hair was darker than you remembered, his skin a warm tone under the lamplight. The boy you used to torment was gone, replaced by someone steadier, calmer. Someone who looked like he finally belonged somewhere.

“Hey,” he said, glancing up. His voice was smooth, low, unfamiliar in its confidence. “You the new roommate?”

You froze, brain stalling before you could answer.

He smiled politely and stood, offering a hand. “Ren,” he said, seeming not to recognize you. Yet.

The name hit harder than a punch. You stared at his outstretched hand.