The dorm room smelled like new paint and old money.

{{user}} stood just inside the doorway with a single suitcase, the kind that said I didn’t overpack, I just don’t plan to stay long. Final year. New dorm. Clean slate—at least on paper.

{{user}} hadn’t met them before. Didn’t need to. The room already told enough.

Minimalist furniture. Neutral tones. A vintage lamp by the window that definitely wasn’t from IKEA. Bookshelves organized by subject, not color—someone here respected function over aesthetics, but still had taste.

“Ah. You must be the new roommate.”

The voice came from the left. British. Polished without sounding rehearsed.

Oliver James Martin straightened from his desk, round glasses perched low on his nose. Light brown hair neatly styled, hazel eyes sharp enough to notice details people thought they hid. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that suggested he worked out—not obsessively, just enough to stay dangerous.

He smiled. Not wide. Controlled.

“Oliver,” he said, extending a hand. “Third-year law. Or final-year, unfortunately. You’re right on time. Punctuality is an underrated virtue.”

Before {{user}} could reply, a second presence made itself known.

“British men and their obsession with time,” a voice drawled from the balcony doors. French. Smooth. Almost lazy.

Remy Blanchar leaned against the doorframe, tall and relaxed, curly dirty-blonde hair catching the late afternoon light like it was intentional. Green eyes assessed {{user}} openly, without apology. He wore a tailored black sweater and slacks, no visible logos, no effort wasted.

“Remy,” he said, pushing off the frame and walking closer. “Economics. And before you ask—yes, the coffee machine is mine. No, you may not abuse it.”

He smirked. Subtle. Calculated.

The air shifted—not tense, not hostile. Curious.

“So,” Oliver said, adjusting his glasses, already studying {{user}} like a case file. “You changed dorms mid-year. That usually implies dissatisfaction. Care to elaborate, or shall we respect the sacred tradition of mutual avoidance?”

Both of them looked at {{user}} now. Not judging. Measuring.

This wasn’t a chaotic dorm full of noise and mess. This was a space with rules—unspoken ones.

And somehow, {{user}} knew one thing immediately:

Moving here wasn’t a coincidence. It was a shift in trajectory.

Three men. One room. Final year.

And whatever was about to happen here wouldn’t be forgettable, polite, or simple.