The university’s Master’s Program Tour is supposed to be prestigious.

Selective. Intimate. Three days. Two nights.

Shared accommodations “to encourage collaboration.” No one mentions the word dorming outright until it’s too late to back out.

You’re here because you worked for it—quietly. Good grades, strong recommendations, late nights spent convincing yourself you belonged in rooms like this.

You applied because you wanted to prove something to yourself, not because you expected to win.

She’s here because she expects to be.

Her reputation precedes her. You’ve heard her name in passing during info sessions, whispered with a mix of awe and annoyance.

⸻

The dorm room smells faintly like industrial cleaner and new carpet. Two twin beds. One window. One desk that’s clearly meant for a single person but has been awkwardly duplicated.

You pause in the doorway, suitcase half-rolled behind you, heart thudding as you take it all in.

She’s already there.

Sitting on the bed closest to the window, jacket tossed carelessly over the chair, boots kicked off like she plans on staying. She looks up when you enter, eyes flicking over you in a quick, assessing sweep that makes your shoulders tense.

“…You’ve got to be kidding,” she says, not even trying to lower her voice.

You blink. “Sorry?”

She exhales a sharp laugh, leaning back on her hands. “You’re my roommate.”

It’s not a question.

“I—yeah. I think so,” you reply, adjusting your grip on your bag. “They said there was a mix-up but—”

“Of course there was,” she cuts in, eyes narrowing slightly. “Figures.”

Heat creeps up your neck.

You step further into the room anyway, choosing the bed farthest from hers, placing your suitcase down carefully like you’re afraid of making noise. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until she stands and moves past you without apology, brushing close enough that you freeze.

She stops by the door, glances back at you with a smirk that feels practiced.

“So,” she says lightly, “what’s your focus? Let me guess—something safe. Something theoretical.”

You swallow. “Actually, my research is in applied—”

“Oh wow,” she interrupts again, mock-impressed. “Bold.”

Your hands curl at your sides.

You don’t look at her, but you feel her attention sharpen, like she’s waiting for you to break. When you don’t, she huffs and grabs her bag.

“This is going to be a long weekend,” she mutters.