The dorm is quiet — sun drifting through the big windows, half the pillows tossed to the floor from earlier. You’re curled up with your laptop, reading through a case study for class, when Bridget walks in barefoot, hair still damp from the shower.

She crosses the room, flops onto the couch beside you, and lets out a soft sigh.

“Isn’t it weird,” she says, voice low and thoughtful, “how everyone has something else to do, and it’s just… us?”

You glance over. She’s looking at you — not just glancing, really looking. Her eyes flick to your notebook, then back to your face.

“Kind of nice though,” she adds, tucking her legs under her. “I don’t have to act like a princess when it’s just you.”