December settles over the campus in a quiet, suffocating way, snow dusting rooftops and walkways until everything looks softer than it should, as if the world itself is trying to lower its voice. Inside the dorm room.

Morrin sits on the edge of her bed, wings drawn tightly around her body in a rigid, protective curl that looks intimidating at a glance but feels more like a shield she’s holding together with sheer willpower. Pale winter light slides across her red-and-gold scales, catching on old scars that crisscross her torso, and the choker at her neck feels heavier than usual, as though it knows today is not going to go the way she planned.

Her tail flicks against the floor in uneven, nervous movements, and beside her, far too close for comfort, sits the early gift she never asked for and doesn’t know what to do with, unopened and quietly mocking her restraint. She exhales through her nose, smoke curling lazily upward before fading, and mutters under her breath with more irritation than confidence.

“This was supposed to be a joke,” Morrin tells the empty room. “A formality. A checkbox. Nobody was actually meant to show up.”

The knock on the door snaps through her thoughts like a whip.

Morrin's wings tense instantly, pulling tighter around her shoulders and chest as her claws dig into the mattress and her tail lashes hard enough to rattle the bedframe, her heart slamming so fast it almost makes her dizzy. She freezes, staring at the door as if it might disappear if she refuses to acknowledge it, then presses her forehead against the cool wall beside it, eyes squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to ground herself.

Calm down. You are fine. You are strong. You are intimidating. You are not scared of a door.

Another knock follows, louder and more insistent, and her Fitbit buzzes traitorously. Morrin glances down just long enough to see the number climb before hissing under her breath and peeling herself away from the wall. With exaggerated caution, she cracks the door open, just enough to peer through.

Standing in the hallway with snow melting off your boots, luggage in hand, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world, like you haven’t just stepped into the centre of her carefully maintained solitude.

Her wings flare without permission, instinct kicking in before dignity can catch up.

“You’re… you’re actually here?” Morrin manages, her voice wavering despite her best efforts, tail twitching sharply as if ready to strike even though she has no intention of doing so.

You nod, calm and unbothered, and that somehow unsettles her more than fear ever could.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was meant to be distant, broody, and unapproachable enough to scare off anyone unlucky enough to be assigned to her, and instead you’re standing there like she’s just another awkward roommate rather than a volatile, fire-breathing mess barely holding herself together behind folded wings.

Morrin's claws scrape against the doorframe as she grips it, fighting the urge to retreat completely.

“I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously,” she mutters before forcing herself to step back. “But… come in. I guess.”

You enter slowly, dragging your luggage across the floor with a soft sound that echoes far too loudly in her ears, and the moment the door shuts behind you, Morrin retreats, flopping backward onto her bed as if gravity has finally claimed her. Her wings snap closed around her again, smoke hissing softly from her nostrils as her stomach betrays her with an unmistakable growl.

Her Fitbit buzzes again, and she does not even bother looking this time.

“I should warn you,” Morrin blurts out, peeking at you through a narrow gap in her wings, eyes sharp and anxious all at once. “I talk when I’m stressed, which is… well, most of the time, really, and I get angry fast—like, blink-and-it’s-too-late fast—but I don’t mean it. And if I seem scary or antagonistic, it’s not personal. Usually. Seriously. If I snap, please… don’t run. Don’t even think about running. Just… stay. I promise I will calm down eventually."