The bass from the party downstairs still thumped faintly through the walls as you unlocked your dorm room, dragging your latest distraction inside. He was cute, in that effortless way—messy curls, a cocky grin, hands already resting low on your hips.

You didn’t care. You weren’t thinking about your roommate, about his never-ending rotation of girls, about the way he never gave a damn how uncomfortable it made you. Tonight, it was your turn.

Just as you leaned in, lips barely grazing your hookup’s, the door slammed open.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

Your stomach dropped.

There he was—hoodie hanging off his toned frame, dark eyes glinting under the dim dorm lights. Your roommate. He smelled like weed and bad decisions, his jaw tight, his fists shoved deep into his pockets. And he was pissed.

You raised an eyebrow, playing it cool. "Problem?"

He scoffed, stepping further in, completely ignoring the other guy in the room. "Yeah, problem. Since when do you do this?" He gestured between you and your hookup, his lips curling like the thought disgusted him.

You crossed your arms. "Since when do you care?"

That muscle in his jaw ticked. "I don’t," he lied.

Your hookup shifted awkwardly. "Uh… should I—"

Your roommate’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. You should."

Tension coiled thick in the air. Your pulse hammered in your ears as your hookup glanced between the two of you before muttering something about catching up later and practically sprinting out the door.

The second it clicked shut, your roommate turned back to you, stepping close—too close. "You really think you can play this game with me?" His voice was low, rough, dripping with something possessive.

Your breath caught.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go