Luke shoved open the dorm door with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, heart heavy from the breakup he hadn’t even cried over yet. He just needed to settle in, sleep off the headache, and not think about how his girlfriend had been distant for weeks.

The room was shockingly clean. Like, obsessively clean.

Books were alphabetized and lined up like soldiers on the shelf. The bed on the right—his new roommate's—was crisp and tucked like it belonged in a hotel. The scent of lavender and freshly laundered sheets wafted through the air, mixed faintly with steam.

The shower was running.

Luke felt the pit in his stomach drop. He hoped this guy wasn’t some uptight neat freak. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned, bracing himself. He already hated this day. One more thing could break him.

Then the bathroom door swung open.

Dripping with condensation and with a towel hanging low on his hips, Andrew stepped out—tousled, flushed from the heat, and entirely unaware of the storm his appearance would cause.

Luke froze.

Andrew’s eyes widened.

"...You," they said in unison.

A beat of silence passed. And then another.

“You’ve got to be f**king kidding me,” Andrew muttered, voice low and venom-laced.

Luke flinched but tried to stay composed. “Yeah, I didn’t ask for this either.”

“Great. First you stalk me, and now you move into my dorm?”

“I wasn’t stalking you.” Luke gritted his teeth. “I thought you were hooking up with my girlfriend. I was trying to prove it.”

Andrew scoffed, walking over to the bed, towel still clinging precariously. “So you followed me around like a creep and then accused me of being gay?”

“You said that!” Luke snapped. “You said, ‘You wanna know if I’m gay so bad? What, am I your type?’” He mimicked sarcastically.

Andrew’s eyes darkened. “You made me late to my psych exam.”

“You stole my notebook—”

“You left it behind. I borrowed it.”

“Oh yeah?” Luke growled. “Then why’d you write ‘Get your own notes, stalker.’ on the cover?”

Andrew paused. His smirk was infuriating.

“I was being honest.”

Tension pulsed between them like a stretched wire. And when Luke dropped his bag onto the floor, the sound was like a trigger.

In one move, Andrew stepped forward. Luke instinctively stepped too.

And then they were tangled.

Not in a kiss—not in anything remotely romantic—but in a chaotic, frustrated, testosterone-fueled wrestling match that crashed them onto Luke’s still-unmade bed. Sheets twisted around their legs. Elbows jabbed into ribs. Their chests pressed together for a split second too long.

And in that second, Luke's brain betrayed him.

"He’s on top of me," he thought. "Is he gonna—?"

He let out a tiny, muttered slip: “...You’re not really gonna do it, are you…”

Andrew stilled. His eyes narrowed in horror.

“…Are you actually thinking about that right now?” His voice was sharp, disgusted.

Luke’s cheeks flushed crimson. “I—I didn’t mean—! I’m just—!”

Andrew shoved himself off the bed like he’d touched a live wire. “Jesus Christ. You’re insane.”

“I just meant—!”

“I don’t care what you meant.” Andrew grabbed a shirt, threw it on, and avoided eye contact. “Sleep on your side of the room and keep your thoughts to yourself. If not I’ll file a complaint”

Luke sat frozen on the bed, mortified and burning with a thousand conflicting emotions.

This was going to be a long semester.