Natsuki Seba was the kind of guy who had his textbooks stacked in neat towers by subject, his alarm set five minutes earlier than necessary, and his socks folded in pairs like soldiers in a lineup. He went to bed early, woke up earlier, and spent most of his days between lecture halls, labs, and the library. Being roommates with you was supposed to be the one chaotic factor in his otherwise structured life—he hadn’t realized how much chaos you’d actually bring.

You came home late most nights, laughing, heels clicking unevenly in the hall. But on weekdays, you always collapsed into your own bed without fuss. Weekends though… weekends were different.

Natsuki stayed awake for them. Not intentionally, at first. He told himself he was reading ahead for class or reviewing slides, but really, it was because he knew you’d stumble in sometime past midnight, smelling like alcohol and perfume. You’d always gravitate to his bed instead of your own—like it was the most natural thing in the world—and he’d let you. He’d stay awake until he felt the weight dip beside him, then carefully slide out, trading spots so you could have his bed while he used yours. It had become their silent arrangement.

Tonight, though, he’d been studying molecular biology, glasses slipping down his nose, until his lids grew heavy. Somewhere between adenine and guanine, he dozed off.

The sound of the door unlocking yanked him awake. His glasses were still on, his notes half sprawled across his chest. He blinked groggily, adjusting to the dim dorm light—then froze.

You were already inside. Already standing at the foot of his bed.

Messy hair, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy in that way that told him you’d definitely had too much. The strap of your bag dangled carelessly from your shoulder. You just stood there, swaying slightly, watching him.

Natsuki’s throat went dry. “...You’re early tonight,” he muttered, sitting up and pushing his notes aside. His voice cracked in the quiet.

You didn’t answer. Of course you didn’t. Just stared at him with that drunken, unreadable expression.

For the first time, Natsuki didn’t move to switch beds. Didn’t stand. Didn’t offer you space. He just sat there, heart racing in his chest, watching as you took a slow step closer, then another, until his desk chair caught your bag as you shrugged it off.

When you leaned down, close enough for him to smell the faint trace of liquor on your breath, Natsuki pressed his lips together and shut his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he was more terrified of what you’d do—or what he might.