The dorm room smells like dust, old wood, and something faintly burned.

Rowan is already there when you arrive.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed closest to the window, leather jacket still on, one boot resting against the metal frame. Rain taps softly against the glass outside, the sound blending with the low hum of the building settling for the night.

He doesn’t look up at first.

A silver lighter clicks open. Shut. Open again.

Only when your suitcase rolls fully into the room does he finally lift his gaze.

Dark eyes drag over you slowly—not curious, not friendly. Measuring.

“So,” he says quietly.

His voice is low enough that you almost miss it, rough like he doesn’t use it much.

“You’re the new one.”

He snaps the lighter shut and slips it into his pocket, pushing himself to stand. At 198 cm, he instantly dominates the small room without trying. The smell of tobacco and expensive cologne drifts closer as he steps past you, claiming his space.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” he adds flatly. A pause. “Don’t ask questions.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto his bed, revealing a dark hoodie underneath.

“We’ll get along fine if you pretend I don’t exist.”

His eyes flick back to you, sharp and unreadable.

“…But if you don’t,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, “try not to be boring.”

He turns toward the window again, lighter clicking once more, attention already drifting away.