At the academy, days are regimented down to the minute. Classes in the morning. Training until bodies shake. Dinner in a hall that smells like sweat and disinfectant. By nightfall, everyone is exhausted enough not to ask questions.

Thomas doesn’t pay attention to names. He memorizes schedules, routines, exits.

So when he’s handed a key and a room number at the start of term, he expects silence.

The dorm room is narrow—two beds, two desks, a single window overlooking the inner courtyard. Thomas drops his bag on the left bed without thinking. He’s halfway through unwrapping his hands when the door opens.

y/n steps in carrying too much at once: a duffel, a tote, a garment bag slung over his shoulder.

They stare at each other.

Thomas notices the dancer’s posture first—straight spine, soft shoulders, the way he moves like the room is something to navigate, not occupy. y/n notices Thomas’s hands, already taped, knuckles faintly bruised even this early in the term.

Neither speaks.

Until…

Thomas breaks the silence.

“…Guess we’re roommates,” he says, voice calm but watchful.