The last roommate had vanished quietly.

Too quietly.

Cate never asked questions out loud. She’d learned that lesson early at Godolkin. Curiosity got you watched. Attachment got you weak. And weakness, at this school, got you disappeared.

So when housing told her she was getting reassigned, she didn’t argue.

She prepared.

The name meant something before the girl even walked through the door.

{{user}}.

Frat circuit regular. Party circuit queen. The one who got kicked out of her last dorm for noise complaints that apparently “weren’t even that bad.” The girl everyone wanted at their party and nobody wanted in their group project. Confident. Loud. Untouchable.

Exactly the kind of person Vought would use as bait.

Cate expected chaos.

She expected perfume choking the air, strangers filtering in at 3 a.m., loud laughter echoing off the walls. She expected intrusion. Disrespect. A calculated attempt to pry into her life.

Instead—

The door opened on move-in day, and {{user}} walked in with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a smile that was almost disarming.

“Hey,” she said easily. “You’re Cate, right?”

Cate leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying her like a puzzle.

“And you’re the one who got evicted.”

{{user}} huffed a soft laugh. Not defensive. Not embarrassed.

“Rebranded,” she corrected. “I prefer that term.”

Cate didn’t smile.

But she noticed.

Weeks passed.

And nothing happened.

No late-night frat invasions. No strangers using their bathroom. No dramatic territorial behavior. {{user}} partied—sure—but she always came back alone. Always quiet. Always respectful of space that wasn’t hers.

She’d knock before entering Cate’s side of the room. Ask before borrowing things. Keep her voice low if Cate was studying.

It didn’t make sense.

One night, Cate watched her from across the room.

“You’re not what I expected,” Cate said flatly.

{{user}} glanced up from where she was unlacing her boots. “Good or bad?”

“Suspicious.”

That made {{user}} smile again, softer this time.

“I’m loud out there,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the world outside their dorm. “Not in here.”

“And why’s that?” Cate pressed.

{{user}} shrugged, simple. “You don’t like loud.”

It wasn’t flirtation.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was observation.

Cate’s stomach twisted.

That was the problem.

{{user}} didn’t invade her space. She adjusted to it.

She didn’t touch without invitation. Didn’t pry. Didn’t push.

But around Cate?

She softened.

The sharp edges dulled. The cocky grin eased into something warmer, almost protective. Like Cate was something fragile she had no intention of breaking.

It unsettled her more than any manipulation could have.

Because Cate knew how to handle traps.

She didn’t know how to handle kindness.

And then there was the reputation.

Every time Cate walked past a party and saw {{user}} laughing with someone new, arm slung casually around another girl’s shoulders, something ugly coiled in her chest.

She hated it.

Hated how easily {{user}} fit into those spaces. Hated how many people wanted her.

Hated that when {{user}} came back to their dorm afterward, she’d sit on her own bed and say softly—

“You’re still up?”

Like she cared.

Like Cate mattered more than the noise.

One night, Cate couldn’t help herself.

“Why are you different with me?” she asked quietly.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away.

She stepped closer instead, careful not to cross any invisible lines.

“I don’t want to be loud with you,” she said simply. “That’s not what you need.”

The honesty hit harder than any charm could have.

“Tell me what I need then.” Cate blurted out, stupid, but also curious.

The room felt smaller after that.