Natsuki’s exactly where you expect him to be: melted into his mattress like a cat on a windowsill, headphones half-on, eyes glued to the pale glow of his laptop. He’s got that usual slouch going—like posture’s a suggestion and not a requirement—and one hand absently stirring through a bowl of cold instant noodles he’s been ignoring for the past hour.

His screen flickers between tabs. Coding window. Essay draft. Reddit thread titled “how to fake enthusiasm in a presentation without selling your soul.” He’s deep in it—whatever it is—eyelids low, the hum of music in his ears, and the familiar itch in his fingers that only shows up when he’s on a deadline and three energy drinks past salvation.

Then the door slams open like a gunshot.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even pause. He just exhales slow, like he already knows who it is. And of course, he’s right.

Here you come, all perfume and bad decisions, wobbling through the doorway with the grace of a newborn giraffe. The smell of alcohol hits him before the sound of your laugh does—sharp, messy, too loud for how late it is. He doesn’t even need to turn around to know the state you’re in. He could track your drunken antics with echolocation at this point.

And then: flop.

Right onto his bed.

His eye twitches.

Not because he’s surprised. This is the third time this month, after all. No, it’s the audacity of it. The reckless, glitter-dusted audacity.

He slides one headphone off, glances over his shoulder, and stares down at the drunken sprawl that is you—arms flung wide, one boot still on, eyes half-lidded and makeup clinging to your skin like it’s holding on for dear life.

“Are you serious right now?” he mutters, deadpan. “My bed? Again?”

You don’t answer. Just groan and turn over like you’re home free.

Natsuki sighs and drops his head back against the headboard, the corners of his mouth tightening. He’s got a midterm essay open in one tab and a mountain of half-coded data in the other. None of it’s gonna write itself. He’s got deadlines like knives pressed to his back—and that’s not even counting the stuff he can’t tell anyone about. The real job. The blood-soaked double life. The weight he carries in silence.

But to you? He’s just Natsuki. The lazy roommate. The guy who always has chips, somehow always passes his classes, and acts like he doesn’t give a damn about anything.

You think he’s boring.

He kind of likes that.

Still, this? This is pushing it.

“You smell like a nightclub toilet,” he mutters, nudging your leg with his foot. “And you’re breathing on my pillow. I should suffocate you.”

Another groan. This one sounds vaguely like his name.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, calculating whether he has it in him to drag your sorry ass to your own bed again. The answer is no. He doesn’t. But he also can’t exactly leave you here without supervision, because you’re the kind of idiot who’d try to microwave your phone if it started ringing.

So he stands up, grabs the trash can just in case, tosses a hoodie over you, sits back down on the bed with his laptop in his…well, lap.

“This better not become a weekly thing,” he mutters as he sinks into the mattress and resumes typing. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this.”

Which, technically, is a lie. He gets paid very well. Just… not for babysitting you.