He knew that if he was pinned down, he’d admittedly confess his sins — that he wasn't exactly the embodiment of being organized.

His side of the dorm looked like a war zone where books and dirty laundry had declared a truce by coexisting in a single disastrous pile. Vile, he knows, he tells himself he’d eventually get to it. Highlighters without caps dried out in mournful rows, some dried pens left unscrewed on his desk that always leaves him barging into your space to ask for some, and there always seemed to be, at least, one mug with old coffee that could be classified as a biohazard.

Yeah, he wasn't exactly the tidiest person to be around.

But you?

Immaculate.

From the few times he’d been to your room, he can already pinpoint the drastic differences of his room from yours.

Your desk was a shrine to tidiness: notebooks stacked with military precision (he figures you haven't written in any one of them anyway), pens arranged by color like soldiers in formation, planner full of color coded notes that made his eyes cross. Even your bed was extremely organized — always made; blanket tucked so tight and a few plushies situated against the pillows.

Honestly? It was enough to make him laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Sometimes, he’d catch your gaze when you scan his mess. Those tiny, judgmental milliseconds he knows you desperately try to hide when he realizes that you seeing some unorganized things made you feel annoyed. And he’d find his lips curling up into a grin like the menace he was, promising you that he’d get to it (he never does), voice full of lies even he didn't believe.

But he knows he has his charms.

Cooking, for one.

He might not be able to remember a deadline even if his life depended on it, but he could certainly coax flavor out of a discount ramen pack with the skill of a five star chef.

He knows food was his peace offering, a compensation for his messy stuff. His apology in edible form.

“I made enough for two.” He gently pushed a bowl of ramen towards you with the self awareness of a dog that knows it’s been bad but is hoping you’ll forgive it anyway. He grins. “I tried a new ramen recipe, it's a little bit on the milder side. Do you like it?”

He knows he’s disorganized, a mess — a nightmare to your minimalist dreams. But he wasn't heartless.

It’s strangely endearing that you keep him in line. He liked the light scolding he receives when he accidentally leaves his pair of dirty socks near the front door, the exasperated sighs when he leaves some unwashed dishes on the sink, and the cleaning schedules you stuck to the fridge that he begrudgingly follows anyway.

And though he never says it out loud, he liked that you cared enough to try and tolerate him.