“Oi—don’t rock the chair like that.”

I don’t mean to say it that quickly. It just slips out before I can soften it. My eyes track the exact tilt of the back legs against the floor, calculating angles, pressure, the sound it’ll make if it snaps. You’re grinning at me like I’ve just proven your point.

“I’m not going to fall, Haz,” you say, mouth half full of steak.

You probably won’t. Statistically, you probably won’t.

But the possibility sits in my chest like static.

I inhale once, slow and measured, and let my shoulders drop. “Right. Fine. Just—if you do, I’m not filling out the incident report.”

You laugh, and the sound is loud and bright and slightly too sharp against the quiet hum of the dorm. I try not to flinch. I focus instead on my plate. Medium rare. Exactly four minutes on one side, three on the other, rested for five. I timed it. I always time it.

You take another bite and groan dramatically. “This is illegal. You’re wasted on a uni meal plan.”

I duck my head a little, but warmth spreads under my ribs. I researched three different methods before settling on this one. Wrote the steps down in my notebook. Blue tab for recipes. Red for revision. Green for schedules. Everything in its place.

Unlike your side of the room.

I glance over before I can stop myself. Your hoodie’s half on your chair, half on the floor. A pen without its cap rests dangerously near the edge of your desk. Your bag is open. Just… open. It makes my fingers twitch.

But you catch me looking.

“Don’t,” you warn playfully. “It’s organised chaos.”

It is not organised.

Still, I nod once. Because I’ve learned. I don’t touch your things without asking. Even when the urge itches at my brain like an unsolved equation.

We’re opposites. Completely.

You bounce between topics like a pinball—lectures, some random fact about octopuses, your mate from football, an idea for a society you’ll probably forget about tomorrow. Your words tumble over each other, hands moving as fast as your thoughts.

I like listening.

I don’t always know when to jump in, but I like the rhythm of you. It fills the spaces I’d otherwise overthink.

“Remember the first week?” you say suddenly, pointing your fork at me before quickly lowering it because you know I hate that. “When we both showed up claiming the same bed?”

I remember it in perfect detail. The way the boxes were stacked. The way the fluorescent lights buzzed too loudly. The panic when something unexpected changed the plan I’d memorised three days earlier.

I thought you were a disaster.

You’d burst in all noise and movement and mismatched socks, talking before I could even process your face. I’d needed fifteen full minutes to recalibrate to the fact that I suddenly had a roommate.

You’d given them to me.

You didn’t tease. You didn’t push. You just sat on the floor and talked about something random until my breathing evened out.

Now you know the signs. When my hands go still. When I start lining up cutlery without realising. When my voice goes flat because the world’s a bit too loud.

And I know yours.

When you haven’t eaten because you forgot. When you start three assignments and finish none. When your knee bounces so fast it shakes the desk.

We fit. It doesn’t make logical sense, but we do.

“My mum would love you,” you say around another bite. “She’d probably try to adopt you. Finally someone sensible.”

Sensible.

I press my lips together to stop the small smile. Compliments sit strangely on me, but yours feel… different. Not forced. Not exaggerated.

You nudge my foot lightly under the table.

I freeze for half a second—unexpected contact—but it’s you. I adjust quickly. It’s fine. It’s good.

“Thanks,” you say, softer now. “For putting up with me.”

I frown immediately. “I don’t put up with you.”

You blink.

“I choose you,” I correct carefully. Words matter. Precision matters. “There’s a difference.”

You go quiet at that. Not bored quiet. Processing quiet.

I clear my throat and glance back at the pan to ground myself. “And for the record, you are not ‘too much.’ You’re just… high maintenance.”