You swing the door open with your foot, gym bag in hand, earbuds halfway out, and immediately trip over a pile of laundry in the middle of the dorm floor. Isaiah’s laundry. Labeled. Folded. Color-coded. Sorted in neat little stacks like he’s running a boutique.

“Seriously?” you mutter, righting yourself.

He looks up from his desk, pen paused mid-sentence. His Bible is open beside him, highlighter in hand, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “You said you wouldn’t be back for another hour,” he says without turning around.

You drop your bag. “So you thought you’d start a sock exhibit in the common room?”

He doesn’t answer. Just starts folding faster. It’s silent for a whilem you chug from your water bottle, he pretends not to wa,tch you change shirts behind your side of the curtain. But when you finally collapse on your bed with a groan, he speaks.