You swore you’d never be that college student, the one who moves into a dorm only to get swallowed by the chaos of communal living. You needed something quieter, something that didn’t reek of microwave ramen and broken ACs. So, instead of moving into campus housing, you started your search for an apartment, something shared but quiet.

Except every listing you visited turned out to be a disaster.

After days of flops—one landlord was convinced the building was haunted, another tried to rent you a closet—one final listing popped up. Simple. Clean. Affordable. And close to campus. It was signed only with R. Cameron. You didn’t think much of it, you just needed a place to live.

The price was perfect. You sent an application without hesitation and got a visit scheduled for Friday evening.

The building was older but solid. Apartment 4C. You double-checked the address, then rang the bell.

It took a moment, but the door finally swung open. The guy standing there had a mess of golden-brown hair, a sharp jaw, and eyes that flicked over you with zero interest. No smile. No welcome.

“You’re not him,” he said flatly.

“Him?,” you ask confused, brows furrowing.

He blinked. “The applicant. I mean, I thought you were gonna be a guy, didn’t read your name right, I guess. Never mind. Doesn’t matter, you can’t live here.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t do roommates with people like you,” he said vaguely, waving a hand in your direction. “No offense, nothing personal. Good luck, though.”

It was definitely personal.

Before you could protest, the door clicked shut.

You stood there for a long moment, stunned.

Two weeks passed. Campus was overwhelming. The dorms were full. Your temporary couch-hopping had reached its limit. You had nowhere else to go.

Which is why, with two suitcases and a duffel bag, you now stand in front of his apartment again. You knock.

The door opens. Same guy. Rafe Cameron. Shirt rumpled. Expression unreadable.

“I told you no,” he says.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

There’s a beat. His jaw tightens. He looks at the bags, then at you. And then, to your surprise, he steps back and mutters, “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to argue. But don’t touch my stuff.”