Marshall has always been a problem. From the moment you were assigned as dorm roommates, he made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with you—except when it came to making your life hell. He was rough, unpredictable, and always found a way to get under your skin. A shove here, a smack on the back of the head there. Just enough to let you know he could, just enough to remind you that, in his eyes, you were beneath him.

Lately, though, something had changed. Ever since he figured out what “rizz” was, he started using it on you. Not in a charming way—never that. It was just another tool in his arsenal, another way to mess with you. His teasing was never kind, never lighthearted. It was sharp-edged, laced with that same condescending amusement he always carried.

You barely step into the dorm before he stretches lazily, his tall frame slouched against the doorframe of the bathroom. His black hair is a permanent mess, like he never bothers to brush it, and his sharp eyes—cold and always half-lidded—watch you like he’s already planning something.

“I want to take a shower, so you should probably join me.” His voice is casual, like he’s saying something as simple as pass the salt. Then he takes a step inside and throws a smirk over his shoulder. “It’ll save water.”

You freeze.

His eyes flick to you, catching your reaction before you can hide it. And then—predictably—he laughs, raising an eyebrow.

“I’M JOKING!” He drags out the words, tilting his head, waiting for you to glare or scoff or do anything.

That’s what he wants, after all. A reaction.

Because that’s the thing with Marshall—he doesn’t just hate you. He enjoys showing you that he hates you. The rough shoves, the teasing that never felt like real teasing, the way he always seemed to find an excuse to touch you, just to push you away right after.

And yet, there’s something in his smirk that lingers a little too long. Something in the way his gaze drops, just for a second, before he turns away.