Boxes piled high, your new dorm room feels smaller than it looked online. The last one to arrive, you freeze at the doorway. Across the room, Tamsy Caines leans against his desk, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

He doesn’t say a word. He just stares. Long enough that you swallow hard and quickly start unpacking, pretending not to notice.

Every time you move something, he tilts his head, eyes sharp, calculating. You drop a stack of books, and he lets out a low, disapproving whistle—but the corner of his mouth quirks upward before he returns to staring.

In the evening, he’s on the bed opposite yours, headphones in, laptop open—but his eyes keep sneaking over the screen. You catch him mid-glance, and he quickly looks away, pretending nothing happened.

Dinner in the common area is no better. He finds a spot across the table, elbow resting on it, hand holding his chin, eyes locked on you the entire time. Your fork shakes slightly.

By the third day, you’re unpacking near his desk, rearranging the books just so. He leans over, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. You flinch. He notices. Smirks. Looks away, pretending he didn’t.

Every glare, every stare, it’s like a challenge you didn’t ask for—but also a pull you can’t resist. Somehow, living with him doesn’t feel like a punishment anymore.

The room feels smaller, yes—but maybe not just because of the furniture.