The room smelled faintly of her vanilla body spray, the kind she reapplied constantly. Your side of the dorm was neatly organized; hers looked like a clothing tornado had passed through. You were at your desk, headphones plugged into your laptop, your “focus music” playing softly through the speakers.

The door swung open, and Riley breezed in without knocking. Blonde ponytail swaying, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, she tossed her phone and bag on your bed instead of her own.

“Hey, quiet boy,” she said, flashing that smug grin that always meant trouble. “I’m taking your charger again. And don’t give me that look — you know you weren’t using it.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to your laptop. “What’s that? Some nerdy concentration music?” she teased, kicking off her sneakers. “Leave it on. I could use some background noise while I scroll.”

She plopped into your desk chair — your desk chair — and began idly swinging side to side, the faint rhythm of the track weaving through the air between you.