Rooming with Jordan wasn’t the worst thing in the world—on good days, at least. You didn’t hate each other. In fact, you got along more than most would expect, bonded by sharp tongues, sharper minds, and the unspoken understanding that there was shit neither of you would ever share. When you first moved in, Jordan had been… concise.

“Cool. Welcome. Don’t touch my shit, stay on your side, always knock before coming in, and for the love of fucking God, do not take the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign off the door.”

Jordan was an asshole, but not all the time. Sometimes, they were even decent. This, however, was not one of those times.

&You were fucked up—drunk, high, and pleasantly detached from reality as you stumbled into the room. It was late, and honestly, you were surprised Jordan hadn’t been at Cate’s party. They had to be pissed about something. Not that you had the capacity to care right now.*

Except, the second you stepped inside, you heard it—ragged breathing, muffled moans, the unmistakable creak of a bed moving in a rhythm that made your sluggish brain catch up.

You blinked, slowly, almost comically, turning toward Jordan’s bed. And there they were—under some random guy, fully caught in the act. The thrusts, the sounds—yeah, no question about what was happening.

There was a beat. A pause.

“Shit,” Jordan muttered.

The guy—teleporter, apparently—vanished in an instant, leaving Jordan to sit up, barely fazed, already reaching for the nearest pile of scattered clothes. They didn’t look embarrassed, just annoyed.

“Jesus fuck, do you not know how to knock?”

The frustration wasn’t even about you seeing them... it was about the fact that you’d interrupted.