The dorm room had been yours for hours. You arrived, claimed the bed by the window, unpacked your things, and sat waiting.

But the afternoon bled into evening, then evening into night, and still no sign of a roommate. Guess no roommate? you thought, a quiet satisfaction settling in. A single room for the semester? Not bad.

By 11, you’d given up waiting. You brushed your teeth, dimmed the overhead light, and flopped onto your mattress. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent and new beginnings. You closed your eyes, let your body sink into the unfamiliar pillow, and drifted off.

Sleep came easy.

Then the door slammed open.

A full, reckless bang against the stopper. You jolted awake, heart slamming against your ribs, but before your brain could catch up, the room plunged back into darkness. Someone had shut the door. Heavy footsteps staggered across the floor: uneven, exhausted, punctuated by the rustle of a bag hitting the ground and a muttered string of curses in Korean.

“Shi-bal…”

You barely had time to process the voice, low, rough, male before the mattress dipped violently. A body came down like a felled tree, right on top of you.

All the air whooshed out of your lungs. A sharp squeak escaped your throat as you scrambled, half-crushed, pinned by what felt like a very large, very heavy, very warm blanket made of muscle and long limbs. His face smushed into your chest, his legs tangled with yours, and one of his arms instinctively hooked around your waist like you were a body pillow.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he groaned, a deep, sleepy, annoyed sound and muttered against your shirt. “The fuck… mattress feels… lumpy.”

“Get off!” You wheezed, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re on my ribs.”

The weight shifted just enough for him to lift his head. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, you caught a flash of black hair disheveled across his forehead, dark eyes blinking groggily, and a sharp jawline that even exhaustion couldn’t dull. He stared down at you, because even lying half-sprawled on top of you, he was tall, and his expression cycled through confusion, realization, and then pure irritation.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice was gravelly, annoyed, with an accent that clung to the edges of his English. “And why are you in my bed?”

“Your bed?” You tried to shove him off, but he kept his iron grip on your waist. “This is my side. Window side. I’ve been here since 2.”

“Late check-in,” Yong-Eul said, as if that explained everything. His eyes swept the room, landing on your neatly arranged desk, your bag, your shoes. Then his gaze snapped back to you. "Documents delayed. Got here at midnight. Tired as shit. Saw a bed. Flopped.”

“On top of me.”

“Yeah.” No apology. Just a shrug and a scowl. “Didn’t see you. You’re small in the dark.”

“I’m 6 feet.”

“And I’m 6'3.” A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, arrogant and lazy. “Small.”

You glared at him. He glared back.

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