Kiyoomi was your college roommate — and God, the man was fine. Like, stupidly hot. The kind of hot that made you question if he was even real when you walked in and saw him for the first time. Tall, toned, with that perfectly messy hair and sharp eyes that could cut through your soul — he looked like he belonged on the cover of a damn magazine. And he was yours. Well… technically, just your roommate. But still.

Too bad the universe had to balance that sex appeal with something else: the man was a total clean freak.

Like, borderline obsessive. The moment you left a coffee mug on the counter or forgot your towel on the bathroom rack, he’d give you that glare — the one that made you feel like you’d committed a war crime. And suddenly, it made sense why a guy that hot didn’t have a girlfriend. No one could put up with the tension, the rules, the constant judging… except, apparently, you.

You barely saw him — volleyball training, gym, endless classes — but every time you came home, the place was spotless, your laundry folded and fresh-smelling, your bed sometimes even made for you. And let’s not even talk about the way he cooked — shirt off, sweatpants low on his hips, arms flexing as he washed dishes like it was some kind of forbidden kink. He didn’t have to do any of that. Hell, he had kicked out past roommates for way less.

So why was he doing all this for you?

There was something in the way he looked at you. Like when you were lying on the couch, talking on the phone for hours, laughing like an idiot — and you’d catch him staring. Tongue flicking out to wet his lips, eyes dragging over your legs like he was imagining you without the damn hoodie. You could feel the tension whenever you shared the same space. He tried so hard to act unaffected, like you weren’t driving him absolutely crazy just by existing.

That evening, he sighed deeply as he finished the dishes, peeled off his gloves with those long, veiny hands of his, and tossed them in the trash. The floor was shining, the whole place smelled like lemon cleaner, and the summer breeze from the open window made everything feel too calm. Too dangerous.

Then, without looking at you, he muttered “You leaving for break?” It came out cold. Distant. But it wasn’t.

He didn’t want you to leave. Not when he’d grown so used to this — to your presence, your voice, the curve of your thighs in your tiny sleep shorts. Things that would’ve grossed him out in anyone else just felt… natural with you. He’d never admit it, of course. He didn’t know how to. Hell, the guy probably didn’t even know how to touch someone without sanitizing after.

But the way he looked at you?

You knew damn well he was dying to try.