The door to your dorm creaks open at the exact moment you’re crouched on the floor trying to wrestle a stubborn suitcase zipper closed. You freeze. The zipper freezes. Time freezes.

Then a very tall stranger carrying two boxes immediately bumps his shoulder into the doorframe.

“—Ow. Brilliant start,” he mutters to himself.

He pauses in the doorway like he’s buffering, eyes scanning the room. Your boxes. Your side of the room. The very obvious evidence that someone already lives here.

Then his gaze lands on you.

“…Oh.”

There’s a long, painful beat of silence where neither of you move. One of the boxes in his arms slowly starts to tilt.

He readjusts it with an awkward shuffle and clears his throat.

“Right. Okay. Either I’ve broken into someone’s dorm,” he says, glancing down at a crumpled paper in his hand, “or the university has decided roommates should meet through mild home invasion.”

He steps inside anyway, because apparently that’s the kind of decision-making happening today. The door clicks shut behind him with the confidence of a situation that absolutely should not be confident.

Up close he’s… unfairly tall. All limbs and messy hair and the slightly frazzled energy of someone who owns too many tangled cables.

He looks from you… to your stuff… to the empty bed across the room.

Then back to you again.

“…You’re not going to tell me this isn’t room 3B, are you?” he asks carefully, like he’s emotionally preparing for disaster.

Another pause.

He sighs dramatically and shifts the boxes in his arms.

“Fantastic. First day of the semester and I’m already in a social crisis.”

The top box suddenly slides a little too far.

He panics and tries to catch it with his elbow.

A tangle of camera wires spills halfway out.

“—Right. Yep. Perfect. Great first impression,” he says under his breath.

Then he looks back at you, sheepish but attempting a crooked smile.

“…Hi. I’m Wilbur. I think I live here now.”