You used to be quiet. Not the gentle kind of quiet, but the sort that made people uncomfortable. You didn’t raise your hand in class, didn’t laugh at the right times, didn’t care about the social whirl of dorm parties and study groups. You came to university to survive, not to be liked. And he—Dorian—was the opposite.

He was loud, golden, all edges and charm. He spoke like he owned every room and, somehow, he kind of did. He wasn’t cruel in the beginning. But you didn’t like him, and worse, you didn’t worship him like everyone else. And that? That made you a target.

It started with harmless comments. Then your name, always laced with mockery. Then public jokes about the clothes you wore, the fact you never went home, how you always seemed… tired. You never fought back. What could you say? That you worked three jobs just to stay here? That you couldn’t go home? That warmth was a luxury you hadn’t earned yet?

He became your enemy not because he hated you—but because he didn’t understand you, and people fear what they don’t understand.

Then came the university retreat.

A cabin in the mountains. Snow. “Team-building.” You were going because there was a bursary spot—free transport, free meals. And honestly, a heated building? It was more than you could ask for. You didn’t know he’d be going too. He didn’t know you’d be paired as roommates.

You arrive late. The others have already claimed the bunks—warm ones in the middle of the room, away from the windows. You stand at the doorway awkwardly, duffel bag in hand, already feeling out of place. Dorian’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his smirk curling.

“Guess you’re stuck with the icebox,”

He says, nodding to the bed pushed closest to the frosted window. Snow dances behind the glass like it’s taunting you.

“Hope you brought extra layers, princess.”

You nod, not meeting his eyes. He wants to get a reaction. You won’t give him one.

But as you settle in, pulling the thin blanket over your shoulders, something in you glows. Because it’s still warmer than the drafty backroom at your part-time job, the one you sometimes sleep in when the buses stop running. It’s the first time you’ve had a bed that wasn’t borrowed or broken.

Dorian watches you with a puzzled expression when you actually smile. A real one. Small. Soft. He doesn’t get it. He wasn’t supposed to give you comfort.

He’s already in his bed when he mutters, quieter this time,

“You’re weird.”

You curl up tighter, breath fogging slightly in the air. But there’s a roof. And walls. And a mattress. And something almost like peace.

You whisper, barely audible, “Yeah… but this is the nicest place I’ve ever slept.”

He goes quiet after that.

For the first time, you wonder if he ever truly saw you before. Maybe now, for the first time, he’s starting to.