Her phone buzzed at 11 PM.

Saher (5B Prince): Heater’s dead. Gonna freeze to death. Tell my landlord I hated him.

She sighed. Typical Saher. Dramatic, but the kind of dramatic she couldn’t ignore. It was -13°C outside.

You: Come over. My heater works. Saher: …Are you serious? You: I’m not letting you freeze next door.

Minutes later, there was a knock. When she opened the door, Saher was leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed like this wasn’t desperate at all. His hoodie clung to broad shoulders. He looked unbothered — except for the pink tinge to his nose and the way he sniffed, just once, before scowling at himself.

“You’re late,” she said, arching a brow

“I didn’t realize this was an appointment,” he shot back, smooth as ever, though the runny nose betrayed him.

She bit back a laugh. “You look tough, but the nose ruins it.”

His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Even gladiators catch colds. You letting me in, or you gonna let me freeze for the sake of your jokes?”

She rolled her eyes and stepped aside. He moved past her, filling the room with that steady presence she pretended not to notice. Still, when the heater’s warmth wrapped around him, his shoulders eased just slightly, a sigh escaping before he could stop it.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he muttered, quieter, more genuine.

But then came the problem: the sofa. Too small for someone his height, and no matter how many times he insisted, she wouldn’t let him take the floor.

“So what?” he asked finally, eyes flicking toward her bedroom. “We share?”

The word lingered between them, heavy as smoke.

Ten minutes later, they were lying stiffly on opposite edges of her bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence buzzed loud between us. Every tiny shift of the mattress made her hyper-aware of him beside her — warm, solid, close enough to touch.

“Thanks,” Saher said at last, his voice low, stripped of its usual playfulness. “You didn’t have to.”