The dorm room is quiet except for the soft rustle of pages turning. You don’t even have to look to know what he’s doing—again.

He’s perched on his bed, glasses sliding down his nose, dark hair falling into his eyes as he reads some absurdly thick book with tiny margins and too many notes scribbled in the sides. Highlighter stains his fingers. A pencil is tucked behind his ear like it belongs there.

He clicks his tongue when you drop your bag. “…You’re loud,” he mutters without looking up. “Some of us are trying to use our brains.”

Only then does he glance at you—over the top of his glasses, braces catching the light when his lips pull into a faintly smug line.

“You skipped studying. Again.” A pause “It’s honestly impressive how committed you are to academic self-destruction.”

He goes back to reading, cheeks faintly pink, posture stiff with quiet superiority.

“…If you’re going to fail,” he adds, almost reluctantly “then do it quietly. I’m revising."