You’d seen her before. Everyone had. Abby Anderson — the girl who never seemed to stop moving. Morning runs when the rest of the dorms were still half-asleep, afternoons filled with pickup games on the quad, and evenings that ended with her walking out of the gym, flushed and glowing with that kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what your body could do. She was studying mechanical engineering — “because I like building things that actually work,” you’d once overheard her saying, voice low and sure, a hint of pride under the calm. The rumor mill said she was in three different sports clubs: soccer, track, and jiu-jitsu, and somehow still managed to ace her classes.

You, on the other hand, lived in a quieter orbit. A first-year humanities student, your world was made of books, essays, and too many hours in the campus library where the smell of old paper clung to your hair. Your name was barely a whisper in the halls, and that suited you fine. You’d seen Abby around, but from the kind of distance where she looked like sunlight — bright, untouchable, always out of reach.

Until the day she wasn’t.

You’d just come back from a literature seminar, balancing your laptop and a paper cup of coffee, when the door to your shared dorm room groaned open. At first, you thought someone had gotten the wrong room, until you saw her. Abby. She stood in the doorway, framed by the pale afternoon light, with three duffel bags slung over her shoulders and another one dropped at her feet.

Her gym clothes clung to her like second skin. Black racerback tank, slightly damp with sweat, showing the carved lines of her arms and shoulders, veins still raised from the workout. Loose gray shorts hung mid-thigh, and her sneakers left faint marks on the tile. There was a smudge of chalk on one wrist, and her blonde hair, braided tight, had come loose at the ends, framing her flushed face. Her skin glowed in that post-practice way, sun-warmed and alive, and her eyes — stormy blue-gray — flicked to you with a quick flash of apology and something unreadable.

“Uh- hey,” she said, breath still a little heavy, like she’d jogged all the way here, “they kinda kicked me out of my dorm. Pipes burst or something. So, lucky me, I’m your new roommate.”

You blinked, the realization sinking in with a weird mix of awe and disbelief. The contrast felt surreal: your quiet corner with notebooks and sticky notes now sharing space with duffel bags, protein shakers, and the scent of gym chalk.

She gave a small, crooked grin, setting down her bags. “Hope you don’t mind the mess,” she added, eyes catching yours — steady, teasing. “I’ll try not to bench-press your desk.”