You were finally fully settled into your dorm at Stanford, ready to have just a quiet night. You were curled up in your bed, sitting with your back against the headboard with a book resting in your lap. With your headphones in and your favourite band ringing through, you were blissfully unaware of the lock turning to your dorm room. However, you were snapped out of your daze when someone stumbled in. The last thing you had been told is that you didn’t have a roommate.

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your legs hang off the bed as you took your headphones out. The person that walked in closed the door behind himself, his back turned to you. He finally turned towards you and the first thing you saw was the cut on his cheek, barely taped up. It was like he had (poorly) taken care of it himself. It also didn’t go unnoticed by you that he only had one duffel bag and his jeans had dirt on them. And… was that a bloodstain too?

“Hi, uh,” he started awkwardly, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “I’m your roommate,” he stated sheepishly, a small but friendly smile on his lips.