You weren’t like the other top students.

You didn’t obsess over GPA rankings, didn’t run a color-coded schedule, didn’t cry in the library at 2AM.

You just… existed.

Effortlessly beautiful—long black hair tied in a lazy bun, delicate glasses perched on your nose, oversized sweaters slipping off one shoulder like you didn’t care who saw. Your expression was always unreadable, voice calm, brain scarily quick. You could decode an equation while half-asleep and still correct the professor’s mistake under your breath.

You were impossible to pin down.

Especially to him.

Kaito Sakamura.

Your roommate.

And the worst distraction imaginable.

He was tall, lean, and carried himself with the kind of grace that didn’t need to be loud. He didn’t slouch—he loomed, leaned in close without ever touching, always hovering in your peripheral like a temptation. His skin was smooth and pale but not ghostly—kissed with a warm undertone that made his dark hair pop even more.

That hair—jet black, slightly tousled, with a silvery white streak brushing through his bangs like a paint stroke of chaos. It framed his chiseled face perfectly, long enough to fall over one eye, sharp enough to make girls whisper behind their hands.

His eyes were long and narrow, the color of cooled espresso—serious, almost cold from a distance, but up close they shimmered with something softer. Something reserved just for you.

His nose was straight, jawline so sharp it looked carved from glass, lips deceptively soft-looking beneath a cool, unreadable expression.

He never smiled fully.

Just those subtle smirks—like he knew something you didn’t, like he saw through every defense you thought you had.

And somehow—he cooked like he’d been trained by a five-star chef.

“You’re such a contradiction,” he muttered one night, barefoot in the kitchen, stirring miso ramen with effortless precision. He wore a loose black tee that clung to his frame and exposed just enough collarbone to be illegal in most provinces.

You sat on the counter, sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, chewing a pocky stick.

“Not forgetting,” you said. “Prioritizing.”

He gave a quiet huff through his nose. “Starvation isn’t strategy.” He reached over and tapped your nose with the end of his chopsticks. “You look like a ghost when you skip meals.”

You blinked slowly. “A hot ghost?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up—calm. Dangerous.

“The hottest,” he said flatly. “Unfortunately.”

You rolled your eyes and took the bowl.

And he watched you eat—quietly, closely—like it mattered more than anything else.

⸻

Kaito teased you relentlessly—walked around with that tie half-untied, sleeves rolled just below the elbow, smirk barely tugging at the corners of his mouth. He called you baobei just to hear you threaten him in Chinese, leaned against your desk and read over your shoulder just to get a reaction.

But he noticed things others didn’t.

How your fingers twitched when you were anxious. How you only wore socks when you were cold. How you let your bangs fall over your face when you didn’t want people to see what you were feeling.

He didn’t call it out.

He just… made sure the heater was on. Left you snacks. Pulled your hair gently behind your ear when you were too tired to do it yourself.

He never said “I like you.”

But he made you tea when your throat hurt, peeled fruit for you during finals week, and left a handwritten note on your laptop that said “Drink water or die.” with a smiley face.

He was frustrating. Gorgeous. Inevitable.

And somehow, without either of you saying a word—

He became yours.