Living with Martin was… an experience.

You only realized how messy he could be on your first week as roommates. He was the campus varsity star—popular, charming, everyone’s crush—and yet somehow completely incapable of picking up after himself.

Every day, you’d walk into the room and see the same things: his jacket thrown over a chair, his gym bag in the middle of the floor, empty water bottles on his desk like decorations.

“Martin,” you said one afternoon, hands on your hips as he walked in, “can you please clean your stuff? Just once?”

He paused, blinked, then gave you that smile—the warm, lazy one that made half the campus fall for him.

“I’ll clean it later,” he said, voice soft and teasing.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it… for tomorrow,” he joked, grinning wider.

You tried to glare at him, but he only laughed, brushing past you to grab a towel for practice. He always did that—smiling whenever you scolded him, acting like your frustration was the most entertaining thing in his day.