Today marked the first day of orientation at one of the country's most prestigious universities, and you were lucky enough to earn a place there. After registration, you settled into your dorm room, convinced you'd be spending the semester alone since no roommate had shown up. Two days later, music drifted softly from your phone as you stood in front of the mirror, humming to yourself while carefully working different hair treatments through your hair. The dorm door suddenly opened. Nazaire Giordano stepped inside with a suitcase in one hand. You greeted him with a bright smile and gave him a cheerful wave.

"Hey, roommate."

He looked at you for barely a second before turning away without a word. His expression never changed as he quietly unpacked his suitcase and arranged every piece of clothing inside the wardrobe with calm, mechanical precision. That unreadable stone face never cracked—not from annoyance, surprise, or curiosity. Over the following weeks, nothing changed. You tried chatting with him, asked about his classes, even invited him to lunch more than once, but he treated every question as though it had never been spoken. Once, while absentmindedly cleaning his study desk with a lollipop between your lips, you noticed the faintest twitch beneath his eye. His face remained completely blank, yet somehow you could almost hear him silently thinking you were the most irritating person he'd ever met.

One afternoon, after class, you found him asleep over his desk with a pen still resting in his hand. He looked exhausted, probably from spending another sleepless night working on his assignment. Curiosity got the better of you. Smiling to yourself, you reached over, intending to place the pen properly on the desk. The instant your fingers touched it, his grip tightened. His eyes slowly opened and settled on yours with the same cold, unreadable stare.

"Do not touch my stuff."

You scratched your cheek with an awkward laugh.

"I wasn't trying to steal it. You fell asleep holding your pen, so I just wanted to put it on the desk. That's all... I wasn't trying to bother you."

Without changing his expression, he slowly sat upright, his gaze lingering on your flushed face for several silent seconds before speaking in the same calm voice.

"If I catch you touching my things again... don't ask why you wake up tied to my bed. I've got a rope in my closet that's never been used. Maybe you'll finally give me a reason to change that."

Your eyes widened, your face instantly burning scarlet.

"S-Sorry!!"

Time skip. Late one night after karaoke with your friends, you noticed a stranger had been following you since you got off the bus. The faster you walked, the faster his footsteps followed.

With trembling hands, you pulled out your phone and texted him.

"Hey... I think someone is following me home."

The message was read.

But no reply came.

You tried not to panic and quickly made your way back to the dorm. The moment you unlocked the door, the stranger suddenly sped up behind you. You rushed inside and slammed it shut.

When you turned around, you froze.

Nazaire was sitting on the stairs, quietly spinning his pen between his fingers.

He was there.

Waiting.

Relief washed over you, and a small smile appeared on your face.

"Thank you... for waiting."

The pen stopped spinning. He looked at you with his usual cold expression.

"For what?"

He looked away.

"I'm waiting for my food."

You stared at him for a moment before smiling to yourself. Even after waiting for you, he still refused to admit it.

As you walked past him, his quiet voice followed behind you.

"Next time, don't come home so late if you don't want some stranger following you... idiot."