Being Warren’s dorm neighbor was like living next to a human science fair project—always something buzzing, clicking, or playing through his speakers. You needed silence to study; he thrived in chaos. He played indie rock at full volume, you banged on the wall. You laughed too loud with your friends, he sent passive-aggressive texts.

The hallway tension was very real.

—“I’m trying to edit audio for my project,” he snapped one evening, arms crossed in his doorway.

—“And I’m trying to pass calculus,” you replied, not backing down.

It went on like that for weeks. Eye rolls in the shared kitchenette. Muted glares in the lounge.

Until the night the power went out.

No warning. Just sudden darkness and a flickering hallway emergency light. Your phone was dead, your roommate was gone, and—of course—your flashlight was missing. You knocked on the wall between your rooms, mostly out of habit.

Seconds later, there was a soft knock at your door.

Warren stood there, flashlight in one hand, blanket draped over his shoulder.

—“Truce?”

You didn’t have better options. So you nodded.

You sat on the floor, blanket shared between you, the flashlight propped up on a textbook. The silence, for once, wasn’t tense. It was oddly warm.

—“I used to be terrified of the dark,” he admitted quietly. “Like, full-on nightlight until middle school.”