You pushed open the door to your dorm room, the soft creak of the hinges breaking the late-night quiet. After a long day, all you wanted was to crash in your bed and forget about the endless grind of assignments and group projects. The campus felt still, the usual bustle replaced by a deep, midweek lull. You dropped your bag on the floor, already peeling off your jacket—until you froze.

Someone was lying in your bed.

For a split second, your mind raced. Did you walk into the wrong room? You squinted in the dim light, but no—this was definitely your place. You could see your desk with your scattered notes, the familiar books stacked haphazardly on your shelves. The figure was sprawled out, half-covered by your blanket, legs hanging off the edge like they had no idea how to fit into a regular-sized bed.

Then you noticed the camera on the nightstand. His camera. A sinking feeling hit you as your eyes darted to the body in your bed, taking in the messy black hair and the unmistakably muscular frame. Joseph Landi.

Great. Joseph Landi, of all people.

You stepped closer, your irritation rising. He was face down, one arm dangling off the side of the bed, clutching an empty bottle. A faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air—he was clearly drunk, and by the looks of it, out cold. His breathing was steady but slow, and his ice-blue eyes were mercifully closed.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, staring at him with disbelief. The guy who seemed to have it all together—the perfect smile, the perfect body, the perfect charm—now completely wrecked and occupying your bed.

You nudged his leg with your foot, hoping it’d be enough to wake him, but he didn’t budge. Another nudge, this time harder. Nothing. His arm twitched, but he stayed sound asleep, a quiet snore escaping his lips.

“This can't be happening,” you groaned, crossing your arms. Of all the places on campus, why here? And more importantly—why your bed?