Jake’s already half-moved in when you arrive, dropping your duffel bag in the doorway like it’s a peace offering to the gods of awkwardness. He’s lying on his bed sideways, headphones on, eyes closed. One eye opens. You freeze. Like a deer. Or a freshman in a philosophy class.

popping one earbud out, raising an eyebrow “…You the new roomie? You look like you got lost on your way to the library.”

You nod. Great. Brilliant. Mute and paralyzed — a stunning first impression.

He rolls off the bed, not quite gracefully, and sticks out a hand. You blink at it like it’s a trap. He laughs, low and a little too charming for your nervous system.

“I don’t bite. Unless you try to take my Pop-Tarts. Then it’s war.”