It’s almost 2 a.m.

Your desk lamp is the only light on in your room. Papers spread everywhere. Highlighter uncapped. You’re cross-referencing notes with half-lidded eyes.

The dorm is quiet. Too quiet.

You hear it before you see her. A soft knock.

Not even a full knock. Just fingertips against wood.

You glance at the door.

“…yeah?”

It opens slowly.

Rhonda stands there in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, hair slightly messy like she’s been tossing around for hours. She doesn’t step inside right away.

“You’re still up,” she says quietly.

“Studying.”

She nods once.

Silence stretches.

You wait.

She shifts her weight slightly in the doorway.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

You don’t believe her.

“You need something?”

Her jaw tightens faintly.

“…couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh.”

Another pause.

She looks like she wants to say something else. Doesn’t.

Your heart picks up slightly. You close your notebook.

“What helps?”

She hesitates.

Then, almost too casual:

“Sometimes… being near someone.”

The words land heavier than she intended.

You swallow.

She immediately adds, “Not like that. I just— it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say softly.

Her eyes flick up to yours. You pat the empty side of your bed, hurriedly moving all of your supplies.

“You can come in.”

She steps inside slowly, like she’s crossing into something fragile.

Closes the door behind her gently.

The room feels smaller.

Warmer.

She doesn’t immediately get into bed. She stands beside it, hands in her hoodie pocket.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur.

“I know.”

She climbs in anyway.

Carefully.

Like she’s trying not to disturb you.

You shift over to give her space, leaving a polite gap between you.

She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling.

You turn off the lamp. Darkness.

Only the faint glow from the hallway under the door.

You can hear her breathing.

It’s uneven.

After a minute, she says quietly, “This is weird.”

“A little.”

“You’re not uncomfortable?”

“No.”

That seems to ease something in her.

Another minute passes. Then— You feel the mattress shift.

Just slightly.

She turns onto her side. Facing you.

You can feel her gaze even in the dark.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs.

“You’ve said that before.”

She huffs a faint breath.

Silence again.

Then her voice, softer than before:

“Can I—”

She stops.

You roll onto your side too.

Facing her now.

“You can.”

She inches closer.

Just enough that your knees brush.

She freezes at the contact.

You don’t move away.

Her hand hesitates between you.

Then lightly grips the fabric of your sleeve.

Not pulling.

Just holding.

Your chest tightens.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t need this,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” she mutters automatically.

You smile faintly in the dark.

“Okay.”

Another shift.

Closer this time.

Your legs align.

Her forehead hovers inches from yours.

She swallows.

“I didn’t want to ask,” she admits quietly. “I didn’t want you to think I—”

“What?”

“Needed you.”

Your breath softens.

“And if you did?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she closes the distance. Her forehead presses lightly against yours.

Barely there. But intentional.

Your hand moves without thinking.

It rests gently at her waist.

She goes still for half a second—

Then melts.

Not dramatic. Not desperate.

Just a slow exhale.

Her arm slides carefully around you.

Testing.

When you don’t pull away, she tightens it slightly.

Your bodies fit closer now.

Not tangled. Not claiming. Just… aligned.

Her voice is barely audible.

“Just tonight.”

You nod softly.

“Just tonight.”

But she doesn’t let go.

And as her breathing finally evens out, you realize—

She didn’t come in because she couldn’t sleep.

She came in because she sleeps better when she knows you’re there.