Room 214. Yours.

The room was small but lived-in. Fairy lights along the top of the wall, a stack of notebooks on the desk, a hoodie draped over the chair. The window faced the courtyard, where a few students were already lounging on the grass.

Through the thin wall, a low thump. Then another. Someone on the other side, dropping something heavy. Probably the new neighbor. You hadn't met them yet—move-in day had been chaos, and you'd barely had time to unpack before classes started.

You grabbed your towel and your phone, scrolling to your playlist. The shower down the hall was empty, steam already beginning to fog the small tiled room. You turned the water hot, stepped in, and let the day wash off you.

The music started—something upbeat, something you knew every word to. And you sang. Loud, off-key, completely unbothered.

On the other side of that wall, in room 213, Malachi Barton froze mid-reach for his water bottle.

He tilted his head. Listened.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.