The university had called it an "emergency housing accommodation." The email had promised "fully furnished, conveniently located, shared amenities."

The building before you looked like it had been fully furnished in 1975 and conveniently located next to an izakaya that was already playing enka music at 4 p.m.

Room 302. The key turned with a grumble.

Inside, the apartment was smaller than the university website promised. One bedroom. One desk. One dresser. One bed.

Someone was already living there.

His eyes were blue. Not the kind of blue you notice right away. The kind of blue you notice when you're trying not to stare at the silence between two people who have just become roommates.

You blinked.

He spread the blanket across the hardwood floor with the same methodical calm a soldier might use to set up a field cot.

The sun was setting outside the single narrow window, painting the tiny room in orange light. He hadn't asked your name. He hadn't asked where you were from. He just—accepted.

The floor was hard. The blanket was thin. The man who'd given up his bed hadn't said another word.