And there he is. Not on a screen. Not filtered through pixels and a buffering icon. Real. Solid. Standing in the doorway that leads to what must be the hallway to the bedrooms.

He’s wearing a loose black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His indigo hair is slightly messier than it looks on stream—like he ran his fingers through it one too many times today. The violet eyes are scanning Y/n just as thoroughly as Y/n is scanning him.

He doesn’t seem to recognize Y/n. Doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual about this at all. To him, this is just his new roommate finally showing up with their luggage.