Roommate

The gold-embossed sign on the door of Room 402 should have felt like a trophy. To Ethan Vance, it was supposed to be the threshold to his sanctuary—the private, single-occupancy studio awarded to the top-ranking architecture student at St. Jude’s Academy.

He adjusted the strap of his leather messenger bag, his fingers tracing the rigid edge of his Grade-A architectural renderings. He had spent his entire summer preparing for this. No distractions. No noise. Just him, his drafting table, and the pursuit of the Sterling Global Fellowship.

He slid his keycard into the reader as the light flickered green with a satisfying click.

"Home sweet home," Ethan murmured, pushing the door open.

Then the smell hit him first. It wasn’t the scent of lemon polish and fresh parchment he’d expected.

It was the smell of expensive espresso, rain-damp denim, and a hint of something spicy—like sandalwood and rebellion.

Ethan froze in the doorway and he looked at the room.

In the center of the supposedly "private" studio, a massive drafting table—his table—was already buried under a chaotic mountain of charcoal sketches, crumpled energy drink cans, and a stray black hoodie.

And lounging on the only bed in the room, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants and a smirk that had haunted Ethan’s nightmares for three years, was Liam Rossi.

"You’re late, Vance," Liam said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space. He didn't even look up from the sketchbook he was doodling in. "I was starting to think you’d finally dropped out to join a monastery. You’ve got the haircut for it."

Ethan felt the blood rush to his face, a familiar heat that always ignited the moment Liam opened his mouth. "Rossi. What the hell are you doing in my room?"

"Correction," Liam finally looked up, his dark curls messy and his amber eyes gleaming with a predatory kind of amusement. "Our room. There was a 'logistical oversight' with the housing department. Something about a burst pipe in the West Wing. Since we’re the top two seeds for the Fellowship, the Dean figured we’d love to... collaborate."

"Collaborate?" Ethan choked out the word like it was poison. He marched into the room, his polished Oxfords clicking sharply against the hardwood. "I don’t collaborate with people who use a 2B pencil for fine-line detailing, Liam. I certainly don't live with them."

He reached the desk and stared at the mess. It was a sacrilege. "Move your things. Now. I’m calling the Registrar."

Liam didn't move. Instead, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He was a few inches taller than Ethan, a fact he always used to his advantage. He stepped into Ethan’s personal space, the scent of that sandalwood cologne becoming overwhelming.

"The Registrar is closed for the weekend, Ethan," Liam leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s just you, me, and eighty square feet of tension until Monday. Better get used to it."

Ethan stared at the bridge of Liam’s nose, refusing to look him in the eye. He could see a tiny scar there, a remnant of some reckless adventure Liam had likely had over the summer while Ethan was busy studying.

"Don't touch my side of the room," Ethan hissed, his heart hammering against his ribs—not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated irritation. "Don't touch my coffee machine. And for the love of God, Liam, put on a shirt."

Liam’s smirk widened. He reached out, his hand hovering agonizingly close to Ethan’s shoulder before he used two fingers to flick the lapel of Ethan’s pristine blazer.

"Make me," Liam challenged.

Ethan stepped back, his chest tight. This wasn't just a housing error. This was a war of attrition. The Sterling Fellowship was only months away, and now, the only person who could take it from him was sleeping three feet away.

"Fine," Ethan said, his voice trembling with forced calm. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a roll of blue painter's tape.

Liam raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing, Vance?"

Ethan didn't answer. He dropped to his knees and began running a perfectly straight line of blue tape across the center of the floor, bisecting the room with surgical precision.

"This is the border," Ethan said, standing up and pointing the tape roll at Liam’s chest. "You stay on your side. Your mess stays on your side. If so much as a stray charcoal smudge crosses this line, I will report you for academic sabotage. Am I clear?"

Liam looked at the tape, then back at Ethan. A slow, dangerous light flickered in his eyes. He took a deliberate step forward, his toes stopping exactly one millimeter away from the blue line.

"Crystal clear, Ethan," Liam said. "But you forgot one thing."

"What?"

Liam leaned over the line, his face so close Ethan could feel the warmth of his breath. "You’re the one who talks in his sleep. I heard you last year in the library. I wonder what secrets you’ll tell me when you think I’m not listening."

Ethan’s breath hitched. He wanted to push Liam away, but his hands stayed frozen at his sides. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out, replaced by a heavy, crackling static.

"Get out of my way, Rossi," Ethan whispered.

"I’m on my side, Vance," Liam reminded him, his eyes dropping to Ethan’s mouth for a split second before he pulled back. "Welcome home, roommate."