All Chapters of More Than Roommates : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

AlexThe gym smells like rubber and old sweat and something citrusy that never quite masks either. It’s late afternoon, the hour where daylight still sneaks through the high windows but everything inside feels enclosed anyway, like the world narrowed itself down to this rectangle of court and sound.I’m sitting on the lowest row of bleachers with my jacket folded beside me, camera bag at my feet even though I’m not filming. I told myself I might grab a few shots for reference. Warm-ups, footwork.The ball thumps against the floor in steady rhythm. Sneakers squeal. Someone laughs too loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls and coming back wrong.Seth is already sweating, hair darkened at the temples, shoulders loose as he jogs back into position. He doesn’t look up at the bleachers. He knows I’m here. I told him earlier, offhand, while we were brushing our teeth side by side.Might stop by practice, I’d said around toothpaste foam.He’d nodded, mouth full, and that was it.This is wha

Alex~ Lunch is Seth’s idea, which is how I know it matters. He says it casually, like it’s a logistical decision and not a correction. We’re standing in the kitchenette, him leaning against the counter scrolling on his phone, me rinsing out a mug that’s been sitting in the sink since last night. “Wanna grab food?” he asks. “Like, actual food.” I glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought. Early afternoon sliding toward evening, the day already half spent without either of us really noticing. “Sure,” I say. “Where?” He shrugs. “Anywhere that doesn’t come in a microwave-safe container.” That makes me smile, a small involuntary thing. It feels like a peace offering without being labeled as one. We walk instead of taking an uber. The campus paths are busy with people walking about, everyone half-aimed toward their next obligation. Seth keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket. I swing mine at my sides, my bag thumping lightly against my hip with each step. We don

Alex~ The dorm feels quiet in that late afternoon way, the kind where sunlight spills in through half-open blinds and the world outside seems almost irrelevant. Jordan is perched on the edge of my bed, knees bent, backpack at his feet, and he’s talking fast, half to himself and half to me about the final edits on his project. He gestures, letting the air take the shape of his words, and I watch him, listening more than responding. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him like this, casual and relaxed. He is a little distracted but it’s good. “I think I finally settled on the last color grade,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s subtle, barely there, but it keeps the mood from going too… theatrical, I guess. Too polished. You know what I mean?” I nod, though I’m not sure I do. “Yeah. Polished most times can kill authenticity. Sometimes too much clarity makes people miss what’s underneath.” He grins. “Exactly. That’s what I was going for. Lived-in, but intentional.

Alex~ The sheets are still warm when we crawl back into them. The curtains are half drawn. Afternoon light spills in sideways, catching dust in the air, striping Seth’s bare shoulder, my arm, the wall. By this time the campus is fairly active that we can hear activities going on. A skateboard cracking against concrete, a car door slamming somewhere too far to matter, voices of people. Seth lies on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched toward me. His hair is still damp from the shower he took after breakfast, darker at the ends. I watch the slow rise of his back, the way his breathing evens out only when he’s really relaxed, when he’s not thinking about drills or meetings or the shape of the next week. I slide closer, my knee fitting into the space behind his thigh like it belongs there. My hand finds the line of his spine, traces down, stops at the waistband of his shorts. He hums, low and content, without opening his eyes. “You’re heavy,” he

Alex~ I clock in at twelve forty-eight, two minutes early, because I like the feeling of being ahead of something even when nothing else in my life feels like it’s waiting for me. Jamie is already there, perched sideways on the edge of the big table like the room belongs to them, laptop open, coffee sweating through the paper cup and leaving rings on the wood. The space smells like dust and citrus cleaner, the kind they use when they want a place to feel productive instead of loved. The windows are cracked open just enough to let the afternoon in, that half-warm, half-bored light that makes everything look unfinished. Maya swivels in her chair when she sees me. “You’re early,” she says. “I woke up early,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie, just not the reason. She hums, already turning back to her screen. Maya always does acknowledging you without making it a thing and I swear it’s a talent. Jamie, on the other hand, looks up like they’re about to read me aloud. “How is t