The streets were quiet, hushed by the weight of 2AM silence. Salem Pryce drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his temple, elbow propped up by the window. The hum of the engine filled the lull between Archer’s lazy commentary and the muted exhaustion clinging to both of them after three hours of rehearsal back at River's place.

“The streets were quiet, hushed by the weight of 2AM silence. Salem Pryce drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his temple, elbow propped up by the window. The hum of the engine filled the lull between Archer’s lazy commentary and the muted exhaustion clinging to both of them after three hours of rehearsal back at River's place.

“Tell me again why we’re not living with River,” Archer muttered, cracking the passenger window to flick ash from a cigarette he technically promised to quit. “He’s got a full fridge, air conditioning that doesn’t wheeze like it’s dying, and soundproofed walls. Soundproofed, Salem. You know what I’d do with soundproof walls?”

Salem didn’t glance over. “Sleep. Like a normal person.”

Archer snorted. “Nah, I’d scream about your crush from the rooftop and no one could stop me. At least, that's the PG thing I'd do.”

Salem exhaled sharply. “It's not a crush. I don't like him.”

“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?” He ignored Salem. Archer leaned his head back against the seat, grin audible in his voice. “Roommate—your beautiful, giggling, party boy roommate. I saw the way you glared at his tank top yesterday. Like you were mad and horny.”

Salem’s grip on the steering wheel twitched. “That’s your imagination.”

“Is it?”

“Tell me more about Nate Callahan,” Salem said blandly.

Archer’s grin faltered. “No.”

“Right.”

They hit a red light. Archer leaned forward to rub at his eyes. “Alright, truce. You don’t talk about Nate’s jawline and I won’t bring up your frat boy.”

Salem held up a pinky, "Pleasure doing business with ya."

He parked his car in his assigned spot, close to the entrance of the building. The Harmony Lane dorms always smelled vaguely of burnt popcorn and Lysol. Salem slung his bass over his shoulder and followed Archer out of the car and up the first few flights in relative silence, shoes thudding softly on concrete stairs.

Fourth floor. Archer tapped his knuckles against the wall. “Later, lover boy.”

“Go choke,” Salem muttered without heat.

"I'm planning on it, trust me," Archer winked before disappearing into the hall, and Salem groaned to himself at the innuendo. That was not a picture he wanted to see in his head.

He continued upward, the fifth floor as dim and silent as always. He liked it. Quiet. Predictable. His keycard clicked smoothly through the lock. The door opened with a soft push. No lights. No music. No giggling chaos or leftover party clutter.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a practiced shoulder nudge. Bass down. Jacket off. His fingers were just brushing the hem of his shirt when his foot caught on something and he stumbled.

Salem caught himself with a palm on the desk, looking down with narrowed eyes. There was a shoe there. Not his, though.

His brow creased as he stared at the offending sneaker in the middle of the floor, like it had betrayed him. The realization landed a beat later, a tired little oh, right that settled in his chest like a weight.

Roommate.

Sometimes, Salem forgot about the new development that had him sharing this small room. His roommate was back from whatever party he was attending that night, but the dorm was silent still. A little too silent.

Salem turned slowly, casting a glance toward his roommate's bed. It was empty. His gaze drifted left, to his own bed.

There.

Sprawled across Salem’s sheets like he paid rent there, his roommate was face down, one leg still bent like he’d tried to take off his other shoe and failed somewhere mid-movement. His hair was a mess, shirt rucked up slightly from how he'd landed, breathing deep and even in the peaceful, alcohol-laced sleep of someone who didn't have a single real worry in the world.

Salem stared for a moment. Then kept staring.

The thing about his roommate, the thing Salem hated, was that he was good-looking in a way that felt intentional. Like someone had designed him specifically to be Salem’s problem. The stupid smirk, the jawline, the always-too-casual way he sat or leaned or collapsed across someone else’s bed.

And even now, asleep and quiet, he looked different. Softer. The tension gone from his face. None of the energy that drove Salem insane. Just the rhythm of sleep, the rise and fall of his chest.

Salem’s jaw tightened.

“Alright, you're hot,” he admitted quietly, only finding the courage to say the words because his roommate was out cold. “But only when your mouth’s shut.”

Salem looked away, like that would clear it from his system. As if noticing didn’t mean anything. As if it was just surface-level attraction. Biology. Skin-deep and irrelevant. Because that's all he was going to let it be.

He stepped closer until he reached his own bed. Another sigh. Then he crouched down, grabbed his roommate’s ankle—the one still dangling off the edge—and gave it a tug.

“Go back to your own bed,” he said quietly. "This one is mine."