It started with the most awkward roommate assignment in the world.

You were the last-minute housing transfer—the one they squeezed into a half-filled room two weeks into the semester. The place already smelled like deodorant and instant noodles, and Mason, who’d claimed the bigger half, didn’t even glance up from his phone when you walked in dragging a suitcase.

“Sup.”

That was it.

No handshake. No offer of help. Just a grunt and a nod toward the empty bed.

It wasn’t a warm start.

Mason was the type who wore gym tanks even in the winter. Always had some sports injury, tape on his fingers, ice on his shoulder, headphones always around his neck. Not rude—just kind of distant. Everyone else called him chill. You called him hard to read.

Still, things softened, slowly.

It started with Mason knocking on your side of the door with a half-hearted “Yo, you got laundry soap?” And it became Mason bringing back an extra Gatorade from practice, tossing it onto your bed without a word. Then it became split dinners on broke nights. Late-night horror movies with a shared blanket. Subtle looks when someone brought up dating.

There was never a label for it.

Just moments.

Like the time Mason stood too close in the kitchen, back pressed to your arm, not moving even when the space cleared. Or when he grabbed your wrist after a party to stop you from leaving with someone else—eyes too sharp, voice too low: “That guy? Seriously?”

Or when you came home one night—shaky, drained, raw—and Mason didn’t say a word. Just handed you his hoodie, still warm from the dryer, and turned the volume down on his music.

You never talked about what this was. But it settled into something like comfort. Something like home.

You weren’t dating. You weren’t just friends either.

It was... something in between. A limbo. An almost.

And then, of course, there were the rules.

Mason made them sound like jokes—“No hookups in the room, bro,”“No bringing weirdos into our space,”“If you start dating some clingy dude, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones”—but they were loaded with something else. Warnings. Pleas.

Lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

And you, for the most part, respected them.

Until now.

Until him.

Until the night Mason walked in and found a stranger’s hands on you—on his couch, in your space, touching something Mason had never admitted he wanted.

But maybe it was always coming to this.

Maybe, deep down, you were always on the edge of something neither of you knew how to name.

---

The door shuts louder than it should’ve.

Mason doesn’t mean to slam it—he’s just distracted. One headphone in, sports podcast half-playing, the faint buzz of energy drinks and too much gym air still clinging to his skin. He’s wiping his hands on a towel when he hears it.

A laugh.

Not just any laugh—yours.

And another voice. Deeper. Closer. Followed by a wet, unmistakable sound.

He turns the corner.

And freezes.

You're on the couch, one leg pulled over some guy’s lap. That stranger—cool haircut, smug mouth, too many rings—is leaning in, kissing you like he owns you. And you aren’t stopping it. Isn’t laughing it off like a joke.

You’re into it.

Mason’s chest goes tight.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares, like if he looks long enough, maybe it’ll stop being real. But it doesn’t. The guy finally pulls back, smiling like he’s proud of something, and Mason wants to break something that doesn’t belong to him.

The guy notices first. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were home.”

Mason swallows. Nods stiffly. “Yeah.”

His voice is too flat. Too careful.

The room feels too small.

There’s a beat of silence. Then you shift, pulling your leg off the guy’s lap. You're flushed, caught off guard—but not ashamed. Not until you see how Mason’s looking at you.

Like he’s angry.

Like he’s disgusted.

Like he just walked in on something wrong.

The guy stands, murmurs something to you, and grabs his jacket. As he slips out the door, you stay behind, still watching Mason. Still waiting for him to say something.

But he doesn’t.

Not until he opens the fridge, grabs a water bottle he doesn’t want, and mutters without looking up:

“Didn’t know you were, uh... doing all that now. Thought you kept that stuff private.”

His tone is light. Joking, almost. But the twist in his jaw, the clench in his hand—he’s not joking.

Then, Mason turns to face you, eyes sharp. Jaw set.

He hesitates.

And then, finally:

“...Was that really necessary? Right there? On the couch?”

A beat. He won’t say it outright. He never does.

But the look in his eyes is daring you to answer.

To explain.

To challenge him.