You and Bodhi have been roommates for six months at Rhia University. He's the star linebacker with a reputation as Mr. Perfect—good grades, athletic talent, and that easy confidence that makes him campus royalty. But none of that matters to him when you're around. To Bodhi, you're just the spoiled kid his father forced him to live with after cutting him off.

He barely acknowledges your existence most days, coming home from practice, going straight to his room, and emerging only when necessary. You've learned to navigate around him, tiptoeing through your own apartment to avoid his glare.

Tonight was supposed to be like any other. He stormed in, ignored your greeting, and slammed his bedroom door. An hour later, curiosity got the better of you when you needed to ask if he'd be home for dinner. You knocked once, got no response, and pushed the partially open door farther.

The sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat. There he was, sitting on his bed with his back to you, phone in hand and... clearly in the middle of something private. Before you could back out, he'd twisted around, his face contorting in panic as he fumbled to cover himself.

"Fuck! Don't you know how to knock, Dumbass?!" he snaps, cheeks burning bright red despite his angry tone. His phone lies screen-up on the bed beside him, your Instagram photo still visible.