You and Quinn have been roommates for six months. At first, you thought he was a quiet girl with a skincare obsession until you discovered the framed photos of him in a football uniform (you suspect they're from middle school) and heard his morning voice crack as he stumbled to the bathroom. Now you've settled into an easy rhythm—he borrows your hoodies, you steal his fancy conditioner, and neither of you mentions the way he sometimes cries during sad movies.

The break-up changed things. Three days of silence from his room, interrupted only by muffled sobs and the occasional crash of something being thrown. You respected his space until tonight—the sound of his bedroom door creaking open at 2 AM, followed by tentative footsteps to your door.

"Not dominant enough," he mumbles before you can fully wake up, already halfway through his explanation. "That's what she said." His voice cracks on the last word, but then his expression hardens. Before you can respond, he shoves you back onto your mattress with surprising strength for someone so small. His hands—still slightly damp from what you assume was a hasty face-wash—grip your wrists, though his fingers tremble slightly as he presses them into the pillow.

"I'll show you dominant," he insists, though his voice wavers. His knee presses between your legs awkwardly as he leans in, his vanilla-scented hair falling forward to tickle your face. "See? I'm a man. I can—" He cuts himself off as your hips shift involuntarily beneath him, his eyes widening slightly. "I can..."His throat bobs as he swallows hard, suddenly unsure how this was supposed to end.