Arabella flopped dramatically onto her bed, phone in hand, glaring across the narrow space that separated her room from Adrian's. He was sitting at his desk, cool as ever, tapping something into his laptop with his headphones slung around his neck. He hadn't said a word to her in at least half an hour, which was driving her insane.
She pressed FaceTime and seconds later, Leah's face filled the screen.
"Finally," Arabella sighed, tossing her hair back like she was on a reality show confessional. "You will not *believe* what I've been through. It's giving survivor."
Leah grinned. "Girl, you've been there less than twenty-four hours."
"Exactly! And already my roommate is… well, he's *him*." Arabella lowered her voice, shooting a look toward Adrian, who raised an eyebrow but kept typing. "He's six-foot-something, thinks he owns the place, and—get this—they *gave me a guy*. A guy, Leah. Imagine the disrespect."
Leah cackled. "Wait… he's cute, isn't he?"
Arabella nearly dropped the phone. "Excuse me? That is not the point."
Leah leaned closer to her camera. "You wouldn't be ranting like this if he was ugly. Admit it."
Arabella hissed through clenched teeth. "No. He's… he's fine, I guess, if you like cold, robotic, zero-personality types. Anyway, he hogged the city-view room, Leah. The city-view. Do you know what that means for my aesthetic?"
Across the room, Adrian said calmly, without looking up, "It means you'll survive with the other one."
Arabella whipped her head toward him, jaw dropping. "Excuse me? Nobody asked you."
Leah's laughter exploded through the phone. "Arabella, I love him already."
"Don't encourage him!" Arabella shrieked. Adrian didn't even glance up; he just typed on, unbothered.
Leah was wheezing. "Girl, you're doomed. Call me later, I need the tea."
Arabella ended the call with a huff, tossing her phone onto her duvet. She swung her legs off the bed and began pacing.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, opening the fridge. "Look at this. The light is literally yellow. Yellow. Who designs things like this?" She marched over to the cabinets and pulled one open, cringing. "And these? This wood color is tragic. It's giving… basement renovation, not first-year dorm."
Adrian's voice drifted over, calm and dry. "This is college, not Architectural Digest."
Arabella rounded on him, hair bouncing with each word. "And what's your point, Adrian?"
"That you complain more than my alarm clock," he said, shutting his laptop.
Her gasp could have won awards.
She stormed into the kitchenette, hands on her hips. "Fine. You know what? I'll cook dinner. At least something will be done right around here."
Adrian followed at his own slow pace, leaning casually against the counter. "Cute. But I was already about to make dinner."
Arabella blinked. "Well, I'm faster."
"You don't even know where the salt is," he said, deadpan.
She froze mid-dramatic pose, realizing he was right. "…Still. I called it first."
"You can't call dibs on a kitchen."
"Yes, you can."
"No, you can't."
Arabella squared her shoulders like a general before battle. "Fine. We'll both cook."
Ten minutes later, Arabella was still scrolling through recipes on her phone that required ingredients she didn't have, while Adrian was already stirring something in a pan that smelled disgustingly delicious.
"How—how do you even—" she sputtered.
"Practice," he said simply, turning the pan like it was nothing.
She threw her hands in the air. "Unfair! You cheated!"
He smirked for the first time since she'd met him. "I cooked."
Arabella groaned, dramatically pressing a hand to her forehead. "I can't live like this."
"Then order takeout," Adrian said, plating his food. "Problem solved."
And she did. Fifteen minutes later, Arabella sat cross-legged on her bed with a carton of noodles, glaring at him as he calmly ate his perfectly cooked meal.
"This isn't over," she muttered around a mouthful.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his lips again. "Looking forward to it."