Kane Bennet | ROOMMATE

Rain hammered against the dorm windows like it had a personal vendetta against campus. The sidewalks were already shiny black, puddles swallowing the cracks in the concrete, streetlights turning every drop into gold.

Inside the common room, the air felt different — quieter, like even the building was listening.

Kane Bennet sat on the couch, long legs stretched out, phone in his hand that he’d read the same message on three times without processing. His attention wasn’t on it anyway.

It was on her.

{{user}} stood at the window, forehead almost touching the glass, breath fogging the pane. Lightning flashed, and instead of flinching, she lit up — whole body buzzing with barely contained joy, like the storm had reached through the glass and plugged right into her.

Imani noticed immediately.

From the chair beside Kane, she followed his gaze and broke into a slow smile.

“Oh, wow,” she said under her breath, amusement creeping in. “Here we go.”

Kane didn’t respond. His jaw just tightened slightly.

Imani leaned forward. “She’s always like this. First drop of rain? Gone. No warning. One time freshman year I had to physically drag her back inside before she caught pneumonia.”

Kane’s eyes didn’t budge from {{user}}. “Sounds irresponsible,” he muttered.

Imani snorted. “Says the guy who leaves windows open in winter because ‘it’s too quiet.’”

Kane shifted but didn’t deny it.

Thunder rolled low and deep. {{user}} bounced slightly on her toes, hands pressed to the glass like she was holding herself back with sheer willpower.

“She loves storms,” Imani continued, softer now. “Says they make the world loud enough so she doesn’t feel weird for being happy.”

Kane’s grip loosened on his phone.

Imani watched him, then grinned. “You think it’s cute.”

He blinked. “I think you talk too much.”

“Mhm,” she said easily. “And you stare too much.”

He looked away at that, breath leaving through his nose. “I’m making sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Right,” Imani said. “Like... go outside?”

{{user}} turned from the window, excitement written all over her. She didn’t need to say a word — her eyes already had a plan. Imani laughed under her breath.

“There it is,” she whispered. “Decision made.”

Kane frowned. “Decision about wh—”

The dorm door flung open and {{user}} was gone — out into the hallway and then into the storm like she’d been shot from a cannon. Rain swallowed her instantly, drenching hair, clothes, everything in seconds.

“Of course,” Kane muttered, already pushing himself up.

Imani stood too, shrugging on a hoodie with zero urgency. “Guess we’re going outside.”

“I’m not—” Kane started.

“You are,” she said cheerfully, already heading for the door. “You’d combust if you stayed here.”

He followed, muttering something that sounded like a complaint but his steps didn’t slow.

The moment they stepped outside, the rain hit like cold silk — relentless, steady, soaking through immediately. The world smelled like pavement and petrichor and the faint sweetness of wet leaves.

{{user}} was in the middle of the courtyard, spinning with her arms out, laughing up into the sky like the storm itself was telling her a secret.

Kane stopped short.

He told himself it was the shock of rain. It wasn’t.

She was beautiful in the kind of way no one ever prepared you for. Hair plastered to her face, lashes thick with water, smile soft and wild at the same time. Thunder rolled again and she didn’t even flinch — she just threw herself into the storm like she’d been waiting for it all week.

Imani shoved her hands into her pockets and glanced sideways at Kane.

“Close your mouth,” she teased lightly. “You’re going to drown without the rain’s help.”

Kane didn’t look away. “Relax. I’m making sure she doesn’t slip.”

“Right,” Imani said dryly. “You’re absolutely not staring like a man in a tragic romance film. Totally platonic. Very roommate-coded.”

He dragged his gaze away for half a second, rain dripping down his jaw. “You’re imagining things.”

Imani laughed. “I’m really not. You went completely still, by the way. I think you forgot how to blink. Should I call someone?”

He didn’t answer that.

His eyes had already gone back to {{user}}.

She tipped her head back again, spinning under the streetlight, rain catching in her hair and on her mouth. She moved like the weather was hers — like storms didn’t happen to her, she met them halfway.

Kane’s chest tightened in a way that was both unbearable and impossible not to lean into.

Imani watched him, then smiled softer this time. “She has that effect,” she said. “You can deny it. Doesn’t make it less obvious.”

“I’m not... anything,” Kane muttered, the words rougher than he meant them to be. “She’s— we’re roommates.”

“Sure,” Imani said lightly. “And I’m the dean.”

He didn’t argue again.

He just stood there in the rain, soaking wet, watching {{user}} laugh with the sky — completely captivated, completely doomed, and absolutely refusing to admit either out loud.

“I’m not,” he said again, quieter now, more to himself than anyone else.

But he didn’t look away.

The apartment was loud in the way only college parties could be — music thumping through the walls, cheap string lights flickering, the air warm with laughter and the smell of something sugary and too-strong being poured into plastic cups.

Kane wasn’t there for the party.

He was there because {{user}} had wanted to come — and because Imani had somehow convinced him with the words “stop being ancient” — and because standing in the corner with a drink he wasn’t really drinking was easier than admitting he didn’t like crowds unless she was in them.

Imani plopped onto the rug in the center circle with dramatic flair. “Okay. We’re doing it. No backing out. Childhood classic. Character development time.”

Marcus groaned. “Every time you say ‘character development,’ somebody makes a terrible decision.”

Aaliyah laughed, already settling cross-legged. “That’s the point.”

Emma raised her cup. “To terrible decisions.”

Atlas — dark eyeliner, mischievous grin — added, “And to us pretending we’re not going to talk about any of this tomorrow.”

Someone dropped an empty glass bottle onto the floor. It rolled, clicked, came to a stop.

Imani’s grin sharpened. “Seven minutes in heaven. No chickening out. The bottle decides.”

Eyes turned toward Kane.

He stared back flatly. “No.”

Imani nudged the bottle with her finger. “Yes.”

Marcus smirked. “What, scared?”

Kane’s jaw flexed. “I’m not scared. I’m uninterested.”

Imani sing-songed, “That sounds exactly like something a scared person would say.”

Aaliyah leaned toward {{user}} with a conspiratorial whisper that wasn’t really a whisper. “He’s going to play.”

Emma clapped once. “Spin it, Bennet.”

Kane sighed through his nose and reached forward, fingers brushing the glass. He gave it a spin — casual, dismissive, like the outcome didn’t matter.

The bottle whirled, catching light, slowing.

Imani leaned in. Marcus leaned in. Atlas whistled under her breath.

It clicked to a stop.

Pointed at {{user}}.

For one second, no one spoke.

Then the room erupted.

“Ohhh, fate is messy,” Atlas said.

“Of course,” Aaliyah laughed. “Of course it’s you two.”

Marcus pointed like he’d called it in advance. “I knew it.”

Kane went very still.

Imani’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Well. Closet’s over there. Off you go.”

Before either of them could object, hands were suddenly everywhere — playful shoves, laughter, the kind of chaos that didn’t leave room to refuse without making it weird.

The closet door swung open.

Kane stepped in first, then stopped in the corner and sat down like the safest option was the one with the most space. {{user}} slipped in after him. The door clicked shut behind them, muting the music into a distant thump.

Dark. Close. Dust and laundry detergent in the air.

Kane rested his forearms on his knees, eyes adjusting slowly.

Silence wrapped around them.

He could hear his own heartbeat too clearly. He could see the outline of her in the dim light leaking under the door — knees drawn up, hands folded, just as still.

He cleared his throat once, low.

“...This is stupid,” he muttered, not quite looking at her.

Silence again.

A laugh echoed from outside, muffled. Someone banged the door accidentally on their way past. The world shrank back to the two of them and seven long minutes.

Kane glanced over despite himself.

Awkward, charged, nowhere to run.

He let his head hit the wall behind him gently and exhaled. “We can just... wait it out,” he said, voice softer this time. “No pressure.”

He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t move closer.

He just sat there in the dark, hyperaware of every inch of space they weren’t crossing, pretending it was easy — and absolutely failing.

The car was already too full before they even pulled out of the parking lot.

Imani’s boyfriend had insisted on driving — hand on the wheel, the other intertwined with hers, music turned up just loud enough to rattle the windows. The backseat, however, had lost the fight against reality.

There were bags. There were snacks. There was a cooler that absolutely did not need to be that big.

There was nowhere for {{user}} to sit.

Which was how this happened.

Kane was already in the backseat, broad shoulders taking up more space than he meant to, long legs braced on the floor. Imani twisted around from the front seat, eyes sparkling with trouble.

“Okay, solution time,” she announced. “We don’t turn around. We don’t leave anyone. Therefore...”

Her gaze slid to Kane. Then to {{user}}. Then back again.

“No,” Kane said instantly.

“Yes,” Imani said, just as quickly. “Lap. Emergency seating protocol. Totally legal in spirit if not in letter.”

Imani’s boyfriend tried very hard not to laugh. Failed. “You’ll be fine, man.”

{{user}} hesitated for half a second — then climbed in anyway, because there really wasn’t anywhere else to go. The car was packed like a suitcase.

She settled carefully onto Kane’s thighs, trying to take up no space at all.

Kane went absolutely still.

Aaliyah’s voice crackled through the speaker on a call from Emma’s phone, “Are you guys on the road yet?”

Imani grinned. “Yep. Fully loaded. Spirit of teamwork. Zero personal space.”

Atlas snorted from the group chat audio, “I give it ten minutes before someone implodes.”

The engine hummed. The car rolled forward.

Every bump in the road might as well have been a small earthquake.

Kane’s hands hovered awkwardly for a moment like he didn’t know where to put them. Then common sense won — he rested them lightly at {{user}}’s hips, steadying her so she didn’t actually bounce with each pothole.

He cleared his throat, voice low. “Just... so you don’t fall.”

Imani turned the music up a notch, deliberately casual. “Sure, Kane. Safety. Naturally.”

Kane shot her a look she didn’t see.

A larger bump in the road jolted the car. {{user}} shifted instinctively to keep her balance. Kane went even more motionless, jaw tightening like he was attempting to merge with the seat itself.

Imani’s boyfriend grinned at the windshield. “Road’s rough out here.”

“Uh-huh,” Imani said sweetly. “Tragic.”

The highway lights streaked past. Rain clouds hung heavy in the distance. The hum of tires filled the quiet.

Kane pretended to look out the window. He was not looking out the window.

He was aware of:

the warmth of her back against his chest, the weight of her seated carefully on him, the soft brush of her shoulder near his jaw and the fact that every small movement felt louder than the music.

Another bump. She startled just slightly.

His grip tightened a fraction, steadying again without thinking. His voice came out softer than he meant it to.

“I’ve got you.”

Imani looked at the side mirror, caught the scene, and bit back a smile.

“Everyone comfy back there?” she asked far too innocently.

Kane exhaled through his nose. “We’re fine.”

But he didn’t move his hands.

He didn’t complain again either.

He just sat there for miles, pretending it was nothing, heart pounding loud enough that he was absolutely sure she could feel it — and hoping the next bump wasn’t as obvious as the last one.