The key sticks in the lock for a second longer than it should, forcing you to juggle the stack of boxes in your arms while trying not to drop the houseplant that’s already looking deeply unimpressed with its new living situation. Finally the door gives way with a soft click, and you push it open with your shoulder, stepping into the apartment for the first time.

It’s nicer than you expected. Spacious. Modern. Floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the late afternoon light. The kind of place that makes it very clear that someone with money lives here.

And then you see him.

Juno Montgomery is stretched across the black leather couch like he was poured there and decided never to leave. One arm is flung over the backrest, the other holding a half-finished cigarette between two fingers. Bare feet crossed on the coffee table. Black jeans sitting low on his hips. A faded band shirt that’s ridden up just enough to show a strip of tattooed skin along his side. Messy dark hair falls into his eyes as he slowly turns his head toward the door, looking at you the same way someone might look at a particularly annoying delivery that arrived at the wrong address.

He doesn’t sit up. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even pretend to be polite.

“...You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

His voice is low and rough, like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t want to take. He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, eyes dragging over the mountain of boxes in your arms, the neat way you’re dressed, the carefully packed bags, the plant, the general aura of someone who probably has a color-coded planner and actual goals in life.

“Housing said I was getting a roommate,” he continues, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “They didn’t say it was gonna be someone who looks like they alphabetize their textbooks for fun and cry if they get anything less than an A.”

He finally shifts, sitting up a little, elbows resting on his knees. The silver piercings in his ears catch the light as he tilts his head, studying you with open irritation.

“Well? You just gonna stand there blocking the doorway like a lost fucking freshman, or are you gonna put your little life down somewhere? Preferable far away from my shit.”

His gaze drops to the plant in your arms and his lip curls slightly.

“I don’t do plant funerals. Just so we’re clear.”

He leans back against the couch again, cigarette still between his fingers, watching you with that same lazy, unimpressed expression, like he’s already decided this entire arrangement is a personal attack on his peace.

“Try not to be too fucking cheerful about it.”

The late afternoon sun is warm against the side of the library building as you stand near the entrance, phone in hand, waiting for a study group that is now officially twenty-three minutes late. You’re trying very hard not to look as annoyed as you feel. Your bag is heavy with textbooks. Your notes are organized. Your schedule is planned. Everything about you screams “I actually give a shit about my education,” which is probably why the universe decided to put him next to you.

The smell of cigarette smoke drifts over first.

You glance sideways.

Juno is leaning against the wall barely three feet away, one boot propped up behind him like he owns the entire sidewalk. Black hoodie half-zipped over a dark shirt, messy hair falling into his eyes, a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers. He looks completely at ease breaking the clearly posted no-smoking rule right next to the most rule-following person currently on campus.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look at you.

You clear it louder.

This time he slowly turns his head, dark eyes half-lidded and already irritated, like you’ve interrupted something extremely important,

“What.”

“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”

There’s a long pause. He stares at you like you just asked him to recite the university honor code from memory. Then, to your complete and utter surprise, he actually takes the cigarette out of his mouth. Holds it between two fingers. Looks at it. Looks at you. Looks personally offended that he just did that.

“...The fuck?” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself.

He flicks the cigarette away with a sharp, irritated motion, watching it bounce off the pavement before dying. His jaw tightens as he shoves both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders tense.

“Don’t get used to that,” he says, voice low and defensive. “I just didn’t feel like listening to you lecture me for the next ten minutes about lung cancer and university policies and whatever else you’ve got stored in that perfect little head of yours.”

He glances at you sideways, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s still trying to figure out why he even listened.

“Happy now, Goody Two-Shoes? Or do you wanna write me up for existing too while you’re at it?”

Your desk lamp is the only light on in the room. The rest of the apartment is quiet except for the soft sound of rain against the windows. Notes are spread across every available surface, textbook open, highlighters uncapped, flashcards stacked in neat little piles that are slowly losing their neatness the longer you stare at them. An empty energy drink can sits near the edge of the desk. Your jaw is tight. Your eyes are burning.

For the first time in your entire academic life... you failed an important exam.

And it is sitting in your chest like a stone.

You’re so focused on rewriting the same paragraph for the fourth time, like if you just write it harder the information will magically stick, that you almost don’t hear the door open.

Almost.

Juno doesn’t knock. He never does. He just steps into your room like he has every right to be there, and the second you look up your brain does something extremely unhelpful.

He’s shirtless.

Fresh out of the shower, by the looks of it. Dark hair still damp and falling into his eyes, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, the deep cut of muscle and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband on full, unfair display. Tattoos crawl up both sides of his torso and over one shoulder, intricate, dark, and currently way too close for comfort under the warm glow of your desk lamp. He smells like soap and something sharper underneath, something that makes it very hard to remember that you’re supposed to be angry at the universe right now.

He takes one look at the disaster on your desk, then at your face, and raises an unimpressed brow.

“Christ. You look like you’re about to cry over a test.”

You open your mouth to tell him to get out. He doesn’t give you the chance.

He walks further into the room, stopping right beside your chair, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his bare skin. His eyes flick over your notes, the highlighted paragraphs, the slightly crumpled flashcards, then back to your face. There’s no mockery this time. Just quiet, sharp observation.

“You failed one, didn’t you?” His voice is lower than usual. “First time?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he reaches down, plucks the pen straight out of your hand, and tosses it onto the desk with a soft clack.

“Move.”

When you don’t immediately obey, he braces one hand on the back of your chair and leans in, voice dropping even lower, close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple.

“I said move. I’m not watching you spiral over one shitty grade like it’s the end of the fucking world. I’ll help you study.”

A pause.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before he smirks, slow, deliberate, and just a little mean.

“...Among other things. If you ask nicely.”

He straightens just enough to look down at you properly, sweatpants still riding low, tattoos on full display under the warm lamp light. His hand is still on the back of your chair. He doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “You gonna let me help?”