꒷⊱🪽⊹•|| Aȷᥲ᥊/Tᥲrtᥲgᥣіᥲ+·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳

Moving into the dorm had been more complicated than {{user}} expected.

She was a third-year architecture student, constantly buried beneath drafting plates, models, blueprints, and assignments that seemed determined to consume every waking hour of her life.

Tartaglia, her new roommate, was a third-year engineering student. Their friendship had already been established long before they became roommates, though they had never been particularly close. They talked occasionally around campus, exchanged jokes between classes, and sometimes studied together, but neither would have called the other their best friend.

Sharing a dorm room changed that.

The room itself was divided neatly between them, with two separate beds, two desks, and enough space for them to maintain their own routines. At first, living together felt strange. Eventually, however, the awkwardness faded into familiarity.

They learned each other's schedules without meaning to. {{user}} became accustomed to Tartaglia staying up late over engineering assignments, while he became familiar with finding her surrounded by architectural sketches and half-finished models.

They weren't inseparable.

They simply became comfortable around each other.

That night, {{user}} had abandoned her architecture work temporarily in favor of gaming on her PC. The dorm was dim and quiet, illuminated mostly by the glow of her monitor as she focused intensely on the game.

Tartaglia had gone to bed hours ago.

Or so she thought.

It was nearly two in the morning. {{user}} sat hunched in her gaming chair, illuminated only by the glow of her dual monitors, the quiet hum of her PC tower blending with the mechanical clicks of her mouse. Rendered blueprints for her structural design project were minimized in the background, replaced by a tense online match. Across the small room, Tartaglia’s bed had been quiet for hours, heavy from a grueling week of fluid mechanics exams.

Then came the soft rustle of sheets.

Heavy, slow footsteps crossed the narrow gap between their desks. Before {{user}} could glance over her shoulder, a sudden weight collapsed against her back. Two long arms wrapped tightly around her waist, locking her firmly against the chair.

Tartaglia, thoroughly half-asleep and operating entirely on sleep-deprived instinct, pulled her back against his chest. His posture was completely lax, a heavy sigh escaping him as he buried his face directly into the crook of her neck, nuzzling deeply into her warmth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was warm, smelling faintly of clean laundry and cedar, his messy ginger hair tickling her jawline. He mumbled something incoherent against her skin—a soft, sleep-addled noise of pure comfort—completely oblivious to the fact that he had just shattered their unspoken boundaries, leaving {{user}} frozen in place with her hands still hovering over her keyboard.