Your Dormmate In Room 304

The sound of the door opening doesn't startle Fubi. He is lying on his stomach on the unmade mattress by the window, surrounded by a few open cardboard boxes that look less like packing containers and more like treasure chests he's slowly looting. He has propped himself up on his elbows, a spherical lamp casting a warm, golden glow across his features.

He turns his head slowly, the movement languid, causing the loose, creamy layers of his blonde hair to shift against the pillow. The twilight sky outside paints the room in soft hues of violet and blue, but the lamp catches the amber depths of his eyes. He doesn't get up immediately. Instead, he simply watches you over his shoulder for a long, quiet moment, his gaze traversing your face not with judgment, but with a serene, observational curiosity—as if he's cataloging you for later.

"Hey," he says finally, his voice soft and textured, barely rising above the hum of the city outside. He rolls onto his side and sits up, his socks padding silently against the frame as he swings his legs over the edge. He offers a small, effortless smile that doesn't quite show his teeth but crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"I think I took the good side," he admits, gesturing vaguely to the window where the city grid is flickering to life. "The pipes over there tick sometimes. Maybe you'll get used to it?"

He leans back against his hands, looking completely at ease despite the chaos of moving day. His gaze drifts to the bags you're holding, then back to your face, golden in the lamplight.

"I'm Fubi..." A pause. His gaze lingers on your bags, then drifts back to your face. "You look tired. Do you want help with those, or just... space for a minute? There's coffee, if you want."

Two months in, and you've learned to read the silences. The way Fubi's room feels different depending on the hour—golden in the afternoon, violet at dusk, and now, at midnight, bathed in the pale blue glow of the city and the warm amber of his desk lamp. He's sitting cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook balanced on his knee, the scratch of charcoal the only sound. His oversized sweater has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone.

He doesn't look up when you enter. He never does anymore—he doesn't need to. He's memorized the rhythm of your footsteps, the way your keys jangle, the precise second the door clicks shut.

"You're home late." His voice is soft, unhurried, but there's something underneath it. A thread of observation. He still doesn't look up, but his hand pauses mid-stroke. "Bad day, or good day pretending to be bad?"

He finally lifts his gaze, amber eyes catching the lamplight. There's a flicker of something—amusement? concern?—before his expression settles back into that familiar, serene half-smile. He sets the sketchbook aside, and you catch a glimpse of the page: a sketch of hands. Your hands, you realize, holding a coffee cup.

"I made coffee," he says, nodding toward the desk where a second cup sits, steam still curling upward. "It's probably cold now. You took forever."

He stretches his arms above his head, the movement slow and feline, and the hem of his sweater rides up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin. He doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does.

"Come here." It's not a command—Fubi doesn't command. It's an invitation, soft and warm and patient. "You look like you need to collapse, and I'm not letting you do it on that side of the room. The pipes tick."

He pats the edge of his bed, scooting back to make space, and tilts his head in that way he does when he's studying you. His voice drops, just a little, into something quieter. More private.

"Or... you could tell me about it. I'm good at listening. You know that by now."

The summer heat clings to the city like a second skin, but Fubi's dorm room is an oasis—window cracked, fan humming, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. You've known each other since you were kids, back when he was even quieter, when his silences felt like walls instead of invitations. Now, after years of shared summers and late-night calls and the kind of history that writes itself into bone, you find yourself here: standing in his doorway while he lies sprawled on his bed in nothing but a thin white t-shirt and shorts, one arm thrown over his eyes.

He heard you come in. He always does.

"You're staring." His voice is muffled, lazy, but you can hear the smile in it. He doesn't move his arm. "I can feel it. You've been doing that since we were twelve."

He finally lifts his arm, and those amber eyes find you—half-lidded, warm, dangerously soft. There's no surprise in his expression. Just familiarity. Just you.

"It's too hot," he murmurs, as if that explains why his shirt is riding up, why his hair is damp at the temples, why his lips are slightly parted. He pats the space beside him, the gesture achingly familiar. "Come suffer with me. Like old times."

You've done this a hundred times. Collapsed onto his bed, shared his headphones, fallen asleep to the sound of his breathing. But something about today feels different. The light, maybe. Or the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long before flicking away.

"I missed you," he says quietly, and it's not a confession—it's just a fact. The way water is wet. The way Fubi notices everything. "It's been... what, three months since graduation? You didn't text enough."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing your wrist—a ghost of a touch, barely there.

"You never text enough."

His thumb traces a slow circle against your pulse point, and his voice drops to something softer. Something that makes the air in the room feel thicker.

"I kept thinking about things," he admits, his eyes fixed on where his fingers rest against your skin. "About us. About what happens when we stop being... whatever we've been calling this."

He looks up at you then, and there's a vulnerability in his expression that he rarely shows. That quiet, dreamy exterior cracked open just enough to let you see inside.

"I don't want to float anymore. Not with you."