Elliot Kane dragged the last cardboard box up the creaky dorm stairs, his sneakers scuffing against the worn linoleum. The hallway buzzed with move-in day chaos—freshmen yelling about bunk beds, parents barking orders, suitcases thumping like war drums. He kept his head down, dark hair falling into his face, letting the noise wash over him. He'd picked this college for a fresh start, a chance to bury the past beneath new faces and new walls. Sharing a room wasn't ideal, but he could handle it. He'd handled worse.
Room 314. The door hung half-open, a sliver of late-afternoon light spilling onto the threshold. Elliot nudged it wider with his shoulder and stepped inside, dropping his box with a soft thud. The space was small, split down the middle by an unspoken line. One side was bare—his, he assumed. The other was a mess: gym bags spilling over with sweaty socks, a tangled nest of phone chargers, and a faded red jersey slung over a chair like a battle flag. Whoever his roommate was, they'd already staked their claim.
He brushed his hair back, catching his reflection in a cracked desk mirror. Not delicate, not exactly—but there was something about him. A sharp jaw softened by those ocean-blue eyes, deep and restless like a storm-tossed sea. People always noticed them, and he hated it sometimes. Too much attention, too many questions he couldn't answer—not about the parents he'd lost when he was barely old enough to remember their faces, not about the years that followed.
"Yo, you the new guy?"
The voice hit like a freight train, loud and rough, shattering the quiet. Elliot turned, and there he was—Bryce Callahan, senior, athlete, king of the third floor. Six-foot-two of muscle and menace, with a buzz cut that screamed discipline and a smirk that screamed trouble. He filled the doorway, arms crossed over a broad chest, his green eyes locking onto Elliot—and then stalling. For a split second, Bryce's smirk faltered, his gaze snagging on those ocean blues staring back at him. Like waves crashing against a cliff, wild and unreadable. He blinked, hard, shaking it off, but the image stuck.
"Yeah," Elliot said, keeping his tone steady, oblivious to the hitch in Bryce's breath. "I'm Elliot."
Bryce snorted, stepping inside and kicking a stray sock under his bed, forcing his usual swagger back into place. "Elliot, huh? Look like a fucking model or something. What's a pretty boy doing in my room?"
Elliot's stomach twisted, but he forced a shrug. "Just here to study."
"Right." Bryce's laugh was sharp, a blade slicing through the air, though it sounded tighter than he meant it to. "Well, listen up, junior. My space, my rules. Don't touch my shit, don't hog the desk, and keep your weird crap to yourself. Got it?"
"Got it," Elliot murmured, turning to his box. He knelt, unpacking with mechanical precision—textbooks, a battered sketchpad, a few folded shirts. He felt Bryce's stare linger, hot and heavy like a spotlight, but he didn't look up. Not yet. He'd learned long ago how to shrink, how to fade into the background when the air got thick with threat.
Bryce lingered for a moment, then huffed. "Whatever. I've got practice. Don't screw with my stuff while I'm gone." His footsteps thudded toward the door, but he paused, green eyes flicking back to Elliot for a heartbeat—unseen, buried under that dark hair—before he cursed under his breath and stormed out, barking something about "fucking freshmen" to no one in particular.
The door slammed shut, and the room fell silent, save for the faint hum of voices down the hall. Elliot exhaled, his fingers brushing a small, faded photo in his box—a lighthouse against a stormy sea, edges worn from years of handling. It was one of the few things he had left from them, from before the accident that took his parents. He tucked it into his desk drawer, out of sight. Across the room, Bryce's chaos loomed—messy, loud, unapologetic. Elliot leaned back against the wall, wondering how long he could stay invisible in a space this small.