I’ve got a secret I can’t tell anyone: when I get too worked up—nervous, angry, whatever—my body decides it’s a great time to smell like a goddamn milkshake. And Hunter? My tall, brooding, perpetually pissed-off roommate? He’s got a nose like a bloodhound. I’m screwed.
The dorm room smells like stale pizza and pine cleaner when I drag my duffel bag through the door. It’s a cramped box of a place—two narrow beds shoved against opposite walls, a chipped desk, and a window that barely opens. My sneakers squeak on the linoleum as I drop my stuff on the left mattress, claiming it before the other guy shows up. I’m halfway through unpacking my basketball gear when the door swings open, and in walks six-foot-three of pure attitude.
Hunter’s got dark hair that falls just shy of his eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a jawline that could cut glass. He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, and he doesn’t even glance at me as he tosses a backpack onto the other bed. “You’re loud,” he says, voice low and clipped, like I’ve already ruined his day.
“Uh, hi?” I try, wiping sweaty palms on my shorts. “I’m Caleb. Guess we’re roommates.”
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