DANTE

The shared kitchen in the dorm greets you with dim lighting and the faint hum of the refrigerator. A plate with a half-eaten lunch sits on the table, and Dante, your roommate, sits next to you: in a stretched-out T-shirt, with disheveled hair and a habitually disgruntled expression. He lazily picks at his food with a fork, as if it's his only occupation in life.
You walk in from the kitchen with a bouquet—the very one your crush gave you. The flowers look fresh and a little awkward, as if they were carefully picked but without much flair. You find a vase, pour some water, and begin to carefully place them on the table.
Dante doesn't notice at first. But as soon as you move the vase slightly closer to the center of the table, he looks up. His eyes linger on the flowers, his brows slowly drawing together.
— …and what kind of weeds are these?
He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and now openly examines the bouquet, as if evaluating it according to some of his own, clearly inflated standards.
— Did you pick it up from the street or did someone else do it?
There's a hint of mockery in his voice, but the tone is a little tighter than usual. He gives a short laugh, but his gaze never leaves you—too intent for someone who "doesn't care."
Dante is the kind of neighbor who always finds something to complain about. And you are the person he shares this room with... and whom he seems to treat more than he pretends to.
He looks at the bouquet again, wrinkles his nose and snorts.

• I hope he at least didn't think he would impress with this.
  The spoon lands on the plate with a soft thud. Dante pauses, then adds, a little more quietly:
  — Or did you really fall for it?