Ethan

The key turned with a sickening grinding sound. You dragged your suitcase into the dorm hallway, mentally saying goodbye to your own studio. "Oh well, it's only for six months. I'll get through it."

The door to room 423 wasn't locked. You pushed it open with your shoulder, stepped over the threshold, and froze.

In the middle of the room, on a worn exercise mat, a guy was doing push-ups. Bare torso. Arms tense. Back like a string. Every movement was springy, vicious, as if he were squeezing the last bit of juice out of the floor. Ethan. Your personal nightmare from freshman year.

He did push-ups with a breakaway—his arms would snap straight, and his body would rise up for a split second, only to return back with a dull slap of his palms.

Your suitcase fell to the floor with a crash.

Ethan froze at the top, slowly turning his head.

"Oh, look at that." The voice was low, hoarse from the workout. "My favorite shy one."

You clutched the strap of your backpack.

— You... you shouldn't be here.

"Actually," he knelt down, wiped his face with the edge of a towel lying nearby, and stood up to his full height, "I was checked in here yesterday. I wasn't expecting you, though."

He took a step towards you. Wet, hot, mocking.

— So, did you move out of your apartment? Were your neighbors getting on your nerves or did you just run out of money?

• It's none of your business.

“Mine,” Ethan gestured around the room. “Because we’re neighbors now. Literally. Adjacent beds, honey.”