“Your father sounds like a dick.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Ryan’s eyes go wide behind his crooked glasses.
“He’s a colonel in the United States Army,” Ryan says quietly. “Weakness is not tolerated in our household.”
Shit. Way to go, Jackson.Insulting your roommate’s military dad within five minutes of meeting him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“No, you’re quite right.” Ryan takes a long drink of water. “He is, as you so eloquently put it, a dick.”
I bark out a surprised laugh. Ryan’s mouth twitches—the barest hint of a smile—before he schools his expression back into something neutral.
“I truly am sorry for the drama.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This isn’t how I intended to make a first impression.”
“Forget about it.” I drop onto my creaky bed across from him. “I’m Jackson, by the way. Jackson Monroe.”
“I know. Your name was on the housing assignment.” Ryan pushes his glasses up properly. “Quarterback for the BSU football team. Impressive statistics from your high school career. The sports section of the campus newspaper ran a piece about incoming athletes last week.”
“You read the sports section?”
“I read everything.” He says matter-of-factly. “Knowledge is power, as they say.”
I study my new roommate. He’s nothing like what I expected, and yet something about him is oddly endearing. The way he talks. The bow tie. The fact that he apparently researched me before we even met.
“So,” I say, stretching out on my bed, “astrophysics, huh? You gonna be one of those guys who discovers a new planet or something?”
Ryan’s face lights up. “That would be the dream,” he admits. “Though, realistically, my research interests lie more in the theoretical realm. Dark matter. The expansion of the universe. The fundamental questions of cosmic existence.”
I understand maybe a third of those words. But watching Ryan talk about space—his hands moving animatedly, his formal speech pattern loosening ever so slightly—makes me want to understand more.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say, and mean it.
Ryan blinks at me. “You think so?”
“Yeah, man. Most people just want to talk about sports or parties. You’re out here trying to understand the universe.”
Something shifts in Ryan’s expression. The tension in his shoulders eases, and for the first time since he stumbled through that door, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. The chaos of move-in day continues outside—doors slamming, parents yelling, that porn still playing three doors down—but our room is now in its own little bubble.
“There are, um.” Ryan clears his throat and fidgets with his bow tie. “There are more suitcases in the hallway. I couldn’t manage them all in one trip.”
“More?” I’m already on my feet.
“Seven suitcases total.” His face flushes again. “My father insisted I bring everything I might need. He’s very thorough.”
I head for the door without hesitation. Growing up with three younger brothers taught me a few things. How to break up fights. How to make grilled cheese at 2 a.m. when someone has a nightmare. But most importantly, how to spot when someone needs help but is too proud to ask for it.
Ryan Abrams has that look. The one my youngest brother gets when the older kids pick on him at school. The one that saysPlease don’t make me do this alone.
“Stay put,” I tell him. “Drink more water. I’ve got this.”
Five trips later, Ryan’s side of the room resembles a luggage store explosion. The guy wasn’t kidding about seven suitcases. My arms burn, but it’s the good kind of burn. The helpful kind.
“You really don’t have to help me unpack,” Ryan protests as I pop open the first suitcase. “I can manage perfectly well on my?—”
