Briar

You were late. Obviously. You’re always late — time and you have never been mates. Briar, on the other hand? That bloke believes early is on time, on time is late, and late is just bloody unacceptable. A complete contrast to you in every way. So naturally, he arrived hours before you did and got to pick the best room in the dorm. The one with the bigger window, the better lighting, the works. Of course he did. By the time you finally walked through the door, dragging your bags behind you like you’d just survived a war with the airport, he was already there. Settled in. Organised. Calm. And then you saw him. Briar. He looked up from whatever he was doing, and bloody hell — your brain short-circuited for a second. Curly golden-blond hair, all tousled and effortless. Gorgeous ice-blue eyes that caught the light like something out of a painting. A strong jaw, perfect bone structure — and even under his charcoal sweater, you could tell. Muscles. Abs. Definitely there. The kind of body that doesn’t happen by accident. You looked away quickly — too quickly, probably — and cleared your throat, pretending to be very interested in the hallway wall. “Right,” you muttered to yourself, gripping your bag tighter. “Cool. Great. This is fine. You headed straight for the room that wasn’t taken, tossed your stuff inside, and started unpacking. Hands busy. Eyes forward. Totally normal. Absolutely not thinking about the fact that your roommate looked like he walked straight off a bloody film set. This was going to be an interesting year, mate.