Arm was sweating when he woke up. And not from the heat.
His hand was halfway under the sheets, pressed against skin that still pulsed from the dream. A dream that had started sweet a familiar laugh, a shared drink, a late-night study session and ended in hips grinding, breath catching, a voice whispering his name like it meant something.
"Mix…"
He shoved the sheets off with a groan.
This was getting stupid.
It had been years. High school had ended. Arm had graduated, partied, flirted with half his neighborhood and kissed more people than he could remember. But still, somehow, that name had a chokehold on him.
Mix.
Not even a real nickname. Just short for something no one ever cared to ask. Just a quiet kid, small and silent, who wore sweaters in the heat and sat alone during lunch, scribbling in a planner like the world depended on it.
They hadn't been friends. Not even close.
But Arm had seen him really seen him in those in-between moments. When he thought no one was looking. The way he tucked his hands in his sleeves when he was nervous. The way he paused before raising his hand in class, as if calculating the cost of being heard.
Arm never spoke to him. Not directly. Not like he should've.
But he laughed with the others. Once. Twice. Too many times.
FLASHBACK – Two Years Ago
"Ten bucks says he doesn't even blink," someone whispered.
Mix stood at his locker, headphones in, back straight, face tight. The hallway had cleared out except for the usual group of boys lingering before math.
"Mute Mix," someone hissed behind Arm.
Then it happened.
One of them slammed a hand against the locker beside Mix's head. Mix didn't flinch but his hands clenched.
Arm laughed. Louder than the rest.
He saw Mix's shoulders stiffen. And for a second… just a second… their eyes met.
That look had haunted him more than the prank ever did.
He hated remembering that part.
He hated even more that when Mix's name showed up on his Facebook feed last week a tagged photo, barely lit, someone's blurry dorm checklist his heart had skipped. Like a loser.
And now, apparently, his subconscious wanted to bring that crush back in 4K resolution, complete with panting, kissing, and skin-on-skin heat.
Arm ran a hand through his hair and swore.
This was a problem.
A sexy, silent, completely-out-of-nowhere problem.
But today was about fresh starts.
Today, he was moving into the university dorms.
New room. New year. New people.
No more lingering, unspoken crushes on ghosts from high school.
He rolled out of bed, grabbing his hoodie off the floor. His suitcase sat by the door, stuffed with more designer t-shirts than textbooks. He'd barely finished zipping it up when his phone buzzed.
Bave:
"Yo. Don't be late. Jack already claimed a bed and swears he's not moving. Also, tell Gun to stop flirting with Peat in public."
"Actually, no. Let them. We need drama."
Arm snorted.
At least some things were predictable.
Bave had been his best friend since they both got detention in Year 8. Her boyfriend, Jack, was the brooding skater type with bad posture and surprisingly good grades. Gun and Peat were the opposite affectionate, loud, annoyingly in love.
Arm liked being around them. It helped blur the lines of his own confusion.
He shot back a reply:
"Tell Jack room hierarchy is for cowards. I'll be there soon."
By the time he dragged his suitcase into the back of the car, he'd almost forgotten the dream.
Almost.
But as the buildings started to blur by the window, and the campus gates came into view, one name slipped through his mind again. Quiet. Dangerous.
Mix.
What were the chances?
What were the goddamn chances they'd ever even cross paths?
He laughed to himself.
No way.
Not at this school.
Not in his dorm.
Right?
---
Mix hated noise. That was the first truth of his university life. The second? Noise always found him.
He was content with being invisible. Quiet corners, tucked-in shirts, and schedule apps were his best friends.
He stood at the door of Room 209, one hand clutching his backpack strap, the other holding a suitcase with a broken wheel. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose as he stared in, unmoving. A second... two...
The left bed was already claimed. A hoodie lay tossed carelessly, a charger stretched across the floor, sneakers kicked half-under. Someone had even opened the window all the way. He still liked his air. He still enjoyed his life. Of course, he had a roommate.
He didn't sigh. He never gave people the satisfaction of hearing it. Instead, he moved to the right side clean, blank, silent. He placed his bag down. Claimed the desk. Opened a drawer.
Click.
The door behind him slammed shut.
Then he heard it
He froze.
That voice. No... that voice.
"Oh! What the hell!
Slowly, he turned his head.
There he was. Tan skin, smug face, oversized hoodie half-off one shoulder. Hair longer now, messy on purpose. A designer bag hanging from two careless fingers.
Arm.
Of all the people on campus, every possible student in this dorm... why did it have to be him?
"You must be kidding me," Arm said, stepping in like he owned the place. "Is this your room?"
No response. No blink.
"Ah. Still mute, huh?" Arm grinned, half-challenging. "You gonna just stand there?"
He turned back to the drawer and pulled it open again.
"That's my side," he said flatly.
"You only dropped one bag. That doesn't count."
"I already unpacked."
"Sure. Whatever helps you sleep, dude."
The rest of the day passed like a held breath.
He kept quiet. Arm didn't.
---
By evening, they'd barely spoken five sentences. He stayed at his desk, methodical as ever textbook open, margins annotated, pencils sharp as pins. Arm sprawled across his bed like a sitcom roommate, earbuds in, kicking his leg to some bass-heavy beat. The air between them buzzed with too much history and not enough apologies.
That's when he noticed it.
On his desk.
A snack-sized pack of Oreos. Still sealed.
He stared. He didn't buy Oreos. He didn't eat during the study. He glanced at the door. Still locked. Arm hadn't moved.
He didn't touch the cookies. Not yet.
The next morning? A mini chocolate bar. On his chair.
The day after? A pack of sour candy.
No notes. No explanation. No pattern except they were all his favorites.
He said nothing. But he started watching.
---
Arm hadn't expected to see him.
He'd expected some random guy, sure. It was the university, after all people were everywhere. But Mix?
That quiet little ghost from high school?
He hadn't expected him.
And damn, he hadn't expected that face to look the same and move him as usual....
Same thick glasses. Same silence. But his posture had changed. Still stiff, still cautious, but firmer now. Less prey. More wary animals. Smart enough to survive, but tired of the chase.
When He stepped into Room 209 and saw Mix standing there like a deer in headlights, something inside paused. A breath. A memory.
"He always wears headphones even when they're not plugged in." "Call him Mute Mix." "Bet he doesn't even know how to swear."
The memory made him flinch
So yeah, when he saw him again, he panicked. The only way he knew how: noise, teasing, and volume.
But Mix didn't flinch this time. He didn't run. He looked straight through him.
And that, God, that burned more than it should've.
The Oreos were a stupid idea. He didn't even think it through. Just saw Mix's empty desk one morning and left them there. Didn't plan on doing it again.
But when he saw Mix stop mid-step, stare at the pack like it might explode, then softly, gently, tuck it into his drawer…
Yeah. He did it again.
Different snacks. No pattern. No clue.
He didn't want thanks. He just… wanted to give him something.
Not even to fix anything. There was no fixing what they used to be.
But maybe this could be something.
Of course, Mix didn't say a word. Didn't throw the snacks out either. Didn't even look at him differently.
But he saw the pause. The way Mix's fingers lingered over wrappers. How he checked the desk before opening his book now.
And somehow, that made him feel even more like an idiot.
He laid back in bed that night, hoodie over his face, fists jammed into the sleeves.
This was the kind of trouble he should avoid. The soft kind. The kind with no name, no label, no warning signs. The kind that sneaks up on you with a quiet stare and Oreos and starts asking questions you aren't ready to answer.
---
The next evening, Mix reached for the drawer to tuck away the lemon drops.
His fingers brushed another hand.
Warm. Solid.
Intentional.
He flinched.
Arm didn't move.
For one long, silent second, their fingers stayed there. Pressed lightly, knuckle to knuckle.
Then Arm pulled back, too fast. His voice too loud. "Chill. Just candy."
Mix didn't say anything.
But his hand stayed clenched on the drawer.
And that night, Arm found something on his desk.
A note.
Just one word.
"Why?"