Bennett Got His Girl

1 wrong room, right problem

The administrative office smells like printer ink, cheap coffee, and the kind of stress that clings to people who have been answering the same questions since eight in the morning, and I hover in the doorway for half a second longer than I should because stepping fully inside makes everything feel real in a way that the two-hour drive from Jefferson City somehow didn't.

There's a girl at the front desk typing like her life depends on it, acrylic nails tapping against the keyboard in a rhythm that sounds way too confident for how I feel right now, and when she glances up at me, I force my shoulders back and walk forward like I know exactly what I'm doing, like I belong here, like I didn't almost turn around in the parking lot ten minutes ago and tell my mom I changed my mind.

"Hi," I say, sliding my acceptance email across the counter on my phone, my voice steadier than I expect. "I'm here to pick up my dorm assignment and schedule."

She gives me a polite, practiced smile, the kind that probably doesn't reach her eyes anymore by week two of orientation chaos, and starts typing my name. "Everly Coleman, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, give me one second."

I nod, even though she's already looking back at the screen, and I take a breath that feels too shallow, my fingers curling around the strap of my bag as I try not to think about the fact that this is it, that this is the moment everything starts, or crashes, or turns into something I can't control, which is exactly the kind of thing I hate.

Psychology major, I remind myself, like that's supposed to ground me somehow, like studying the human mind means I have any actual control over my own.

She hands me a thin folder and a keycard a second later. "Dorm building is Hawthorne Hall, room 312, and your schedule's in there. Welcome."

"Thanks," I say, managing a small smile as I take it, even though my pulse is still doing something slightly unhinged in my chest.

I step out into the hallway and lean against the wall for a second, flipping the folder open, scanning the schedule first because that feels safer than thinking about the whole living situation, and my eyes catch on Intro to Psych, Statistics, something called Cognitive Processes that already sounds like it's going to ruin my life, and I let out a quiet breath that almost feels like relief because at least this part makes sense.

Classes I can handle.

People are... debatable.

The walk to Hawthorne Hall is longer than I expect, the campus stretching out in that polished, slightly intimidating way where everything looks like it belongs in a brochure, and there are groups of people already laughing together like they've known each other for years, which feels deeply unfair considering it's literally the first day.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and keep moving, telling myself that I'll figure it out, that I always do, even if it takes longer than I'd like, even if I hate every second of the not-knowing.

Hawthorne Hall comes into view, tall and brick and annoyingly official-looking, and I push through the doors, the cool air hitting my skin as I step inside and glance around for the elevator, following the small crowd heading toward it like I'm just another person who has done this a hundred times before.

Room 312.

Third floor.

You've got this.

The hallway is quiet when I step out, lined with identical doors that all look the same in a way that makes me double-check the number twice just to be sure I'm not about to walk into someone else's life by accident, which would honestly be very on-brand for today.

Okay.

I shift the folder under my arm, swipe the keycard, and push the door open.

And then I stop.

Because there's a guy inside.

Not just a guy in the vague, maybe he's visiting kind of way, but a fully settled in, duffel bag on the bed, standing in the middle of the room like he owns it kind of guy, and he looks up at the exact same moment I walk in, his expression flickering from neutral to confused in about half a second.

We just stare at each other.

There's a beat where my brain refuses to process what I'm seeing, like it's buffering, like it needs a second to catch up, and then it finally lands on the only logical conclusion.

"Oh," I say slowly, my hand still on the door. "I think I'm in the wrong room."

He frowns, glancing around like maybe another girl is going to magically appear and make this make sense, then back at me. "I was just about to say the same thing."

I blink. "No, I'm pretty sure this is mine," I say, holding up the folder like evidence. "Room 312."

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair, which only makes it look more intentionally messy in a way that feels unfair. "Same."

We both look at the number on the door like it might change if we stare hard enough.

It doesn't.

I step fully inside, letting the door close behind me, because standing halfway in the hallway isn't helping anything, and I take in the room quickly, the two beds, the desks, the fact that one side is already claimed with a hoodie thrown over the chair and a pair of shoes kicked off near the bed.

"Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice calm even though my brain is starting to spiral slightly. "So either they double-booked the room, or-"

"Or," he cuts in, crossing his arms, "you're in a male dorm."

I stare at him.

He raises an eyebrow like that settles it.

"This is a male dormitory," he adds, slower this time, like I didn't hear him the first time, which-rude.

I let out a short, incredulous laugh because that is absolutely not the conclusion we're jumping to right now. "No, it's not."

"It is," he says, way too confident for someone who is clearly standing in the exact same confusing situation as me.

I flip the folder open again, scanning it like maybe I missed something, like there's a giant bold line that says Congratulations, you've accidentally enrolled in chaos, but it just says Hawthorne Hall, room 312, exactly the same as before.

I look back up at him. "This says Hawthorne."

"Yeah," he says. "Hawthorne is a male dorm."

"According to who?"

"According to the fact that I've been told that multiple times in the last two hours," he says, gesturing vaguely around the room like the walls themselves are backing him up.

I exhale, pressing my lips together as I try to decide whether this is some kind of weird joke or if the universe just decided to test my patience on day one, and I take a step further into the room, dropping my bag onto the empty bed because at this point, committing to the situation feels easier than pretending it's not happening.

"Okay," I say, meeting his eyes. "Then explain why I have a keycard that works."

He opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it again.

"Yeah," I add, a little sharper than before, because if I'm going down, I'm not going down quietly. "Exactly."

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, shaking his head. "This is-" He stops, glancing at me again like he's reassessing the entire situation. "This is messed up."

"Great," I mutter. "Love that for me."

There's a brief silence, the kind that isn't awkward yet but is definitely heading there, and I cross my arms, trying to ignore the fact that this is not how I pictured my first five minutes in my dorm going.

"So," I say finally, because someone has to move this forward. "What now?"

He looks at me, then at the door, then back at me again, and there's something almost amused flickering in his expression now, like he's starting to see the humor in this in a way that I am not emotionally ready for.

"I guess," he says slowly, "we figure out which one of us they messed up."

I huff out a quiet laugh despite myself, because yeah, that's the only option, and I tilt my head slightly, studying him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the easy confidence, the way he doesn't seem nearly as panicked as I feel.

"Or," I say, a hint of sarcasm slipping through, "we just accept our fate and become a very confusing roommate situation."

He smirks, quick and sharp. "I'm sure the housing office would love that."

"Honestly, at this point, I don't care what they love."

That pulls a real laugh out of him, low and unexpected, and something about it loosens the tight knot in my chest just a little, like maybe this isn't a complete disaster, like maybe it's just... a slightly chaotic start.

Still, I grab my folder again, because as entertaining as this is, I'm not living in a male dorm out of sheer stubbornness.

"Come on," I say, nodding toward the door. "We're fixing this."

He pushes off the desk, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket, still looking faintly amused. "Yeah," he says. "We are."

And as we step out into the hallway together, I can't help thinking that if this is how day one starts, then whatever comes next is probably not going to be simple.

Which, for some reason, doesn't feel as terrifying as it should.