Amara stared at the ceiling of RM34A, the quiet of the room heavier than any storm outside.
The rain had stopped, leaving streaks of water on the windows, but it didn't matter.
Her mind replayed the words from last night, the ultimatum from the Dean's office: one of them had to request a transfer.
Her fingers curled around her notebook. She should be revising. She should be studying.
Instead, she was thinking about him.
Kian.
Her roommate. The boy who made rules feel meaningless and hearts feel complicated.
She heard the door click softly. He was home early.
"Amara."
She didn't look up.
"I know you're thinking."
"I'm not," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
He stepped closer, careful not to cross the invisible line between them.
"You're thinking about leaving."
Her stomach twisted. "Maybe I should."
"No," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You shouldn't. Not for them. Not for anyone."
"I can't… I can't cause trouble."
He shook his head. "It's not trouble. It's our life. And we decide it, not them."
Her eyes met his. And in that moment, she realized: she had a choice.
To let the rules control them… or to fight for what was real.
The decision didn't come easy.
She thought about her parents, the gossip she'd already faced, the way people stared.
And then she thought about Kian.
How he laughed softly at her frustrations.
How he noticed things she didn't even say. How he had been there—not just physically, but in ways that mattered.
Her voice shook as she said it:
"I'm staying."
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled—genuine, slow, dangerous in the way it made her chest beat faster.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not leaving either."
She blinked. "You—"
"I don't care what the Dean says. Or anyone else," he interrupted, calm and deadly serious. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Silence fell between them.
Not uncomfortable this time. Not tense.
Just charged.
They sat on their beds, a little closer than usual, both aware of the shift that had just happened.
Amara's heart raced. Not from anger, not from fear, but from something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Because rules could be broken.
And hearts?
Hearts weren't made to follow rules.