The Boy In Room 307

You Look Twelve

The silence inside the room stretched so thin it felt as if a single breath might snap it.

Jayden Cole stood motionless by his bed, his ice-cold gaze pinned directly onto Mia. His bare chest rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm. Up close, the dark surgical scar running along his left knee looked even more brutal than it had in the video clips—a jagged line cutting through pale skin, surrounded by tight compression tape.

Mia swallowed hard, forcing her throat to relax so her pitch wouldn't slip. She shifted her weight, hitching the strap of her heavy canvas duffel bag higher onto her shoulder to broaden her frame.

"I'm Max," she said, deepening her voice into the raspy register she had practiced. "Max Carter. Track and field."

Jayden didn't answer right away. He slowly folded his arms across his chest, his eyes trailing down her baggy jacket, over her narrow shoulders, and down to her slender wrists sticking out of her sleeves.

A sharp, mocking curve touched the corner of his lips. It wasn't a smile—it was pure, unfiltered contempt.

"Track?" Jayden scoffed, his deep voice carrying a sharp bite. "Did the university start recruiting middle schoolers?"

Mia felt a flush of heat prickle her neck, but she forced her expression to stay rigid. "I'm nineteen."

"You look twelve," Jayden replied flatly. He turned his back on her, walking toward his desk with a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his left leg. "Go back down to the warden’s office. Tell her they made a mistake. I don't take roommates."

"It's not a mistake," Mia insisted, stepping fully into the room and letting the heavy wooden door click shut behind her. "The housing assignment is final. My key opens this door, and my name is on the roster for Room 307."

Jayden stopped. He slowly turned his head, looking back at her over his broad shoulder. His dark eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

"I don't care what's on the roster," he said softly, his voice dropping into a low warning tone. "This isn't a nursery. I asked for a single occupancy room eight months ago."

"Well, you didn't get one," Mia countered, her heart hammering against her tight chest binder. She took another step toward the empty bed near the window, trying to sound far more confident than she felt. "Look, I'm not here to bother you. I just need a place to sleep, train, and keep my stuff."

Jayden let out a harsh, dry laugh. He picked up a roll of white athletic tape from his desk, snapped a long strip off with a sharp tug, and tossed the roll onto his mattress.

He walked over to the middle of the small room, bent down, and unrolled a thick line of white tape directly across the wooden floorboards, splitting the room cleanly down the center.

Mia watched him in utter disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," Jayden said, straightening up to his full height. He loomed over her, towering at least six inches taller, his shadow completely swallowing her small frame.

He pointed a long, blunt finger directly at her chest.

"Rule number one: That line stays right there. Your bed, your desk, your bag—everything stays on your side. You step over this line without my permission, and I'll throw your bag out the third-floor window."

Mia gritted her teeth, keeping her posture tall. "Fine. What else?"

"Rule number two," Jayden continued, stepping closer until she could smell the clean scent of mint and soap on his skin. "Don't talk to me. Don't ask me about my knee, don't ask me about basketball, and don't try to make small talk when you come in at night. We aren't friends. We aren't buddies. You're just a ghost sharing four walls until the housing board moves you out."

Mia felt her fingers curl into tight fists inside her jacket pockets. She wanted to yell at him. She wanted to pull out the photograph tucked inside her pocket and demand to know how the hero who had saved her life had turned into such an arrogant, bitter prick.

But she couldn't. If she lost her temper now, he'd kick her out before she could even unpack.

"And rule number three?" Mia asked through gritted teeth, her low voice raspy with suppressed frustration.

"Rule number three: Don't touch my stuff," Jayden growled. "Not my desk, not my clothes, not my water bottles. Touch anything on my side, and you'll regret it."

Mia stared at him, holding his icy gaze without flinching. "Is that all, or do you have a list of bedtime stories you want to read me too?"

Jayden’s eyes flashed with a flicker of genuine irritation. He stepped back, scoffing under his breath as he grabbed a dark gray hoodie from the back of his chair and pulled it over his head.

"You've got a big mouth for a kid who looks like a breeze could snap him in half," he muttered, reaching down to grab a clean white towel resting on the end of his bed.

Mia didn't respond. She walked over to her side of the white line, dropped her heavy duffel bag onto the bare mattress of the empty twin bed, and unzipped the top.

"I'm going to unpack," she said, keeping her back turned toward him as she reached inside to pull out a folded cotton shirt.

"Unpack later," Jayden said coldly from near the door.

Mia paused, turning her head slightly. "What?"

Jayden slung the white towel over his broad shoulder. He stood in the doorway, his hand resting on the brass handle, looking back at her with an unreadable expression.

"It's six o'clock," Jayden said, his tone entirely casual. "Orientation week rules. Mandatory group showers down the hall for all Building 3 residents before the 6:30 floor meeting. Grab your towel, Max. Time to go get cleaned up with the rest of the team."