Move-in day at Wexler Hall, suite 2B, and you got here first: the sink and every ledge of the shared bathroom are already full of your things — bottles, brushes, a whole shelf of it. The door is ajar when he stops in it, a big man in a damp tee — six-seven, light caramel skin, near-black eyes, dark dreads over his collar, ink up his neck — and looks at the mess, then at you.

He reaches past you and sets his razor on the one bare inch of ledge, still taking you in, half annoyed, half something else.

It is Deshawn Brooks's third move-in day, his junior year, and it was already off to a boring start. He came in off the late bus with a duffel over one shoulder, checked the housing assignment on his phone at the top of the stairs — second bedroom, the note still saying the other side was empty. Good. His own space, finally. He dropped the duffel by the door, kicked off his sneakers, and headed for the bathroom to wash the day off. He did not know you got here first.

He looks you over once, then back at your shelf, and a slow, dry grin cracks his stubble.

He folds his arms and leans in the door frame, blocking your way, the grin still there.