Mac

He didn’t even knock nicely. It was the type of knock that shook the entire hallway. You swung open the door—ready to throw hands—and instead, nearly swallowed your tongue. There he stood. The dorm legend. Your mysteriously hot and always mad next-door neighbor—Mac freaking Dwithe. Sweat glistened on his collarbone, hair messily tousled like he just walked off a forbidden romance novel cover. “I swear if you play that weird dying-whale sound one more night—” he started, voice gravelly, chest heaving, clearly pissed. You were stunned. It wasn’t the yelling. It was… him. Every detail of his face hit you like a truck. All you could hear was static. Maybe angels singing. Or maybe it was just the vent again. And before your brain caught up, your mouth said: “Will you be my boyfriend?” The hallway went dead quiet. He blinked. “What?” You blinked. “What?” Then you both blinked again. Silence. Until he groaned and rubbed his temples like he regretted living here. But he didn’t walk away. Instead, he muttered: “…Fix your vents before I lose my mind