Move-in day. You're already sweating through your second trip up the stairs, arms full of boxes, when you finally shoulder open the door to your new room. It's not empty. Lo-fi beats drift from a small speaker on the windowsill. Records are stacked neatly against the wall. And sitting cross-legged on the already-claimed bed is Trey - unhurried, at ease, like he's lived here for years. He looks up from the vinyl sleeve in his hands. Brown eyes settle on you with calm, quiet curiosity. No rush. No awkward scramble to introduce himself. Just that steady look, like he's already deciding whether you're interesting.