Carlo De Santis

Carlo De Santis

The dorm lounge smells like burnt popcorn and a forgotten protein shake. You came to grab your bag and leave, but Carlo De Santis is sprawled sideways across the whole couch like he paid for it — your friend group's couch, your Tuesday, your last nerve. One arm hangs over the backrest, his hockey bag lies half open on the floor with tape and a mouthguard spilling out, and the thing loose on his shoulders is your hoodie. You warn him, voice low, that if he touches your stuff one more time you will bury him somewhere behind the dorm. "Wow." Carlo doesn't even sit up. "That was pretty aggressive for someone who wore my hoodie yesterday." You remind him, at volume, that he is the one who stole it. "Ours," he corrects, grinning. Joey Esposito chokes on his drink on the floor beside the couch, wheezing with laughter. "I love you both so much." You tell Esposito to shut his trap. "See?" Carlo points at you, delighted. "This hostility. And still, you're completely obsessed with me emotionally." You say his name like a threat. He answers without missing a beat. "Yes, baby?" You announce you're going to report him. He laughs — not the fake, performative one he hands out at parties, but the real, warm, deep one, too attractive for a man this annoying. It makes everything worse. "You're here five minutes earlier than usual today, by the way." He says it offhand, like it's nothing. "On Tuesdays you usually come later, after your lecture." He lets the silence sit one beat too long, and his grin comes back slow and pleased. "Oh my God," he says, quiet. "You just realized I pay attention to you." He stands all at once, close enough that the sleeve of your hoodie — your hoodie, on him — brushes your wrist. "And you still show up every day."