The Dorm Room Knock

By Jamie F. Bell

William and Simeon, once inseparable, navigate the brittle silence of a university autumn, their unspoken feelings fracturing a friendship just as Christmas looms.

“Another oat milk latte? Extra shot?”

Simeon’s voice. It wasn’t just low; it was a physical thing, a vibration that seemed to travel from the worn floorboards, up the leg of my chair, and settle deep in my bones. It cut through the high-pitched, frantic scream of the milk steamer and the rhythmic, solid *thump-thump-thump* of the barista tamping espresso grounds.

The sound of his voice, right there, behind my ear, was so unexpected, so impossibly close, that my body reacted before my brain did. I was mid-sip, and the hot coffee sloshed, a stupidly hot line of liquid searing a path down the thick ceramic of the mug and directly onto my fingers.

“Shit.”

The curse was a ghost of a sound, swallowed by the café’s din. My hand jerked back, a violent, traitorous spasm that completely shattered the ‘I don’t give a fuck’ vibe I’d been meticulously curating for three weeks. The performance was over. He was here. He was closer than I’d mentally prepared for. Way too close. His smell hit me like a wave, erasing everything else. It wasn’t just the ambient coffee shop smells of burnt sugar and roasted beans. It was *him*. The clean, almost sterile scent of his skin. It was a smell I knew better than my own. I squeezed my eyes shut for a half-second, a flinch against the sudden, overwhelming sensory memory of burying my face in his hoodie.

“What?” I managed. My voice was a thin, reedy thing. Not mine. It cracked on the single syllable. I forced myself to look up, my neck stiff. It was a mistake. A catastrophic, world-tilting mistake. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, were fixed on me. They always had that unnerving stillness, like the surface of a deep lake, but now the edges looked… frayed. Tired. The skin underneath was bruised with faint, purplish shadows I’d never seen on him before. My breath snagged in my throat, a painful little hitch.

I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, a tell-tale burn that was already making the tips of my ears feel like they were on fire. My entire body felt like an exposed nerve.

“Just asking,” he said, slower this time, drawing the words out. One corner of his mouth tilted up, but it wasn't a real smile. It was that sharp, sardonic thing he did when he was cornering someone in an argument, a look that said *I see right through you*. It made my stomach twist into a cold, hard knot. “If that’s still your order.”

He leaned his hip against the counter, a casual pose that was anything but. The movement was calculated, designed to close the space, to test my boundaries. His shoulders looked broader under his faded, charcoal-grey university hoodie. I called it *my* hoodie—the one he’d lent me the night I dumped half a cup of coffee down my front while pulling an all-nighter. I hadn’t wanted to give it back. But now he was wearing it. Not all the time, but enough. A silent, constant reminder. A claim.

“It is.” I gripped my mug, my knuckles turning white. The ceramic was still painfully hot, a grounding sensation against the numb shock spreading through my limbs. “Why?”

“No reason.” He straightened, pushing off the counter with a quiet energy that seemed to make the very air around him shift. He was tall, lanky but solid, and had this way of moving that was always deliberate, never clumsy. He glanced at the girl waiting behind me in line, a quick, dismissive nod that didn't even seem to register her, then his eyes were back on me, a magnetic, inescapable pull. “Just wondered if anything had changed.”

My throat felt like I’d swallowed sand. He wasn’t talking about coffee. We both knew he wasn’t. My gaze dropped, snagging on the worn scuff on the toe of his left boot. A familiar, beat-up Doc Marten. I could picture the exact sound it made on the pavement. God, this was pathetic. Every time we saw each other since the fight, it was this: a minefield of things we weren’t saying, a brutal game of seeing who would flinch first. I always flinched first. I felt myself shrink, pulling my shoulders in, a physical reflex I hated. He watched me do it, his expression unreadable, and the air between us felt thick, buzzing like a busted fluorescent light. It smelled like burning copper, like static before a storm.

“Nothing’s changed,” I said. Too fast. Too defensive. I kept my eyes locked on a stray coffee bean glued to the counter by a sticky drop of syrup. “I have… I have to go. Class.”

The legs of my chair scraped against the tile with a sound that was way too loud, a screech of protest that made a couple of people at the next table look up. I didn’t care. I needed air that wasn’t 90% Simeon, 10% espresso. Air that didn’t feel haunted by the ghost of his hand on my arm, of his laugh right before everything went to shit. I fumbled with my bag, the strap catching on the back of the chair before digging into my shoulder. I walked past him. I gave him a wide berth, a whole solar system of space, but I could almost feel the heat radiating off his body as if he were a small sun. I felt his eyes on my back, a physical pressure, a weight between my shoulder blades, all the way until the little bell on the door chimed, announcing my escape.

The December wind was a slap in the face, carrying the smell of city bus exhaust. It should have felt good, a shock to the system, but the cold just settled deep in my chest, a familiar ache that had been squatting there for weeks. It wasn't the weather. It was him. The silence between us was so much louder than our fight had been.

Back in my dorm, the silence was different. Empty. The overhead light hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow on the peeling paint and the stack of unread textbooks. I threw my bag on the desk. The books slid out, one knocking over a half-empty can of Coke. A sticky brown fizz spread across a stack of notes. I just stared at it. My reflection in the dark window was a pale, pissed-off looking stranger. Since when did my mouth have that tight, pinched look?

The fight. It wasn’t a neat memory. It was a chaotic slideshow of bullshit, sharp fragments that still drew blood. His voice, dangerously low. “Is that what this is to you, Will? Just… convenient?” The words felt like a physical punch, knocking the air from my lungs. I remember the exact texture of the blanket I was clutching, the wool rough against my sweating palms. My own stupid, panicked reply, the words tumbling out, about how we were just friends, how it was all no-expectations, no-pressure. I’d been so fucking scared. Scared of the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, of the way my entire body went on high alert when he simply sat next to me in the library. Scared of what it meant. So I’d pushed. Hard. And he’d just… walked out. The click of the door latch shutting behind him was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. It echoed in the sudden, crushing silence.

Now, we were ghosts to each other. I saw him in the dining hall, hunched over a plate of whatever mystery meat they were serving, looking exhausted. I saw him in the library, his long fingers carding through his dark, messy hair as he stared at a textbook, his focus a million miles away. And every time, there was this invisible wall. My fear and his pride. A great fucking combination.

I missed his stupid, low-key banter. I missed the way he’d just show up with an extra coffee because he knew I’d been up all night writing a paper.

I missed him.

The thought was a physical pang, sharp and deep, right under my ribs, making me gasp. With Christmas break just a days away, the loneliness felt like it was getting a running start, like a runner training for a marathon.

My phone screen lit up, a harsh blue light in the dim room. A text from Benji.

**Benji:** *History lecture was brutal. U coming to the winter welcome thing tonight? They got free pizza.*

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the headboard. A mandatory fun, dorm-sponsored party was the last place I wanted to be. An entire room full of forced cheerfulness.

**Me:** *prolly not. got a paper.*

**Benji:** *Liar. Sim’s helping set up. He asked if you were coming.*

My fingers froze over the screen. A cold dread mixed with a sickening, traitorous flutter of hope.

**Benji:** *Don’t be a dick. You two are acting like fucking morons. It’s almost break. Just talk to him. He looks like someone strangled his puppy.*

The puppy comment hit harder than I wanted it to. Simeon, the guy who was always so steady, so unshakable, looking wrecked. Because of me.

*Fuck.*

Which is how I ended up here, hours later, standing outside the common room door. The muffled thump of some generic pop song was vibrating through the cheap wood, a steady, anxious pulse against the palm I had pressed flat against the door. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a bag of rocks. I could just go back to my room. Pretend I never saw the text. But Benji’s words, *he asked if you were coming,* kept replaying in my head.

I shoved the door open before I could chicken out.

The room was a tacky Christmas explosion. Garish fairy lights were strung everywhere, blinking out of sync, like a chaotic assault on my eyes. Cheap tinsel was draped over the busted TV, shimmering under the fluorescent lights. In the corner was a huge, lopsided fake tree. And then there was Simeon.

He was at the far end of the room, wrestling with a string of lights tangled around a plastic reindeer that was at least three feet tall. He hadn’t seen me. His brow was furrowed, a stray piece of dark hair falling over his forehead. He was biting his lower lip, a habit he had when he was deeply focused. He looked… concentrated. And tired. God, he looked so damn tired.

My feet moved before my brain could stop them, carrying me across the worn linoleum floor. My hands felt cold and clammy. Each step felt both too loud and completely silent.

“Need a hand?” My voice was too loud, cracking slightly on the last word.

He jumped, a full-body jolt, spinning around. Our eyes met across the sparkly chaos. His face went blank for a second—that guarded mask snapping back into place—but I saw it. In the split second before the walls went up, I saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Hope? It was gone before I could be sure.

“Thought you had a paper to write,” he said. His voice was flat, but the tension was back, a taut wire stretched between us, humming with everything unsaid.

“Ben ratted me out,” I admitted, my gaze dropping to the tangled mess of wires in his hands. It was easier than looking at his face. “Said I was being a moron. A dick.”

A small, almost imperceptible huff of air escaped him. “He’s not wrong.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was just a statement of fact, tinged with a bitterness that still stung. I wanted to defend myself, to say something, anything, but the words were a logjam in my throat.

“No,” I finally managed, shaking my head. “He’s not.” I looked up, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I… I saw you. In the coffee shop. You looked…” I trailed off, searching for the right word. Wounded. Empty. The word ‘tired’ felt too small. “You looked like you could use some help with that reindeer.” It was weak, a terrible joke, but it was all I had.

A beat of silence. He stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face. Then, a slow, hesitant smile touched the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the easy smiles we used to share. It didn’t reach his eyes, not fully, but it was there. And it almost undid me. “Right,” he said, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Well, if you’re offering, be my guest. It's like this thing has a vendetta.”

He gestured to the reindeer, its plastic antlers covered with a hopeless tangle of lights. I reached for the wire, my fingers clumsy. Our hands brushed. It wasn't a lingering touch, not even a full second of contact. Just the side of his index finger against the back of my knuckles. I could feel the individual hairs on my skin stand up. I pulled my hand back instinctively, a stupid, juvenile reaction, as my heart hammered against my ribs.

He watched my reaction, a subtle shift in his expression. His composure, usually so absolute, seemed to waver. He didn’t comment on my flinch, though. But he noticed. He just sighed, a long, weary sound, and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, Will,” he started, his voice softer now, stripped of its earlier bite. “About that night…”

My heart hammered harder. This was it. The conversation I’d dreaded and longed for. I braced myself.

“I know,” I said quickly, cutting him off, my voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was… thoughtless. And I didn’t mean it like that. Not really.” The admission felt like tearing off a bandage, raw and painful and terrifyingly freeing.

He stepped closer. The space between us vanished. I could feel his warmth, the subtle sway of the air around him as he moved. “You said we were just friends,” he murmured, his gaze holding mine, refusing to let me look away. “That there were no expectations. Was that true?” His voice was quiet, almost a plea, and it broke something open inside me. I saw the vulnerability in his eyes then, the deep well of hurt I’d caused, and it twisted in my gut like a knife.

I swallowed, hard. My eyes stung. “No,” I whispered, the single word a profound confession, a surrender. “No, it wasn’t true. Not for me. Not really. I was… scared.” My breath caught in a sob I barely managed to choke back. “I’m still scared.” I looked away, my vision blurring, fixing on the shimmering tinsel on the tree, anything to avoid the full weight of his gaze. Shame, hot and sharp, prickled behind my eyes. I felt exposed, raw, like every one of my nerve endings was on fire.

“Scared of what?” he asked, his voice softer still, closer. His hand reached out, hovering for a moment in the space between us, a silent question. Then it settled gently on my arm, just above the elbow. It wasn’t a grab, not a pull. It was a grounding, a quiet reassurance. His touch was warm, firm. My entire body tensed for a second, then, inexplicably, relaxed into his touch. The feel of his fingers seeped through my shirt, anchoring me in the dizzying chaos of the room and my own head.

I took a shaky breath, the words tumbling out in a rush, imperfect and messy. “Of… of everything. Of feeling like this. Of… of losing what we had, if we tried to make it something else. Of not being… enough.” My voice cracked on the last word. It was the truth, the ugly, fearful truth I’d kept hidden under layers of sarcasm and deflection. I finally looked at him, tears welling, blurring his face into a soft shape in the blinking lights. His expression was soft, understanding, a profound gentleness I hadn't seen in weeks.

“Will,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his thumb stroking my arm in a slow, comforting rhythm that sent shivers down my spine. “You are more than enough to me. You’re… everything.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. His eyes searched mine, deep and searching, and for a long moment, we simply stood there, surrounded by the cheesy Christmas decorations, the low thrum of music, and the electric tension of our confessions. All the unspoken desires, the hurt, the longing, condensed into the space between our bodies. This felt like a beginning. Or an ending. I couldn't tell which.

A sudden burst of louder music from the speakers made me jump, the spell shattering like glass. A group of students walked in, laughing loudly, their voices cutting through the fragile intimacy we’d built. I pulled my arm back from his touch, the loss of his warmth immediate and sharp. A fresh wave of self-consciousness washed over me. The raw honesty, suddenly exposed to the light of the common room, felt overwhelming and dangerous. I couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. The moment, potent and fragile, had passed.

“I should… help with the food,” I mumbled, turning away, my hand going to my hair, a nervous, jerky habit. “They probably need help in the kitchen.” I didn’t wait for a response, just fled towards the back room, leaving him standing by the tangled reindeer. The silence was back, but this time, it felt different. Thinner. More fragile, like it could break at any moment. I spent the rest of the evening avoiding eye contact, helping with the snacks, making small talk with people I barely knew. As the common room filled up, the music got louder, and the hope that had flared so brightly in me began to dim, replaced by the familiar ache of uncertainty.

Later, much later, I was back in my dorm room. The party had wound down, the hallway quiet again except for the distant slam of a door. I stripped off my clothes, the festive cheer of the common room feeling like a distant, painful dream. The words Simeon had spoken, *You’re everything*, echoed in my head, a beautiful, terrifying promise. Had I ruined it? Had I pulled back too soon, let my fear win again? The thought of Christmas, of going home, of the space stretching between us until January, felt unbearable. I crawled into bed, the cold sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of his touch still lingering on my arm, a phantom sensation.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the light from the streetlamp outside casting long, familiar shadows across my desk. The university felt hollow, quiet, like it was already holding its breath for the holidays. I closed my eyes, trying to chase away the image of Sim’s wounded eyes, then his tender ones. The confusion, the hope, the fear, all swirling together in a dizzying vortex. This was it. The precipice. The end of the year, the heart of winter, and the vast, unknown expanse of what came next.

Then, a soft, tentative rap at my door.

Not loud, not urgent. Just… a knock. Quiet. Deliberate. My breath caught in my throat. My heart leaped, a wild, hopeful thing, then slammed against my ribs with an almost painful force. It could be Benji, forgetting something. It could be no one. It could be… him. My stomach dropped. I sat up in bed, my entire body rigid, listening, every nerve ending straining to hear through the wood of the door.

The silence in the hallway stretched, thick and pregnant with possibility. One knock. And then another, even softer, as if testing the air, as if the person on the other side was just as terrified as I was. As if they were waiting for an answer.