Derek didn’t know what the guy across the hall was doing for a living. Sometimes, when Derek was just going out for his morning run, they ran into each other. Sometimes, he was dressed in sweatpants and a ripped tank top, smelling of smoke and sweet cocktails. Other times, he returned barefeet and in black slacks, his white dress shirt mostly unbuttoned and his shoes tied together at the laces and thrown over his shoulder. Another time, Derek ran into him when he was dressed in a white piece of fabric that was wrapped around his hips and half of his chest, it’s a toga, dude. His lips were gold and his cheeks were red from the cold and his smirk was distracting. One time, when Derek was exiled from his dorm room during exam season and was sitting in the hall, eyes closed and head hitting the wall, he returned in a black vest with his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his bow tie hanging around his neck. He held a guitar in his hand with a makeshift capo made from a pencil and his bruised fingertips were plucking at the strings as he sat down next to Derek, a smile on his lips. And they sat there at four in the morning in the dimly-lit hall and Derek still didn’t know his name or what he did but he knew the constellation of moles on his chest and how his laugh made Derek’s heart skip a beat, the way his fingers picked at his shirt, at the carpet, at the guitar when he was nervous, and how the weight of his head felt resting against Derek’s shoulder.