Roommates With Benefits [BL]

I was deep into my textbook when my phone buzzed loudly against the desk.

The vibration was just enough to break my concentration, I had been so absorbed in the textbook that even a small sound felt way too loud. Around me, the classroom buzzed with the familiar laziness of a Monday morning, where people were still deciding whether to engage fully in the moment. Students chatted, waiting for Professor Harrison to walk in.

I flipped my phone over.

Jeremy 🐶

The dog emoji still made me grin every time. I added it after our first tutoring session because Jeremy Abernathy had this golden retriever-like energy, all excited and ready to go, like he’d just been told it was time for a car ride, super enthusiastic and easily delighted, but also a little hard to steer away from his excitement.

It was still surprising to see that energy coming from someone who sported cream cable-knit sweaters and drove a fancy Mercedes.

Jeremy🐶: Oliver!!

Jeremy🐶: Please tell me you’re free today.

I couldn’t help but smile before even deciding.

Me: Depends.

The three dots popped up before I had even finished locking my screen.

Jeremy😈: Don’t scare me like that.

Jeremy🐶: I have another psychology quiz next week.

Jeremy🐶: I’m already grieving my GPA. Send flowers.

I snorted, and the girl next to me glanced over, sizing up the situation before returning to her notes without a word.

Me: I have class until noon.

Me: Free after that.

Jeremy🐶: YES.

Jeremy🐶: What time exactly?

Me: Around 12:15.

Jeremy🐶: Perfect.

Jeremy🐶: I’ll pick you up.

I frowned at the screen.

Me: You don’t have to.

Jeremy🐶: Too late.

Jeremy🐶: See you then, Professor Oliver.

The conversation wrapped up on his terms, which was pretty typical for Jeremy. I tucked my phone into my pocket just as Professor Harrison strolled in, weighed down by a stack of books that made everyone in the room tense about their own note-taking abilities.

An hour and forty minutes later, my wrist was in full protest.

Professor Harrison had turned what was meant to be a focused lecture into a marathon that required every pen I had and both sides of three sheets of paper.

Stepping out of the psychology building, I felt that specific relief of someone freed from an exam they hadn’t realized they were in, stretching my shoulder and letting the cool breeze wash over me.

Students drifted across the sidewalks in relaxed, unhurried groups. The sky was clear. My wrist was sore. I knew I’d keep maybe sixty percent of what I’d just scribbled down, which was fine by me.

”Oliver!”

I turned.

There was Jeremy beside a black Mercedes parked at the curb, not the understated kind that whispers wealth but the kind that’s just confident in what it is. He waved both arms above his head like someone trying to hail a rescue helicopter.

Heads turned to look. Quite a few.

I walked over, with a raised eyebrow. ”Jeremy, you’re drawing a crowd.”

”I know,” he said, dropping his arms, clearly satisfied. ”Means you found me.”

”You were impossible to miss.”

”Then the system worked.”

He looked just like I’d begun to expect cream knit sweater over a white shirt, tailored trousers, loafers that probably cost more than I spent on food in a month, and dirty blond hair that kept its effortless style despite the breeze.

He had that vibe of someone whose wealth was old enough to just wear casually, as if it was incorporated into his very being and required no proof.

Kinda like Damien...

Before I could even reach for the car handle, Jeremy had dashed around to the passenger side and opened the door.

I stopped. ”...What are you doing?”

”Holding the door.”

”I can see that.”

”So...” He waved at the open door with a smile that said he genuinely found my confusion weird. ”...get in?”

I looked at him. ”I have functioning hands.”

”I know.”

”So why are you—”

”It’s polite?” He said it like that was a straightforward answer, genuinely puzzled as to why I was confused.

I stood there a moment, trying to process this. ”...Thanks.”

”You’re welcome.”

I climbed in, still bemused, and he briskly rounded the car to the driver’s side.

The interior was just as fancy as the outside, smelling of new leather, with enough buttons on the dashboard to impress even the most serious car enthusiast. My backpack on the floor looked like a tourist who had taken a wrong turn.

Jeremy started the engine smoothly.

”Where are we studying?”

”You said I could choose this time.”

”I did.”

”Library.”

”Perfect.” He pulled out from the curb with the calmness of someone who’d never been in a hurry about anything. He checked his mirrors, used his turn signal, and when a pedestrian stepped into the crosswalk at the wrong moment, he slowed, waited, and waved them across, showing no visible irritation.

I watched for a moment. ”You’re weird.”

”Thank you.”

”I mean it as an observation. I expected road rage.”

”I do experience road rage.”

”You do?”

”Internally. There’s a whole dialogue happening in my head.”

The library was quieter than usual, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows, bathing the psychology section in a warm glow that made studying almost feel nice.

I cleared off a table, took out my backpack, and organized my materials with the methodical focus of someone who knew what they were doing.

Jeremy plopped down in the chair across from me like he was accepting a sentence. ”I’ve mentally prepared myself.”

”For what?”

”Whatever you’re about to throw at me academically.”

I pulled one textbook out of my bag, then another, then another...then three more.

Jeremy’s face went through several expressions, surprise, realization, the quiet of someone tallying things up. ”...W–why are there so many?”

”They’re references.”

”There are like six books.”

”Eight, actually.”

He eyed the pile with something like grief. ”I’ve changed my mind about education entirely.”

”You haven’t.”

”I want to become a shepherd.”

”Jeremy.”

He sighed like he was putting on a show of suffering for an audience. ”...Fine.”

For the next forty minutes, I laid out concepts of memory processing and cognitive bias frameworks as clearly as I could.

I sketched diagrams, referred to Chapters, and built the structure piece by piece in a way I had learned worked for people whose brains didn’t process information like mine did.

Midway through rambling about retrieval cues and context-dependent memory, I noticed it was eerily quiet.

I looked up, Jeremy was resting his chin on his hand, his pen untouched, giving me a smile that said he was genuinely enjoying the show.

Not taking notes. Not flipping through the textbook. Not even pretending.

”...Jeremy.”

”Huh?”

”Were you following any of that?”

”Absolutely.”

”You were?”

”Every word.”

I glanced at the clean page in front of him. ”Then what are the three stages we just covered?”

He opened his mouth confidently, like he was ready to recite the material.

Then he closed it.

The confidence drained away.

”...The three...”

He frowned at the table.

”...Important ones?”

I exhaled slowly. ”Jeremy.”

”I know.”

”This is your quiz next week.”

”I was listening!”

”You were looking at me while I talked. Those are related but not the same thing.”

”I listened emotionally.”

”What the fuck does that even mean?”