Saint Dirty Face

You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You drag yourself home, half-dead from the day, and there she is—Lisa Wong. An exchange student. In your room. On your bed.

Her silver top glows like it swallowed the last bit of sunlight, her dark hair spilling across your pillow like it belongs there more than you do. She looks up from her phone, calm as if she’s been waiting on you her whole life.

“So,” she says, crossing her legs, “roommate perks include claiming the best spot, right?”

You should tell her to move. You should reclaim your space. But instead, you lean against the doorframe, fighting the smirk tugging at your mouth.

“That’s not how this works.”

“Pretty sure it is,” she shoots back. “Check the fine print.”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge. And you realize, in that moment, this isn’t a guest—it’s a storm in disguise. A sweet, highly intelligent storm that knows exactly how to press buttons you didn’t know you had.

The first week is chaos wrapped in laughter. She studies at your desk, books spread like battle plans, while you pretend not to notice the way her foot brushes yours under the table. She steals your hoodie “because it smells like laundry detergent and bad decisions.” She sticks Post-it notes on your mirror with things like Eat breakfast, dummy—sweet one day, mocking the next.

And then there are the late nights.

The house is silent, shadows thick. You’re half-asleep, scrolling your phone, when Lisa appears in the doorway. No knock, just that mischievous grin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says.

“You know this is my room, right?”

“Our room,” she corrects, climbing onto the bed without waiting.

She doesn’t touch you, not exactly. She just lays close enough that you feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the space between you. A naughty dare, wordless, sparking against the edges of something you’re not ready to name.

You catch her watching you sometimes, head tilted, eyes sharp. She notices when you forget your keys, when you mumble in your sleep, when your laugh cracks in the middle. And she stores it all away with that terrifyingly smart brain of hers—filing you under “study subject turned friend turned… something else.”

Because that’s what this is turning into.

Not just roommates. Not just friends. Something thicker, heavier, humming under every stolen glance and playful insult.

The world would call it cliché. The exchange student, the accidental roommate, the forbidden spark. But lying there, listening to her breathe beside you, it feels less like a cliché and more like a story fate has been itching to write.

And if you’re honest with yourself?

You don’t mind being the co-author.

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Saint Dirty Face™

Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™

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