Chapter Text
No one tells you the slowest way to fall for someone is to live like you're not.
Lee Sa-young was straight.
So straight, in fact, that he'd never questioned it. Not once. Not even during that confusing phase in high school when everyone else seemed to be having identity crises.
He liked women, had dated them, kissed them, fumbled around with them in dark bedrooms and sometimes broad daylight. He knew how to flirt (badly), which side of the bed to take, and could recite every red flag his exes had accused him of with surgical precision. He wasn't emotionally unavailable; he just didn't see the point in overcomplicating things.
Dating, to him, was like assembling IKEA furniture. It came with vague instructions, missing pieces, and if you were lucky, something functional at the end.
Love? That was probably overrated anyway.
Besides, he had bigger problems. His current roommate was moving out, on good terms, thankfully, but with such short notice that Sa-young was suddenly, painfully aware of how expensive rent in Seoul had become.
"Just ask Min-gi," Won-woo suggested one night over fried chicken and soju. "He knows everyone. Probably has five starving artists and two cult members looking for housing right now."
"Why would I want a cult member in my apartment?"
Won-woo shrugged. "Makes life interesting."
"I'm trying to pay bills, not get sacrificed to whatever deity they're into this week."
"Your loss."
The next day, Sa-young found himself texting Min-gi anyway.
Need a roommate. Not a cultist. Preferably human. You know anyone?
The reply came back almost instantly:
Yeah actually. Friend of mine. Chill. Clean. Likes plants. Kinda annoying. Gay.
Sa-young stared at the screen.
So what?
Just saying. In case you're weird about that.
He rolled his eyes.
I'm not twelve. Give him my number.
That's how he ended up sitting in a coffee shop on Thursday afternoon, waiting for someone named Cha Eui-jae.
He didn't know what to expect. Some awkward college kid? A guy with twelve piercings and "no labels" in his bio?
What he got was someone who looked like he'd wandered out of a magazine spread about effortlessly cool people.
Eui-jae strolled in wearing an oversized cream hoodie, artfully ripped jeans, and a smile that could probably convince airport security to let him through without ID. His dark hair was perfectly messy, and there was something absurdly relaxed about the way he moved, like he'd already decided the world wasn't that serious and dared anyone to argue.
"Lee Sa-young?" he asked, eyes bright, voice warm and casual.
"Yeah." Sa-young stood up. "You're..."
"Eui-jae. Sorry I'm late, I stopped to pet a dog." He sat down like he owned the place, pulling out his phone. "So. Roommates?"
Sa-young hesitated. "You're friends with Min-gi?"
"God, no. I just tolerate him for his Netflix password."
Sa-young snorted despite himself. One point to the stranger.
They covered the basics: work schedules, noise levels, cooking habits. Eui-jae liked keeping windows open, preferred natural light, and admitted to a "mild plant obsession" but promised not to turn the apartment into a greenhouse. He cooked, cleaned, and claimed to own a vacuum that "sucks the soul out of dust bunnies."
"Do you smoke?" Sa-young asked.
"Nope."
"Pets?"
"None, but I dog-sit for a friend sometimes. She has this grumpy chihuahua that hates men, so you'll fit right in."
"Should I be worried?"
"Only if your masculinity is fragile."
Sa-young found himself almost smiling. Almost.
They went through the usual questions, and then, casually Eui-jae added, "Also, I'm gay. You okay with that?"
It wasn't a test. He said it like he was checking the weather.
Sa-young blinked. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
"You'd be surprised."
"Well, I'm not."
And that was it. No weird tension, no awkward silence. Just an easy nod and shared understanding that neither of them had time for drama.
After they shook hands and agreed he'd move in next week, Sa-young walked home feeling... fine.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Someone more flamboyant? More guarded? Hell, maybe just more stereotypically something, whatever that meant. Now he just felt stupid for even thinking about it.
Eui-jae had been chill. Friendly. Easy to talk to.
Almost too easy.
Not that it mattered. He was just a roommate. Someone to split rent with. Nothing more.
And if something about his smile lingered in Sa-young's mind for the rest of the day... Well, that didn't mean anything.
Not really.
The first week of living together went smoother than Sa-young expected.
The second week was suspiciously easy.
By the third, he was starting to think he'd accidentally won the roommate lottery.
Cha Eui-jae didn't just function, he thrived. He colour-coded the spice rack, opened curtains every morning while mumbling about "vitamin D therapy," and left Post-it notes on leftovers that said things like "Eat me if I'll haunt your sleep" or "I will haunt you if you waste me."
He danced while vacuuming. Hummed while brushing his teeth. Talked to his plants like they were sentient.
It was... a lot.
But somehow, it never felt like too much.
A few nights after Eui-jae officially moved in, they sat cross-legged on the living room floor with beers, takeout, and a shared Google Doc open on Sa-young's laptop titled:
Roommate Constitution (We Are Not Getting Murdered, Thanks)
It started practical:
- Split groceries unless clearly labelled
- Cleaning rotation alternates weekly
- Toilet paper emergency = community crisis
Then devolved:
- No cults
- No musical instruments past midnight (unless it's actually good)
- No judgment if either party cries during Pixar movies
And finally, the big one:
- Overnight guests allowed with heads-up. If things get loud, play music or suffer in silence.
"I'm just saying," Eui-jae argued, mouth full of tteokbokki, "if I'm getting railed by some guy who's into operatic moaning, you don't want to be in the middle of a Zoom call."
"That's disgusting."
"That's considerate."
Sa-young tried not to choke on his drink.
They settled into rhythm faster than he thought possible. Eui-jae worked weird freelance hours (some design stuff he does.), so he was usually home first, blasting music or boiling ramen with chopsticks sticking out of his mouth like vampire fangs. Sa-young worked long shifts at his logistics firm, came home exhausted, grunted something in Eui-jae's direction, and collapsed onto the couch.
Somehow, it worked.
They watched movies without talking. Shared hoodies like it was nothing. Started ordering enough takeout for two without asking.
Easy. Familiar. Low-maintenance.
Then came the teasing.
"Not to be dramatic," Eui-jae announced one night, three weeks in, "but you might actually die alone."
Sa-young, bleary-eyed from overtime, raised an eyebrow. "Thanks?"
"I'm genuinely concerned. You've been single since I moved in. That's like... 45 business days."
"So?"
"So," Eui-jae said, popping a grape into his mouth, "you had that one girl over opening weekend and then nothing. Meanwhile, I've had... what, two guys over?"
"Three," Sa-young muttered, regretting it instantly.
"Oh-ho." Eui-jae's grin turned predatory. "So you do keep count."
"I keep track of suspicious hallway noises. That's different."
"Sure it is."
Sa-young buried himself deeper into the couch. "Not everyone needs to bring home a new person every other night. Some of us value peace and quiet."
Eui-jae gasped, mock-offended. "Are you slut-shaming me, Lee Sa-young?"
"No. I'm introvert-shaming myself."
"That's even worse."
This kind of banter became their norm. Eui-jae flirted like he breathed, casual, warm, just vague enough to stay in the realm of plausible deniability.
And Sa-young? He took it. Brushed it off. Laughed when it was funny, scowled when it got under his skin, and never thought too hard about why it sometimes lingered long after the moment passed.
Like when Eui-jae walked past him in the kitchen and said, "You know, if you ever went gay, I think I'd be your type."
Sa-young didn't even look up from his coffee. "Too loud. Too nosy. You'd trip over your own ego before the second date."
"You've thought about this."
"I have taste, and you're not it."
That earned a snort and a middle finger.
Still, for all his jokes, Eui-jae never crossed lines. Never flirted seriously. Never made things weird. If anything, he treated Sa-young like he was made of glass, someone too stubborn to crack but too clueless to notice the heat.
And Sa-young kept telling himself it didn't matter.
Even when Eui-jae came home flushed and smiling after dates.
Even when Sa-young had to force himself not to ask questions, not to stick his nose where it didn't belong.
Even when he felt weirdly off afterwards, he snapped at the TV and went to bed early to avoid hearing laughter through the walls.
He told himself it was just fatigue. Dating exhaustion. Maybe he'd gotten too used to having Eui-jae to himself.
But it wasn't serious. Nothing worth examining.
He was fine.
The months blurred together faster than Sa-young expected, much faster if he can say.
Winter meant arguing about heating bills while Eui-jae force-fed him tangerines and scarves. Spring came with cherry blossoms and Eui-jae insisting they “touch grass like functioning humans.” Summer was a disaster, the AC broke for two weeks, and they ended up sprawled on the living room floor with popsicles, swearing never to move again. By fall, they’d survived two emotionally devastating IKEA trips, three screaming matches over laundry, and at least one night where Sa-young pretended not to hear Eui-jae crying over a Pixar movie.
Somehow, in between all that, living together stopped being about splitting rent. It started to feel like something else. Something harder to name.
And then, before he knew it—
A year has passed.
365 days of not murdering each other in their sleep. A modern miracle.
Five public laundry-based arguments (three involving socks), two emotionally devastating IKEA trips, one tragic food poisoning incident, and roughly 400 shared meals where someone definitely overshared and the other pretended not to notice.
No murders, though.
Instead, they'd become... something more than roommates.
Friends, maybe. The kind who knew each other's grocery lists by heart, left painkillers and water on counters without asking, could gauge how bad your day was from the way you closed the door.
The kind who were definitely so close, like they have known each other since forever.
At least, that's what Sa-young kept telling himself.
Somewhere along the line, living together had stopped being about splitting rent and started feeling like... something he didn't have words for.
Not that he'd ever say that out loud.
Routines had formed quietly. Saturday mornings became cleaning day. Friday nights were movie marathons or takeout-fueled sarcasm matches. They fought over the remote, cooked together sometimes, and had full-blown arguments about instant coffee brands.
They knew each other's allergies, shoe sizes, Spotify playlists, breakup stories, and weirdest dreams. Some nights they stayed up until 2 AM talking about the universe and the terrifying prospect of turning thirty. Others, they sat in comfortable silence, headphones on, just existing near each other like furniture that breathes.
They'd even met each other's parents.
Sa-young got dragged to Eui-jae's mom's birthday dinner after she "accidentally" made enough food for four people. She loved him instantly, pinched his cheek, called him handsome, asked why he didn't eat more vegetables, and tried to send him home with kimchi in mason jars.
"You should come over more often," she'd said. "So polite. Unlike some people."
Eui-jae had rolled his eyes. "I regret everything."
In return, Eui-jae met Sa-young's mom during an impromptu family lunch, after which she whispered (loudly): "He's cute. You should dress like that."
"Mom, we have different styles."
"So what?"
That stuck in his brain longer than it should have.
By spring, they'd become each other's emergency contacts, makeshift therapists, and personal chefs. They were, as Eui-jae once put it, "entirely too domestic for two allegedly single men."
Which is exactly what he brought up one night, sprawled across the couch like a satisfied cat, halfway through cheap wine.
"You know," he said lazily, "you haven't dated anyone since I moved in except for these 2 girls after we moved in ."
Sa-young didn't look up from his laptop. "So?"
"So, you're basically a monk now. A tragic, overworked, emotionally constipated monk who's gonna die alone with chronic back pain and no one to apply sunscreen."
"I hope you spill that wine."
"You love this couch."
"I love silence more."
Eui-jae ignored him. "Seriously though, do you even have a sex drive anymore? I've seen actual monks get more action."
"You're not even drunk. You're just being annoying."
"I'm genuinely concerned. It's been a full year. One complete rotation around the sun. You've ghosted dating like it's your toxic ex. You didn't even flirt with that barista last week, and she was clearly into you."
Sa-young stood to grab water from the fridge. "Maybe I like peace."
"Or maybe," Eui-jae said, grin spreading slowly and dangerously, "you've been secretly in love with your hot gay roommate this whole time and you're in deep, suffocating denial."
There it was.
He said it like a joke.
For the first time, Sa-young wasn't sure he wanted to laugh.
Something in the room shifted.
Sa-young froze, fingers clenching around the fridge handle. Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
He didn't respond. Didn't have to.
Because Eui-jae was already cackling, propped on one elbow, making the most exaggerated flirty face possible.
"Ooh," he cooed, puckering his lips, "you wanna kiss me, don't you, Sa-youngie?"
Sa-young stared at the ridiculous display, then walked over and shoved his palm directly into Eui-jae's face.
"Go back to your damn dates," he said, pushing his head back like a misbehaving child.
Eui-jae dissolved into laughter, rolling off the couch dramatically. "Did you just reject me? I'm wounded! I'm available, you know!"
"No one asked."
"But if you did ask, I'd be so gentle. So loving. I'd even cook breakfast after."
Sa-young threw a pillow at him and retreated to the kitchen.
He told himself he wasn't blushing.
It was just the wine. Or the heat. Definitely not anything else.
He was fine.
Straight as a ruler.
And Eui-jae was still just his annoying roommate.
It started like any other morning.
Most of their mornings followed a rhythm: Sa-young brushing his teeth half-asleep, Eui-jae blasting some awful playlist loud enough to wake the neighbors, and both of them pretending they weren’t basically married to each other’s routines.
So when urgent knocking rattled his bedroom door, Sa-young didn’t even flinch.
"SA-YOUNG!" came Eui-jae's muffled voice. "Fashion emergency! Get in here!"
Sa-young groaned. "It's 8 AM."
"I have a date tonight and I look like a sad high schooler. Move your lazy ass."
"I'm literally leaving for work,"
"Five minutes. You owe me for eating the last fish cake."
Low blow. Sa-young sighed, threw on a hoodie, and shuffled across the apartment with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to execution.
Eui-jae's room smelled like his cologne, vanilla and gardenias mixed with whatever chemical despair came from burning midnight oil over design deadlines. Clothes were scattered across the bed like a well-dressed tornado had hit.
"Five minutes," Sa-young muttered.
"I only need two. That's what she said."
"I'm leaving."
"Wait, LOOK," Eui-jae whined, dragged two shirts from the bed, holding them up. "White or navy? I don't want to look too serious, but I also don't want him thinking I'm seventeen."
Sa-young squinted. "The white one's wrinkled."
"That's vintage."
"That's lazy."
"You're lazy."
"Give me the iron."
Somewhere between pressing wrinkles out and debating which pants made his legs look "approachable but not desperate," something in Sa-young's brain short-circuited.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen Eui-jae getting ready for a date. Wasn't the first time he'd helped pick outfits or offered grunted approval.
But it was the first time Eui-jae stood so close, shoulder brushing his, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, eyes darting from the mirror to Sa-young's reflection like his opinion mattered most.
When Eui-jae turned to face him, tugging at his collar, asking "Do I look okay?" It was the first time Sa-young's answer got stuck in his throat.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "You look fine."
"Just fine?" Eui-jae raised an eyebrow.
"...Better than fine."
"Obviously."
Sa-young looked away, focused on the shirt, the sleeves, the buttons Eui-jae had somehow managed to misalign.
"Tie your hair back," he said without thinking. "You get that stupid curl when you're nervous. Makes you look like a wet poodle."
"That's my signature anxious curl."
"It's tragic."
Still, Eui-jae went to tie it up.
Sa-young watched the movement, the easy way his fingers worked, the sharp line of his jaw in morning light. His ears were slightly pink. He smelled like aftershave and citrus shampoo and,
"You good?" Eui-jae asked, turning suddenly.
Sa-young blinked. "What?"
"You spaced out. Thought maybe I broke your brain with how devastatingly handsome I look."
"Shut up."
In the kitchen, Eui-jae grabbed a banana and leaned against the counter like a smug sitcom character.
"I might bring him over later," he said casually. "We've been talking for weeks. He's cool."
Sa-young nodded tightly. "Okay."
"I'll give you a warning, obviously."
"Yeah. No problem. I might work late anyway."
Eui-jae grinned. "You sure? He's tall. Smart. Way out of my league. You might fall in love."
"Can't be that smart if he's dating you."
"Wow. Zero to bitchy in one sentence."
"I'm not," Sa-young caught himself, grabbing his keys. "It's whatever."
And it was, right? It had to be.
He shoved his feet into shoes, avoided eye contact, and muttered something about texting if he'd be late.
"You gonna be okay if I bring him here?" Eui-jae asked again, softer now.
Sa-young paused at the door. Turned. Met his eyes.
Held them just long enough to say: "Do whatever you want."
Then left.
The hallway felt colder than usual. The sun is too bright, the air is too thin.
He kept walking downstairs, through the lobby, onto the street, and didn't realise he was clenching his fists until his knuckles ached.
It didn't mean anything.
He wasn't upset.
He wasn't... anything.
Just late for work. Just annoyed. Just tired.
Just—
He exhaled slowly.
God, this was getting exhausting.