Chapter Text
it starts with the smell of detergent and too many boxes in a too-small room.
matthew’s half of the dorm is a mess of pre-med textbooks and instant noodles stacked like little towers of exhaustion. gunwook’s side is pristine—bed already made, laptop charging, not a single wrinkle on his pressed slacks as he leans against the frame of the window, scrolling through his phone with that unreadable face of his.
they’ve been roommates for two weeks now. barely spoken outside of the polite, awkward “hey”s and “can you pass me that.” but matthew’s noticed things. like how gunwook never drinks coffee but always brews it. how he folds his laundry with military precision. how he never locks the bathroom door when he showers.
it’s a tuesday night when things shift.
matthew comes back late from a lab. he’s tired, soaked from rain, hair sticking to his forehead. he fumbles with his key and nearly drops his bag, letting out a breathless, “fuck,” under his breath.
gunwook’s inside, sitting at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, glasses on, scribbling notes in that messy, left-handed scrawl.
“you’re dripping all over the floor,” he says, not looking up.
“yeah. thanks. i noticed,” matthew mutters.
gunwook glances at him then. quiet. a beat too long. something in his eyes flickers.
“you should change. you’ll get sick.”
matthew stares. “what are you, my mom?”
gunwook just shrugs. goes back to writing. but he leaves a towel out on matthew’s bed.
it’s that kind of thing, over and over.
small, almost invisible acts of care. matthew brushing his teeth and gunwook joining him in the cramped bathroom without saying a word. their elbows bumping. gunwook’s gaze dropping to matthew’s collarbone, to the drops of water trailing down his throat.
neither of them says anything.
they never do.
later that week, matthew wakes up in the middle of the night. the lights are off, but the desk lamp’s on. gunwook’s still at his desk, eyes heavy, head resting on his hand. a pen tucked behind his ear.
matthew watches him for a moment.
the way his back curves. the way his hair falls into his eyes. the way he sighs quietly when he thinks no one’s listening.
he doesn’t realize he’s staring until gunwook looks up.
“can’t sleep?”
matthew blinks. “yeah.”
gunwook nods. closes his book. turns off the lamp.
they lie in the dark, in the same silence, in the same room, the air stretched thin between them.
matthew closes his eyes and wonders how long this thing—whatever it is—can stay unspoken.