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Stephen doesn’t even hear the knock.
He only registers company when Gray lets himself in with the spare key—without warning, as usual—and the soft click of the door lock is followed by the ever-threatening silence of Gray Yeon.
Stephen, shirtless, halfway through microwaving leftover tteokbokki, freezes in place like a man caught committing a crime.
"What."
Gray sets a small plastic bag on the table like he pays rent here. "You said your side still hurt. I brought ointment."
Stephen squints. "That was, like, two days ago."
"You said three to five days of tenderness."
Stephen makes the mistake of blinking. When he opens his eyes, Gray is already ten inches away and staring directly at his ribs.
---
A week ago, Stephen got tackled into a vending machine. Not by choice.
It was some side-gig thug trying to impress a local nobody who thought picking fights with ex-Union guys was a good business move. Stephen didn’t even throw a punch—just stood still, arms crossed, and let the guy break his own shoulder trying.
But vending machines are hard. Stephen is soft. Now his side is taped and bruised and apparently very interesting.
"...Are you staring at my injuries?" he asks.
Gray doesn’t answer right away. His eyes narrow, not like he’s suspicious, but like he’s analyzing the texture of Stephen’s obliques.
Then, dead serious, he says:
"I could eat rice off that."
Silence.
Stephen blinks.
Gray blinks back.
Stephen, with the fragile voice of a man losing control of his kitchen and his sanity: "Off... my ribs?"
Gray nods. "Sticky rice. Maybe soy sauce."
Stephen drops the tteokbokki container.
---
They don’t speak of it. For hours.
Gray sits on the couch, flipping through a medical supply catalog like it’s a shonen manga. Stephen hovers in the kitchen, deeply rethinking every life decision he’s ever made, including but not limited to: why he gave Gray a key, why he works out shirtless, and why he now can’t stop imagining a bowl of rice resting on his lower torso.
Stephen has abs. They're not showy. They're the kind that come from running to avoid emotional confrontation, not gym selfies. But apparently they’re rice-ready.
And Gray has opinions.
When Stephen finally plops down on the couch with an ice pack and a low groan, Gray looks up like a cat disturbed mid-nap.
"You're icing too hard," he says, pointing vaguely at Stephen’s bare stomach.
Stephen glares. "You want to do it?"
Gray shrugs. "Give me the rice, and I’ll do anything."
Stephen physically has to leave the room.
---
He comes back ten minutes later with a hoodie on, dignity restored. Sort of.
Gray is now lying flat on the couch, one sock on, one sock missing, eyes on the ceiling like he’s waiting for divine rice-based revelations.
"You gonna help or not?" Stephen mutters, holding out the ice pack again.
Gray sits up. "You wearing a hoodie now?"
"Yeah. So I can maintain what’s left of my sanity."
Gray hums, unimpressed. But he takes the ice pack.
Stephen sits beside him and pulls up the hem just enough to reveal the bandage. Gray’s touch is cool, efficient. Quiet.
Which would be fine. If he weren’t also muttering, under his breath: "...still rice-worthy."
Stephen kicks him in the shin. Gently. Mostly.
---
“Why are you like this?” Stephen asks sometime later, when they’re watching muted reruns of some cooking show neither of them care about.
Gray, curled up with his knees under his chin like a morally ambiguous garden gnome, says, “It’s a compliment. You should say thank you.”
Stephen doesn’t. Instead, he shifts on the couch and grumbles, “You don’t even eat that much rice.”
Gray side-eyes him. “I do now.”
Stephen shoves a pillow over his own face and screams into it.
---
The next day, Gray shows up again. With a rice cooker.
“Why?” Stephen says flatly, opening the door in his pajama pants and a sweatshirt with a ketchup stain.
Gray holds up the box like a sacred offering. “It was on sale.”
“You’ve never used a rice cooker in your life.”
Gray shrugs. “Today’s a new day.”
Stephen watches as Gray sets up the rice cooker on his counter like he’s performing a summoning ritual.
He even brought ingredients.
There’s short-grain rice, seaweed flakes, soy sauce, sesame oil. There’s a sad-looking egg. Gray holds it up like he’s about to paint it.
“Did you bring an entire pantry to my house?”
Gray glances up, utterly serious. “Do you trust me?”
“No.”
Gray makes the rice anyway.
---
By the time the cooker dings, the apartment smells like comfort. Stephen tries not to show that it affects him. He fails.
Gray plates two bowls. He hands Stephen a spoon.
“You’re not seriously—”
Gray lays down on the floor. Lifts his shirt.
Stephen nearly drops the bowl.
“Gray. What. Are you doing.”
“Making a point.”
“You are not using your body as a dinner tray.”
Gray, already positioning the bowl on his stomach: “Then do it on yours.”
Stephen’s face does a full system reboot.
“I’m gonna throw this rice at you.”
“You’d waste perfectly good carbs?”
Stephen doesn’t. He eats in silence. At the table.
Gray eats one-handed on the floor, like a smug lizard basking in his own chaos.
---
The next morning, Stephen wakes up on the couch.
Gray is in the kitchen.
Cooking. Again.
Stephen narrows his eyes and cautiously approaches, like he’s tracking a wild animal.
“Are you making... breakfast rice?”
Gray doesn’t even look back. “Rice is a lifestyle.”
Stephen leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You slept on the floor."
"Voluntarily. I’m humble like that."
“You kicked me off my own couch.”
Gray turns, holding a bowl triumphantly. “Breakfast. With kimchi. Protein. Balance.”
Stephen stares at him.
Gray tilts his head. "You like it when I cook."
“No, I don’t.”
“You just said ‘mmm’ after one bite yesterday.”
Stephen stares harder.
Gray stares back.
Stephen: "That was a survival noise."
Gray: "You licked the bowl."
Stephen turns around to walk away. “I hate you.”
“Rice says otherwise.”
They eat on the couch. Gray steals Stephen’s spoon halfway through. Stephen lets him. No one mentions it.
Halfway through the meal, Gray says, “You should stop flinching every time I touch you.”
Stephen nearly chokes. “I do not flinch.”
“You hold your breath like it’s illegal to exhale.”
Stephen glares, but his ears turn red. “Why are you always watching me?”
Gray doesn’t hesitate. “Because I like you.”
Silence.
Stephen’s heart hits his ribs hard enough to hurt.
Gray blinks. “Did I say that out loud?”
Stephen: “Yeah. You did.”
More silence.
Stephen exhales. “...Okay.”
Gray tilts his head. “Okay?”
Stephen stabs a piece of egg. “Okay, I like you too. Just—don’t make it weird.”
Gray immediately sets his empty rice bowl on Stephen’s thigh.
Stephen: “I swear to God—”
Gray: “It’s symbolic.”
Stephen sighs. “Get that off me before I throw you into the rice cooker.”
Gray, deadpan: “Together forever.”
---
A few days later.
Stephen has just sat down to eat lunch (rice, of course—Gray insists on theme consistency), when there’s a knock on the door.
Before he can move, Gray says, “Don’t open it.”
“Why?”
Gray mutters, “I have a bad feeling.”
Stephen opens it anyway.
Ben Park and Rowan appear in the hallway like the human embodiment of intrusive thoughts.
Rowan waves. “Yooo! Gray! Stephen! Heard you’ve been playing house. Thought we’d drop by!”
Stephen opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
Ben marches in without hesitation, holding a bag of convenience store snacks. “Bro. You look better. You were all taped up last week. What’d you do? Sleep on rice?”
Stephen sighs. Gray smirks.
Rowan peeks over Stephen’s shoulder. “Wait. Is that short grain rice?”
Gray: “It’s essential.”
Ben: “You two living together now or something?”
Stephen: “NO.”
Gray: “We’re spiritually roommates.”
Rowan: “You mean dating?”
Gray and Stephen: silence.
Rowan: “You have rice cookers.”
Ben: “And that’s more commitment than my parents ever had.”
Stephen sighs into the void. “Why are you here.”
Ben grins. “We missed you.”
Gray mutters, “Tragic.”
---
Chaos ensues.
Rowan tries to use Stephen’s bed as a trampoline. Ben breaks Stephen’s spatula. Stephen screams into a rice sack.
Eventually, Rowan finds Gray in the kitchen, gently spooning rice into a bento box.
“Hey. What’s with the rice obsession? You running a side hustle or—”
He pauses.
He sees the tray.
It’s Stephen’s hoodie, laid flat.
And on top of it? A bowl. A spoon. A perfect setup.
Rowan looks at Gray.
Gray meets his eyes.
Rowan says, “...No.”
Gray says, “Yes.”
---
Fifteen minutes later, after kicking Rowan out (literally), and bribing Ben with extra kimchi, the apartment is quiet again.
Stephen, lying on the couch, says, “...They’re never allowed back.”
Gray nods. “I’ll burn the doormat.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Gray, with all the gravity of a man planning war, says:
“...So about the abs.”
Stephen groans. “No.”
Gray tilts his head. “You said you liked me.”
Stephen covers his face. “I do. But no.”
Gray: “One spoon.”
Stephen: “No.”
Gray: “Half a spoon.”
Stephen: “What does that even mean—”
Cut to: ten minutes later.
Gray, kneeling beside the couch, gently balances a bite of rice on Stephen’s abdomen.
Stephen, staring at the ceiling: “I hate this. I hate you.”
Gray: “This is a religious experience.”
He eats the rice.
Stephen throws a pillow at him.
Gray catches it. “Still rice-worthy.”
Stephen hides under a blanket and reconsiders his romantic decisions.
Gray joins him.