Work Text:
If your family thinks you're the kind of person who sneaks food late at night, well, they're not wrong.
You hated school food. The smell made you nauseous. The cafeteria always smelled like overcooked broccoli and regret—greasy pizza that sat under heat lamps too long, soggy tater tots, mystery-meat patties that… just yuck…
Even on the rare "good" days, like when they served chicken nuggets or fries, or both, the same stale, institutional smell clung to everything. You'd push your tray away after just a couple of bites, your stomach already doing flips, and then spend the rest of lunch pretending to read while everyone else wolfed down their food like it wasn't actively working against them.
Then back at home you’d creep into the kitchen at night, before you entered the kitchen there was a creaky part. You learned the floorboards by heart, avoiding the creaky part. Which ones sighed if you stepped wrong. Which ones stayed loyal.
Then you opened the freezer like it was a vault, and finally… finally something that didn’t make your throat close up. (Or least sometimes.) Ice cream! Perfect for crying late at night and obsessing over how your grades seemed impossible to keep above an 80.
You'd just stand there, the freezer door wide open, letting the cold wash over you while you wrestled with whether you deserved this tonight, if it was worth the brain freeze, the throbbing behind your eyes, and the quiet shame that always followed. Food felt less like nourishment and more like a moral dilemma. It was like every bite was a judgment on who you were allowed to be.
Did you wanna be some supermodel? Or comfortable in the same body you didn’t feel comfortable in?
You'd end up sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, thinking about all the assignments you hadn't handed in and the tests you were sure you'd studied for back in high school. That stupid number — 80 — hovering over everything like a threat. High enough to be acceptable. Low enough to still feel like you were barely holding on.
Spoon in hand, staring at the lid longer than you needed to.
You weren’t in school anymore. So why did it still feel like you were about to get caught?
You took a bite. Then another.. and another—
Then—
“You know,” he said from the doorway, voice low and rough with sleep, “the freezer light isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your entire body went rigid. You hadn’t heard his door open.
You didn’t turn around. “Go back to bed.”
He didn’t. He walked in, slow, hair messy and shirt wrinkled. You kept your eyes on the ice cream. He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely. Not blocking you. Not cornering you. Just watching.
“You always wait until I’m asleep.”
You swallowed. “I don’t.”
A pause.
“You do.”
Silence stretched. The hum of the fridge suddenly loud.
“It’s just ice cream,” you muttered.
“I know.”
That somehow made it worse. You expected a lecture. A joke. A comment about calories or midnight snacking or whatever roommates usually tease about. Instead, he just said, softer, “You don’t have to sneak in our own kitchen.”
The spoon stopped halfway to your mouth. You laughed, but it came out thin. “I’m not sneaking.”
“You move like you’re breaking into the place.”
You hated how accurate that was.
“I just don’t like being watched,” you said.
He sighed. You finally looked at him. Something flickered across his face — not annoyance. Not judgment. Just… understanding.
“You eat like someone’s grading you.”
The words landed too cleanly.
You looked back at the ice cream.
“I’m not trying to be a supermodel or anything,” you said, defensive without meaning to be. “I just— I don’t know. I just—”
“Feel wrong?” he offered. Your throat tightened. You hated how easy he made it sound.
“I just don’t feel comfortable,” you admitted. “In here.” You gestured vaguely to your body. “So sometimes it feels like I should… man I don’t know...”
He went quiet for a long moment.
Then he pushed off the counter and walked closer — slow, like approaching something fragile.
He didn’t take the carton from you. He didn’t comment on how much was left. He just leaned back against the counter beside you instead of across from you.
“You know,” he said, staring at the opposite wall instead of you, “I signed a lease with you. Not a ghost.”
You frowned slightly.
“You live here,” he continued. “I pay rent. You buy groceries. You don’t have to wait until the apartment’s unconscious to exist in it.”
Your grip tightened around the spoon.
“I’m not judging you,” he added, almost like he sensed the spiral starting. “I just… don’t want you thinking you have to be someone else when I’m around. Or in general.”
You didn’t realize how much that word hit until your eyes burned.
Shrink.
That’s what it felt like.
Smaller steps. Smaller bites. Smaller presence.
“I’m not shrinking,” you muttered weakly.
He glanced at you, one eyebrow raised slightly.
“You avoid eye contact while eating,” he said calmly. “You apologize if you grab a second serving. You joke about ‘earning’ dessert. You think I don’t notice?”
You stared at the freezer shelf. “I thought I was being subtle.”
“You are,” he said. “To everyone else.” The kitchen felt warmer suddenly. Too warm. He reached out — not to grab you. Just to gently take the spoon from your hand and scoop a bite for himself.
Then he handed it back.
Your chest tightened in a way that wasn’t panic this time. Just unfamiliar.
“You’re not in school anymore,” he added. “Nobody’s holding an 80 over your head.”
You looked down at the carton. “…Feels like it. I still remember how much I struggled.”
“I know.” And he stayed. Didn’t leave. Didn’t stare. Didn’t make you perform comfort. Just stood there beside you while you ate. Not as a witness. Just as someone who wasn’t going anywhere.
“You touched my spoon by the way. Go get me a new one.”
“Oh my fucking god.”
“What?”
“New spoon coming right up..”