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Jungwon’s transfer to Jay’s university mostly involves a lot of paperwork.
They’ve only been together for a few months, so everything still feels relatively new—still in that stage where they're figuring out each other's schedules and habits. But when the housing office completely botches Jungwon's mid-semester transfer allocation, Jay doesn't really see the big deal. His current roommate is barely ever there anyway, and there’s more than enough space for both of them.
So on the day Jungwon finally gets through the university's grueling three-hour transfer orientation, they’re sitting in Jay’s place eating takeout out of a cardboard box when Jay straight up just tells him to move in with him.
“The office never finalized my dorm placement,” Jungwon says, not even looking up from his phone as he scrolls through a spreadsheet of off-campus listings. “And everything else within walking distance is way over my budget.” When Jay hears this, he chews, swallows, and sets his chopsticks down on the side before speaking. “My roommate is basically living at his girlfriend's apartment this semester. He only comes back to do laundry.” Jungwon stops scrolling and looks up.
“Are you implying that I should—”
“Just move your stuff into our double,” Jay interrupts, almost too casually—like it’s not even a suggestion. “We’ve got the extra desk, and you won't have to pay rent until next semester. It’s what anyone would do.” Jungwon watches him for a second. He has this look he gets when he’s trying to figure out if Jay is just being polite or if he actually means it.
“Your tone confuses me sometimes.” Jungwon groans beside Jay, who just chuckles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I really can’t tell if you’re joking… or if, uh, like—,” Jungwon says, leaning back slightly, eyes still on him. “Y’know what. Forget it.” Jay looks up properly now, like that last part caught his attention. “Or if what?” Jungwon hesitates. “Nothing!”
Jay hums, unconvinced. “You were going to say something.” “I wasn’t.” “You were.” Jungwon rolls his eyes and slightly moves away from the boy next to him. “Stop making it weird!” “I’m just trying to offer you somewhere to stay! That’s all!” Jay pulls him back while the other exhales through his nose. “So you’re actually serious.”
“About you moving in? Of course I am.”
Right. Of course he is.
Jungwon unintentionally forgets how to breathe for a second. He keeps his expression steady in front of Jay—barely. But inside, there’s a quiet scramble of thoughts he can’t quite organize properly. It isn’t even that the idea is shocking, it’s more that it feels like something that should’ve been thought out for longer. He zones out for a few and Jay notices almost immediately.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
That's what snaps Jungwon back into focus. “What—no,” he says quickly, then exhales. “You didn’t even ask your roommate if it’s okay with him.” Jay pauses at that—like that part had already been accounted for. “Oh,” he says. “I will. I just don’t think it’ll be an issue.” Jungwon doesn’t budge. “You should still ask him though.” “I will,” Jay repeats with a nod. “Don’t worry.”
“...Okay,” he says, quieter.
“Now please answer my question, and I’m asking for what you think here,” Jay looks him straight in the eye. “Do you want to move in with me?”
“Come on, it’s like you don’t already know the answer,” Jungwon huffs, getting up to distract himself, heading for a glass of water from the fridge. “Are you really going to make me spell it out?”
Jay laughs softly and follows him into the kitchen.
“Jay, be serious,” He adds as he glances at him over his shoulder. “You’re acting like I’d even consider saying no.”
And that’s that!
A week since Jungwon officially moved in, Jay’s old roommate has fully moved out as well. His things are still sitting in the second room for the time being, half-packed and waiting to be dealt with, but it’s not really an issue for any of them. Jungwon has been sleeping in Jay’s room anyway—how it was always going to end up.
As for what they’re going to do with the extra space when Jay’s roommate finally comes to pick his things up, neither of them has decided. It’s been briefly called a study room, or sometimes even a storage room, but nothing’s been set in stone yet. For now, it’s just there as something they’ll figure out later on.
Jungwon has been settling in easily. The walk to campus is short, and more often than not, he gets to walk alongside his boyfriend on the way to class!
Things are going great—until Jungwon walks home after a long day, fully intending to get a snack once he reaches their apartment.
He lets himself inside, kicks off his shoes by the door, and heads straight for the kitchen without even dropping his bag properly. The cupboards don’t help.
There’s a single bag of chips sitting slightly crumpled at the back, like it’s been forgotten for a while. Jungwon feels iffy about it, then opens it anyway, hoping it’ll pass as a late afternoon snack to get him through the rest of the day. He has way too many things left to finish.
It’s stale.
All he can do is take a deep breath because the fridge isn’t any better. A few random ingredients and nothing that really qualifies as actual food in his current state of hunger. Jungwon leans against the counter for a moment before closing the fridge with a defeated sigh.
Jay still isn’t home yet, so he pulls out his phone without thinking too much about it.
[Jungwon]: We need to buy food.
[Jungwon]: Snacks.
[Jungwon]: Like right now.
[Jungwon]: Starving.
The air smells faintly like detergent and overripe fruit. Not even thirty minutes after Jungwon had helplessly (and hungrily) texted Jay to go grocery shopping, they’re now standing in front of an entire fruit display. Jungwon is right in front of him—moving through at an unhurried pace. His eyes flick over each section like he’s actually taking his time to think things through. He stops at the section for bananas and lingers there—gaze settling as he takes it in.
Jungwon examines the bananas with the seriousness of someone handling something far too fragile while Jay trails behind him with their cart that’s filling up with random snacks they’ll definitely not finish in the next few months. It’s probably not a good idea to go grocery shopping hungry.
“These are bad,” Jungwon states immediately. “They look pretty normal to me,” Jay replied, leaning slightly to see over his shoulder. Jungwon turns one of the bunches around and holds it up closer to the light. “Bruising.”
Jay squints because from where he’s standing, it’s just yellow fruit. “You’re picky.”
“I’m not picky. Look, these ones are almost fully brown.” Jungwon says, already moving to the next bunch. They definitely weren’t even close to being “fully brown.” “They look the same.” “They really don't, Jay.”
Jay sighs, but there’s no real frustration in it. He just follows as Jungwon puts the rejected bananas back and reaches for another bunch like he’s genuinely assessing them. After finding a “good” bunch, they move on to strawberries.
Jungwon bends slightly and scans the plastic containers that are lined up in rows. He picks one up, rotates it slowly—while checking the bottom, as if there might be something hidden there. “These are bad,” he says again. Jay just hums—before Jungwon can spiral further, or before Jay risks saying the wrong thing. Jungwon tilts the container so Jay can see the corner. “See? Soft here.”
“You’ve definitely intimidated at least three strawberries by now.” Jay rolls his eyes, but he still takes the container from Jungwon when it’s handed to him and swaps it for another one.
Jungwon keeps going after that, inspecting each fruit one by one. He presses lightly against peaches and digs through a pile of mandarins like there might be something better buried underneath. Jay simply leans on the cart handle, watching him.
“You know they all taste the same once you cut them,” he says eventually. Jungwon doesn’t even look up. “That’s not true.” “It literally is.” “No,” Jungwon says, still focused on the mandarins. “Texture matters.” “You sound like you’re eighty.” Jungwon ignores that completely. Selective hearing, I guess?
A few seconds pass in silence before Jungwon states casually, “My parents used to keep the nice fruit out for guests when people visited. Always saving the “good parts” for them.”
Jay hums in response at first, not fully processing it. Just a sound of acknowledgment while he shifts his weight on his other leg. But then when it registers properly, he looks at Jungwon.
Jungwon is already moving on, putting a few mandarins into the cart like he didn’t just say something that settled oddly in Jay’s chest. His expression hasn’t changed. “Naturally, I got used to eating the bruised parts only,” he adds, almost offhand.
There’s no invitation for reaction—like the words were never meant to be held onto. Something about that makes Jay stop pushing the cart for half a second because it lands too lightly for what it’s saying.
That’s probably why it sticks.
A week later, Jungwon is sprawled across their couch, complaining about his writing class while Jay stands in the kitchen cutting strawberries.
Jungwon said he was hungry, and Jay had bought more strawberries two days ago on impulse because they apparently looked "too good not to buy" at the store. Okay—yes, they might have too many boxes now, but what’s one more? And if they can’t finish them before “going bad,” he can just cut away the bruised parts for him. Easy!
“You’re not listening to me,” Jungwon calls from the living room, voice slightly muffled by the couch cushions. “I am.” “What did I just say?” Jay slices around a soft dark patch near the top of a strawberry before answering automatically, “Your professor hates you specifically.”
“He does!” Jungwon says immediately, offended all over again. Jay exhales a small laugh through his nose, like that reaction was expected. He checks another strawberry and turns it slightly under the light before moving it to the bowl.
Jay hides the bruised piece against the cutting board instinctively before carrying the bowl over.
He sets it down in front of the other, who finally peels his eyes away from his laptop. “Oh—these are all perfect.” Jay blinks. “What?”
Jungwon holds up a strawberry slice suspiciously. “There’s usually at least one ugly piece in those boxes.” “You’re criticizing me for good strawberries?” “No, I’m just saying it’s unusual.” Jay just shrugs and sits down beside him. “Maybe I’ve cracked the code.”
Jungwon narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe him, but keeps eating anyway.
It’s not something Jay thinks about again until the next time and the time after that. It becomes something he doesn’t even notice himself doing in real time.
Reaching for apples and automatically turning them to find the soft spots. Digging through containers at grocery stores longer than necessary because Jungwon likes sweeter strawberries and firmer peaches and mandarins without too much pith.
Jay learns all of it accidentally—or maybe he learns because he listens too carefully when Jungwon talks.
Either way, the pattern settles quietly between them. Whenever Jungwon is locked up at his study desk, Jay never misses bringing him a bowl full of fresh fruit.
But then one evening, Jungwon is sitting on the kitchen counter while Jay washes grapes, swinging his legs lightly against the cabinets. He watches for a moment before speaking. “You always do that thing,” Jungwon says suddenly. Jay blinks. “What thing?”
“You check every single fruit before putting it in the bowl.” “I’m making sure they’re not bad,” Jay furrows his brows like that should be obvious. Jungwon leans back a little, watching him more closely now.
“You inspect them like—really seriously.” Jay lets out a short breath of amusement. “You’re the one who complains if they’re mushy.” “I complain because any mushy thing is disgusting!” “Sounds like a you problem,” Jay replies, lightly pinching Jungwon's cheek before turning a few more grapes under the water. "Ouch!" Jungwon exclaims, exaggeratedly, but he doesn't move away—just watches him for a second longer.
“...You always give me the good ones.”
Jay’s hands pause under the water for a fraction of a second, but not enough for Jungwon to notice. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know,” Jungwon shrugs, a slight blush creeping onto his face. “Just noticed.”
Jay looks back down at the sink before Jungwon can read anything off his face properly. “They’re literally just fruits,” he says lightly. “Mm.”
Not a single bit does Jungwon sound convinced.
The thing is, Jay doesn’t entirely realize how deliberate it’s become until his mom points it out.
She drops by unexpectedly one afternoon after running errands in the area, which immediately throws Jay into psychological warfare because Jungwon is sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing Jay’s hoodie—and eating fruit from a bowl Jay made fifteen minutes earlier.
His mom notices everything in approximately four seconds. “Oh, wow,” she says slowly.
Jay immediately knows she’s going to say something about the bowl. “What?” Her eyes flick between him and the bowl once. “You cut fruit like that for him?” Jay stares. “Like what?” She picks one up from the bowl, turning it between her fingers. “No bruises. Equal sizes. You even cut off the white centers.”
Jungwon looks down at the bowl too, like he hasn’t already noticed it before. Jay feels heat crawl up his neck instantly. “It’s not that deep.” His mom makes eye contact with him over Jungwon’s head—the kind that says everything without actually saying anything.
“Sure.”
Jay spends the next hour avoiding eye contact entirely.
After that, he becomes embarrassingly more aware of his own behavior—like how he compares containers of blueberries for too long at the store, how he automatically sets aside prettier slices while plating fruit, and especially how he notices the way Jungwon unconsciously reaches for whatever Jay hands him first without checking.
Completely trusting, which somehow makes it worse.
It gets worse after Jungwon gets a cold bad enough to make him miserable.
Jay comes home from his evening class to find Jungwon buried under blankets in the room, laying on their bed and looking genuinely pathetic.
“You look awful.” “Leave me alone,” he replies weakly. “And your voice sounds worse than you look.” “You have such a way with words, don’t you?” Jay presses a hand against Jungwon’s forehead anyway.
“You take medicine?” Jungwon squints one eye open. “Maybe.” “That means no.” Jay sighs.
An hour later, there’s soup simmering on the stove while Jungwon has probably fallen asleep without even having dinner yet. Jay cuts apples quietly in the kitchen and peels them too—because Jungwon only likes peeled apples when he’s sick.
By the time he carries the plate over to their room, the apple slices look almost artificial. Jungwon blinks blearily at them.
“…You peeled them for me.” “That’s how you like them, no?” “You hate peeling apples though.” “And right now, I hate you speaking.” Jungwon huffs out a tired laugh before taking the plate. He drifts side to side while he eats, most likely in order to keep himself awake.
“My sister used to do this.” Jungwon’s eyes remain closed. “When I got sick,” he continues softly. “She’d cut the bad spots off fruit because I wouldn’t eat them otherwise.”
Something tightens low in Jay’s chest—heavy in a way he doesn’t immediately know what to do with. It lingers there for a moment before he reaches out instead, patting Jungwon’s head lightly and muttering, “Eat before your medicine kicks in.”
The problem with caring about someone through habits is that, eventually, the habits become impossible to hide. It's easy for Jay to notice how Jungwon stops mid-sentence when he’s sad, or how—when he’s anxious—he starts tapping his thumb against his knuckle in a steady rhythm.
Not a single habit goes unnoticed. Well, they have been living together for a while now, so it's only natural they’ve learned more about each other than they meant to.
And what has Jungwon noticed?
It’s how Jay always ends up eating whatever bruised leftovers remain while cleaning the kitchen.
At first, Jungwon doesn’t say anything because he assumes it's a coincidence, but then one night he comes into the kitchen unexpectedly for water. The apartment is quiet in that late-night way—lights dimmed, everything softened by sleepiness. The kind of silence that makes even small sounds feel louder than they should.
The tap is running when Jungwon steps out of the room, and Jay is standing at the sink in his loose T-shirt, sleeves a bit slouched. A cutting board sits beside him with the remains of strawberries scattered across it—uneven and soft pieces.
The parts that didn’t make it into the bowl sitting untouched on the counter.
Jay freezes for a beat when he notices Jungwon standing by the bedroom door, still holding the strawberry halfway to his mouth, while Jungwon immediately shifts his gaze to the cutting board, to the perfect bowl sitting on the counter beside it, to the scraps in Jay’s hand.
“Jay,” He calls softly and Jay feels caught in a way he can’t explain. “You need anything—”
“You eat the leftovers?” “They’re literally fine,” Jay says quickly, almost defensive in the way he’s trying not to make it into anything, but Jungwon keeps staring. “It’s not a big deal,” he mutters.
Jungwon’s expression shifts into something unbearably fond. “You’ve been doing this the whole time?” Jungwon asks. Jay lets out a small, awkward breath that almost passes for a laugh. “You’re framing it like it’s a crime.”
“Baby.”
Jay visibly falters for a split second when Jungwon calls him that. It's a new nickname and whenever Jungwon uses it, it's like his brain short-circuits before it catches up—and in this moment, his grip tightens slightly as he tries to recover his composure.
“It’s just fruit,” he insists again. “Mm,” Jungwon hums, and his voice is steadier now. “Okay.”
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, so Jay looks away first, reaching for another strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, but Jungwon walks toward him before he can pretend this away. Without wasting a second, he takes the half-eaten strawberry directly from Jay’s fingers and eats it himself.
Jay stares. “That one was bruised,” he says, a little dumbly. Jungwon shrugs then looks up at him properly. “So?”
The word lands differently this time—because when Jay doesn’t respond immediately, Jungwon reaches out without really thinking, hand resting lightly on Jay’s shoulder like he’s grounding himself.
And while the silence between them stretches, Jay leans in for a quick kiss.
It’s small—almost like it was always going to happen in a kitchen like this, at this time, over something as stupid and simple as fruit. It lasts only a second, but when they pull away, Jungwon’s eyes turn into crescents as they stay focused on Jay’s face.
“You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care,” he murmurs. Jay exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, still too close. “You’re one to talk.” Jungwon hums faintly at his boyfriend's response, like he accepts that.
The sink is still running. The light above them hums softly, steady and unbothered, like nothing in the room has shifted at all except them. Jungwon’s hand is still there on Jay’s shoulder, not holding him exactly, just resting like he’s forgotten to let go. Jay doesn’t look at it.
Instead, he lifts his own hand and covers Jungwon’s, gently holding it down like it was always meant to be there.