Archive of Our Own

The cafeteria was loud with the usual chaos of the first week back: clubs recruiting, students lugging suitcases, someone already crying over textbooks. Zihao stabbed moodily at his noodles, shoulders hunched, while Xinlong and Hanyu sat across from him.

“My roommate had to quit uni,” Zihao grumbled. “Now I’m stuck waiting for whoever the housing office dumps in his spot. Could be anyone.”

Xinlong smirked. “You act like you’re about to get assigned a criminal.”

“You don’t get it. I had everything balanced. He kept to himself, we shared food sometimes, no drama. Now it’s gone. Chaos incoming.”

Hanyu, ever calm, set down his cup of tea. “Not every new person is chaos. You might actually get along.”

Zihao scoffed. “Or he’ll be messy. Or loud. Or borrow my pens and never return them. I don’t need this in my life.”

Xinlong leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the rant. “I love how you’ve already written him off and you haven’t even seen the guy yet.”

Zihao groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I just want peace. Is that too much to ask?”

“Don’t overthink it,” Hanyu said as they walked out of the cafeteria. “It’s just a roommate.”

“It’s never just a roommate,” Zihao shot back, balancing his bag on his shoulder. “It’s someone who breathes in the same space as you. All the time.”

Xinlong laughed. “You make it sound like war.”

“It is war. Territory, resources, survival—”

“—toilet paper,” Xinlong cut in, grinning.

Zihao glared at him but didn’t deny it.

When he reached his dorm, the hallway was already buzzing with noise — doors opening and closing, people greeting each other after summer break. His stomach twisted as he turned his key and pushed open the door.

At first, everything looked the same. His desk, neat. His bed, perfectly made. But the other side of the room…

A suitcase was parked near the bed. A hoodie was tossed casually over the chair. There was even a half-unpacked stack of books on the desk, titles in neat English lettering.

Zihao froze. “Oh no. He’s already here.”

The bathroom door was shut, faint music humming from inside. Zihao’s heart started pounding. He wasn’t ready. He had rehearsed complaints and strategies for weeks, but not an actual introduction.

He dropped his bag quietly by his bed and sat, staring at the closed door, muttering under his breath.

“Please don’t be loud. Please don’t snore. Please don’t touch my pens.”

The bathroom door clicked open. Zihao straightened instinctively, like a deer caught in headlights.

Out walked a tall boy with damp hair, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up as he rubbed at his face with a towel. He looked casual, unbothered, like he belonged here already.

Zihao’s heart dropped into his stomach.

Suren.

Of all people.

He’d seen him last year, the boy who always sat a few rows ahead in lecture, the one who laughed too easily with friends, whose voice somehow carried even when he wasn’t trying. Zihao had nursed a quiet crush for months, the kind he never admitted to anyone, not even Xinlong or Hanyu. And now… he was standing in Zihao’s dorm room. His dorm room.

“Hey,” Suren said easily, dropping the towel on his bed. “You must be my roommate.”

Zihao opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His brain was a complete static mess.

Suren tilted his head, waiting.

Zihao finally managed to croak, “Y-yeah. I’m Zihao.”

“Nice to meet you,” Suren said with a small smile. He held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zihao stared at it. Shook it. Nearly combusted.

Zihao sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, trying to pretend his face wasn’t burning.

“So, uh…” Suren glanced around the room, casual as anything. “You’ve been here since last year, right? Any rules I should know? Don’t touch your side of the desk, don’t steal your snacks, that kind of thing?”

Zihao swallowed hard. “I—I mean, no. I don’t— I’m not—” He stopped, mortified. What am I even saying?

Suren chuckled, leaning against his desk. “Okay, so no rules. That’s chill. I’m Suren, by the way. Guess you already knew that, huh?”

Zihao’s heart tripped. “Wh-why would I— I mean, no, not really, um, just—people know people here, right? Like…” He trailed off, wanting to sink through the floor.

Suren blinked, then shrugged. “Fair enough.” He smiled, easy and open. “Well, now you know me.”

Zihao gave the weakest laugh. “Yeah. Now I do.”

Inside, his brain was screaming: I’ve known you for a year.

The next day, Zihao slumped into the cafeteria chair across from Xinlong and Hanyu, dropping his tray like it weighed a ton.

“What’s wrong with you?” Xinlong asked, eyebrow raised.

“My new roommate,” Zihao muttered, stabbing at his rice.

Hanyu tilted his head. “Already fighting?”

Zihao groaned. “No. Worse.” He buried his face in his hands. “It’s Suren.”

Both of his friends went dead silent for exactly two seconds. Then Xinlong nearly spat up his drink.

“ Wait. Wait. Suren, as in—”

“Yes.” Zihao’s voice was muffled through his palms.

“The Suren you stalked from across the library last semester?” Xinlong said, way too loudly.

“I did not stalk him!” Zihao hissed, shooting him a glare. “I just…

occasionally noticed… when he existed near me.”

Hanyu smirked, resting his chin on his hand. “So the campus crush is now your roommate. That’s… convenient.”

“Convenient?” Zihao groaned louder. “It’s a nightmare! He doesn’t even know me, and now I have to act normal around him. Normal , guys. Do you know how hard that is?”

Xinlong grinned, absolutely merciless. “Bro, this is the universe helping you out. Roommates? That’s basically a slow-burn romance setup.”

“Don’t say romance!” Zihao slammed his chopsticks down. “I just want to survive without humiliating myself.”

“Too late for that,” Hanyu said calmly.

Zihao buried his head in his arms, groaning while his so-called friends laughed at him.

The dorm felt oddly alive with Suren in it. Not because he was loud, he wasn’t. Suren moved with a kind of certainty, each gesture neat and deliberate, like even unpacking socks had choreography.

Zihao sat at his desk, trying not to stare. He knew Suren. Not personally, but he’d seen him before—glimpses in the practice building last year.

Dance majors always caught attention in the halls, but Suren had been different. Something about the way he carried himself made Zihao’s chest tighten.

Now he was his roommate.

Now he was humming softly as he arranged his books.

Now Zihao’s brain refused to function.

The first night, after an unbearable silence, Suren turned off his desk lamp and asked casually, “You’re music, right?”

Zihao almost choked. “Uh—yeah. Composition.”

“Cool,” Suren said. “Dance. Modern, mostly. Guess we’ll run into each other a lot in the arts building.”

Run into each other a lot. Zihao lay awake after that, replaying the words like they were lyrics.

By the third day, it happened—class overlap. Zihao walked into an elective seminar and nearly tripped when he saw Suren already there, one long leg stretched under the desk.

Suren raised a hand lazily. “Hey, roommate.”

Zihao waved back, cheeks hot, then sat as far from him as possible.

Later that evening, when Zihao returned to the dorm after a draining rehearsal, Suren was already there, stretching by the window. His sweatshirt hung loose, his hair messy, but his movements were precise, practiced.

“Mind if I use the floor?” Suren asked, dropping into a split like it was nothing.

Zihao froze mid-step. “Uh—no. The floor’s… free.”

Suren laughed, low and easy. “You’re funny.”

Zihao turned to his desk, heart hammering. He had no idea what he’d said that was funny. But he knew one thing: living like this—sharing space, sharing air—was going to destroy him in the best possible way.

Mornings came with Suren’s alarm. Not the blaring kind Zihao used, but a soft chime that grew louder until he shut it off in one smooth motion.

Then came the sound of stretching, fabric shifting, bones cracking, quiet humming as Suren rolled his shoulders awake.

Zihao tried to act asleep the first few days, but Suren always noticed.

“You don’t have morning classes?”

“Not on Tuesdays.”

“Lucky.”

He’d smile before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving the faint smell of mint shampoo when he came out.

Afternoons often overlapped. Zihao would return from the practice rooms and find Suren sprawled on his bed with his laptop, headphones dangling. Sometimes Suren tapped his foot to an invisible beat, sometimes he laughed at whatever he was watching. Zihao learned he had a very distinct laugh—sharp, sudden, and contagious.

“Homework?” Suren asked one night, nodding at Zihao’s music sheets.

“Yeah. Composition project.”

“Play it sometime?”

Zihao shrugged, pretending to focus on his notes while his heart jumped. “Maybe when it doesn’t sound terrible.”

Suren smirked. “Bet it doesn’t.”

Evenings turned into quiet routines. Zihao typed, erased, scribbled, while Suren stretched in the corner or leaned out the window for fresh air. Once, Zihao walked in to find him practicing turns in the cramped dorm space. Suren froze mid-spin, laughed at himself, and muttered, “Too small.”

“Way too small,” Zihao agreed, before realizing he’d just been caught staring again.

Suren only raised an eyebrow, amused.

By the end of the first week, their silences weren’t heavy anymore. They shared takeout when neither felt like going to the cafeteria. They traded stories about professors.

The first month passed without either of them realizing how naturally they’d fallen into each other’s rhythm.

Suren had a habit of leaving his shoes kicked off in random places, and Zihao had a habit of nudging them back toward the door without saying anything. Suren noticed one evening and smirked.

“You’re like my unofficial housekeeper.”

Zihao snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he still did it the next day.

On Wednesdays, they both had a free afternoon. Suren sometimes dragged his chair over to Zihao’s desk just to lean back and talk while Zihao typed assignments. The topics were random: a funny professor, a dance move he couldn’t nail, a music video he thought was overrated. Zihao didn’t always reply with much, but he listened, and Suren seemed to like that.

Sometimes Suren practiced steps in their tiny room, earbuds in, trying not to bump into furniture. Zihao pretended to focus on his sheet music but kept sneaking glances. Once, Suren caught him.

“What?” Suren asked, pausing mid-move.

“Nothing. Just… looks tiring.”

“It’s fun,” Suren said, grinning, and went right back to it.

Friday nights were the best—neither had early classes the next morning, so they stayed up late. Zihao with his laptop, Suren scrolling on his phone. The quiet wasn’t awkward anymore. It just felt easy, like they were supposed to share the space.

Zihao dropped his bag onto the cafeteria table and collapsed into the chair with a groan.

Hanyu didn’t even look up from his food. “Rough day with Suren again?”

“Not rough,” Zihao mumbled, dragging his chopsticks through his rice. “Just… impossible.”

Xinlong smirked. “Impossible how? He leave his socks everywhere? Steal your snacks?”

Zihao shook his head. “No, he’s—he’s perfect. That’s the problem.”

Both of them paused. Xinlong raised his brows. “Perfect?”

Zihao gestured helplessly, words tumbling out faster than he meant them to.

“He dances all the time, and it’s not even annoying, it’s—god—it’s like watching art happen in front of you. He wakes up early, he actually folds his laundry, he even makes the bed when I forget. And he’s nice. Too nice. And I…” Zihao trailed off, his voice cracking with frustration. “…I’m just me.”

Hanyu finally looked up, studying him. “Zihao, you make it sound like you’re living with a celebrity.”

“Feels like it,” Zihao muttered. He shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth, as if chewing could stop him from saying more. But it didn’t. “Every time he smiles at me, I can’t—ugh—I can’t even look at him properly. I don’t stand a chance.”

That last part came out so low it was almost swallowed by the cafeteria noise. He wished he could take it back the second it slipped, but Xinlong and Hanyu exchanged a look, half exasperated and half sympathetic.

“Zihao,” Xinlong said slowly, “you’re seriously killing yourself over this. You live with him. That’s the perfect chance to—”

“No.” Zihao cut in quickly, shaking his head. “No way. I’d rather die of embarrassment than—than ruin what’s already good. He deserves better.”

For a moment, silence lingered. Then Hanyu sighed, poking his chopsticks toward him.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, man.”

Zihao forced a laugh, hollow around the edges. “Yeah, well. Better that than get my hopes up.”

Zihao sat cross-legged on his bed, half-heartedly flipping through notes. From the corner of his eye, he could see Suren at his desk, headphones around his neck, idly drumming his fingers against the tabletop in a rhythm only he seemed to know.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Zihao said before he could stop himself.

Suren looked over, curious. “What thing?”

“The…” Zihao mimicked the drumming on his notebook, sheepishly. “You tap when you’re thinking.”

A faint grin tugged at Suren’s lips. “You noticed?”

Zihao’s ears burned. “Well, you do it a lot.”

Instead of brushing it off, Suren tilted his head, almost amused. “Guess that means you pay attention to me.”

Zihao froze for a beat, stammering out, “I mean, we live in the same room, of course I—”

But Suren was already chuckling, turning back to his laptop, like he hadn’t just dropped a comment that sent Zihao’s heart into orbit.

Zihao returned to the dorm after class, hair damp from the drizzle outside. Suren was sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his phone.

“You’re wet,” Suren said, glancing up.

Zihao blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—I mean, yeah, it’s raining.”

Suren didn’t laugh. Instead, he stood, tugged Zihao’s hoodie off his shoulders with a casual ease, and tossed it over the back of his chair. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay in this. I’ll make tea.”

Zihao froze, watching Suren fill the kettle like it was the most natural thing in the world. His brain, however, was not cooperating. He just—did that. Like we’ve been doing this for years. Like… like we’re something.

“Don’t just stand there, change,” Suren added without looking, and Zihao scrambled toward his dresser, face hot.

When Suren handed him a steaming mug minutes later, Zihao muttered a thanks, fingers brushing Suren’s just long enough to make his pulse stutter.

Suren didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did—because there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Zihao stayed up late at his desk, trying to cram for an exam. His lamp was the only light in the room, soft yellow pooling over scattered notes. Behind him, Suren shifted on his bed, the rustle of blankets breaking the silence.

“You should sleep,” Zihao said without turning. “You’ve got rehearsal in the morning.”

“I will.” Suren’s voice was low, almost drowsy. Then, after a pause: “You’re easier to fall asleep to than music.”

Zihao’s pen slipped, leaving a streak of ink across his page. He turned halfway, caught in the half-dark, searching Suren’s face—but the other boy had already shut his eyes, breathing slow, as if he’d said nothing unusual at all.

Zihao sat frozen, ears hot, heart doing double-time. What does that even mean? Is he—no, he’s just tired. He didn’t mean anything.

Still, the words stayed with him all night, no matter how hard he tried to focus on his notes.

One afternoon, Zihao came back from class early, surprised to find Suren already there, sprawled on the floor with headphones in, sketching choreography notes into a battered notebook. He looked up when Zihao entered and gave a small grin.

“You eat yet?” Suren asked casually.

Zihao shook his head.

Without another word, Suren pushed half a takeout container toward him—the lid already off, like he had expected Zihao to show up hungry.

Zihao blinked. “…You were saving this for me?”

Suren just shrugged, jotting something else in his notebook. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

Zihao sat on the edge of his bed, chopsticks hovering, brain melting. He knew I wouldn’t eat. He just… knows? Does he do this for everyone, or just—

He ended up blurting out a too-loud, “Thanks,” which earned him a distracted little smile before Suren ducked his head again.

Zihao ate in silence, chest too full of questions he couldn’t ask.

Zihao slumped into the seat across from them, tray clattering down as he dropped his head into his hands.

Xinlong raised a brow. “Suren again?”

Zihao groaned. “Why do you always assume—”

“Because you’ve looked like you’re about to explode for days now,” Hanyu said gently. “What happened this time?”

Zihao hesitated, then muttered, “He just… he does these things. Shares his food. Waits for me after class. And then he’ll say stuff like—like I make the room less quiet, or that he’s glad I’m around. It sounds normal, right? But then it doesn’t, and I—I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”

Xinlong leaned forward. “And if you’re not?”

Zihao’s throat tightened. “Then it’s worse. Because why me? He’s… he’s everything. Talented, confident, people actually pay attention to him. I’m just… his roommate. Someone who happened to be there.”

The words hung in the air like a confession he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Hanyu reached across the table, resting his hand lightly over Zihao’s. “Zihao, don’t do that to yourself. You’re not just ‘someone who happened to be there.’ You’re… you. You care, you try, you make people laugh when they don’t even realize they need it. That’s why we’re your friends. That’s why people stay.”

Zihao blinked rapidly, trying not to let his face crumble.

Xinlong, for once, didn’t tease. His voice was steady, almost protective. “If Suren’s giving you his time, his words, his attention—it’s because he wants to. He sees something in you, and you need to stop acting like that’s impossible. You’re not a placeholder in anyone’s story, Zihao. Least of all his.”

Zihao stared down at the untouched food on his tray, throat burning. “…You guys always know what to say.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Hanyu said, giving his hand a squeeze before pulling back.

Xinlong smirked, but his tone stayed soft. “And hey, if you still think you’re making it up—test it. Talk to him. Worst case, nothing changes. Best case, everything does.”

Zihao dragged his hoodie sleeve across his face as if it might hide the storm on it, but Xinlong and Hanyu had seen him like this too many times. He pushed his tray forward untouched. “It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

“You’re not,” Hanyu said instantly, the firmness in his voice surprising Zihao.

Zihao tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “You don’t get it. He’s Suren. Everyone knows him, everyone wants him around. And I’m—what? Some awkward guy who can’t even figure out if his roommate is being nice or… something else. It’s pathetic.”

Xinlong leaned back in his chair, staring him down. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” His voice was calm, but it had an edge, the kind that meant he wasn’t joking. “You act like we just… ended up hanging around you by accident. You think we’ve been wasting our time all this time?”

Zihao looked away, ashamed. “…No.”

“Then don’t act like it.” Xinlong’s tone softened, but his eyes didn’t leave Zihao. “You’re not small, Hao. You’re not invisible. If Suren sees you—really sees you—it’s because there’s something worth seeing. Stop convincing yourself you don’t deserve that.”

Zihao’s throat tightened. His hands curled into fists in his lap. “It’s not that easy. Even if I want to believe it, it just… doesn’t stick. I keep thinking he’ll wake up one day and realize he could do way better than me.”

Hanyu sighed, scooting closer until their shoulders pressed. His voice was quiet but solid, like a hand on his back holding him up. “Then we’ll remind you, every single time. That’s what we’re here for. You fall apart, we’ll sit with you. You don’t believe in yourself, we’ll believe twice as hard. You don’t get to fight this alone, Hao. Not ever.”

Something in Zihao cracked at that, a soundless sob he swallowed down, shaking his head as if to stop himself from breaking open completely.

Xinlong reached across the table and flicked his forehead, just enough to ground him. “And if Suren hurts you,” he added casually, though his gaze stayed sharp, “me and Hanyu will make sure he regrets it. We’re not letting anyone treat our boy like he’s disposable.”

Zihao huffed out a wet laugh, blinking rapidly. “You guys are… ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Hanyu said, leaning his chin on his hand. “But you’re stuck with us. So deal with it.”

For a long moment, Zihao sat there, thankful his friends were there for him. He still wasn't confident, but it was a step in the right direction.

The dorm was quiet when Zihao came back, only the hum of a desk lamp cutting through the stillness. Suren was at his desk, headphones half-on, tapping a rhythm against his notebook as he scribbled something down. He looked up when Zihao slipped inside.

“Hey,” Suren said, his voice warm and easy, like it always was. “Long day?”

Zihao froze in the doorway for half a second too long. He thought about what Xinlong had said — You’re not small. You’re not invisible. If Suren sees you, it’s because there’s something worth seeing.

And yet, all he could think was: What if he doesn’t? What if I’m just… imagining it?

“Uh—yeah,” Zihao muttered, kicking his shoes off. His bag dropped a little too loudly to the floor.

Suren tilted his head, studying him. “You okay?”

Zihao’s brain went into overdrive. Suren was looking at him, not just in the casual way roommates look, but with that slight crease in his brow, like he was genuinely curious, maybe even concerned. Hanyu’s voice echoed: You don’t get to fight this alone. Not ever.

Zihao’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something, anything — about his day, about how sitting across from Suren made his stomach twist up in impossible knots, about how terrified he was that if he said one wrong word, the fragile normalcy they had would vanish.

But all that came out was, “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

Suren blinked, then smiled like it was enough. “I was about to order takeout. Want in?”

Zihao nodded too quickly. “Sure.”

He sat on his bed, staring at his hands while Suren pulled out his phone. He knew his friends would roll their eyes if they could see him now, retreating into silence after all their words. But the thing was… Suren’s casual kindness made it worse. Every time he did something small — offering food, holding the door, sharing notes — Zihao’s heart convinced him it meant something , while his head screamed it didn’t.

Still, when Suren looked back at him, waiting for his choice of food, Zihao thought of Xinlong flicking his forehead and saying, Stop convincing yourself you don’t deserve this.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t.

The takeout came in a noisy plastic bag, filling the room with the smell of fried rice. Zihao paid for his half, settling cross-legged on his bed while Suren sat across from him, containers spread between them.

They ate in comfortable silence at first. But then Suren pushed one of the cartons toward Zihao.

“You kept eyeing this last time,” he said, opening his own box. “Figured I’d order it tonight.”

Zihao froze, chopsticks mid-air. He had forgotten about that — a passing glance at the food Suren had ordered weeks ago. It wasn’t something he thought anyone noticed.

His stomach knotted. “You—remembered?”

Suren shrugged, but there was a small smile tugging at his mouth, softer than usual. “Yeah. You looked like you wanted some.”

Zihao laughed, but it cracked halfway out, turning into a nervous cough. He told himself it was just kindness, just Suren being thoughtful, the way he probably was with everyone. But then Suren leaned across the space between their beds, picking a stray grain of rice off Zihao’s sleeve with his fingers before flicking it aside.

And he said it so casually, like it was nothing:

“You’re messy. Good thing you’ve got me around.”

Zihao’s heart slammed . His brain spun a thousand miles an hour — was this a joke? Teasing? Or something else? Suren’s tone was light, but the brush of his fingers against his arm lingered in his head long after.

For the first time, Zihao wasn’t sure if he was imagining it anymore.

Zihao was still replaying the rice-on-his-sleeve moment in his head when Suren suddenly stretched across the small space between their beds again.

“Hold still,” Suren said, his voice low but easy, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Before Zihao could react, Suren reached out and fixed the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down with a gentle tug. His knuckles brushed against Zihao’s neck, warm and deliberate enough that Zihao’s breath caught.

“There,” Suren said simply, leaning back. His smile was lopsided, unbothered. “You’d walk out looking like you fought the laundry basket.”

Zihao’s brain short-circuited. Did he just—? Was that—?

But Suren wasn’t done. After a beat, he reached for the last dumpling in the container, then, without asking, held it up halfway between them.

“Want it?”

Zihao stared at him, at the chopsticks hovering just inches from his lips, at Suren’s steady eyes waiting.

His throat went dry. “You…you’re offering it to me?”

Suren tilted his head, like the answer was obvious. “Yeah. Open.”

And Zihao did — because what else could he do? He leaned forward, bit into the dumpling, and for a fraction of a second, Suren’s fingers brushed his lower lip when the chopsticks tilted. The spark shot straight down Zihao’s spine.

Suren just grinned, finishing the other half of the dumpling himself like nothing monumental had happened. But Zihao was left frozen, heart pounding so loud he was sure Suren could hear it.

For the first time, Zihao realized: if this was just “being roommates”…he didn’t know how he was supposed to survive it.

It started small — Suren holding his gaze a little too long, laughing too easily at his jokes. Zihao told himself it was nothing.

But then Suren leaned across the cafeteria table one day, close enough that Zihao could count the flecks of brown in his eyes, and said, “You’re really bad at hiding when you’re nervous, you know that?” with a teasing smirk.

Or the time Suren casually draped his hoodie over Zihao’s shoulders after practice, muttering “You’ll catch a cold, idiot,” before going right back to scrolling his phone like nothing had happened.

And then there was that night in their dorm. Zihao was working through a late assignment when Suren padded out of the bathroom, hair still damp, wearing nothing but sweats and a loose tank. He leaned against Zihao’s desk, far too close, and asked, almost playfully, “Do you ever get distracted… or is it just me?”

Zihao’s brain short-circuited. He had no idea if Suren meant the homework, the room, or—

Well.

By now, it wasn’t subtle. Suren was definitely flirting.

And Zihao was torn between wanting to melt into the floor and wanting to actually believe it.

Zihao all but collapsed onto Xinlong’s bed, burying his face in a pillow.

“...He’s flirting with me,” came the muffled groan.

Xinlong blinked, then slowly set his controller down. “...Okay. And why do you sound like that’s a bad thing?”

Hanyu, sprawled on the floor with his notes, looked up with a frown. “Wait. Flirting? Suren?”

Zihao sat up, hair a mess, eyes wide like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Yes! He’s—it’s not subtle anymore. He leans close, he says things, he looks at me. And I can’t— I don’t know if he’s serious or if he’s just…like that with everyone.”

Xinlong snorted. “Bro. He’s not like that with me. Trust me, I’d remember if Suren ever leaned across a table and gave me bedroom eyes.”

“Exactly,” Hanyu said, deadpan. “If he’s doing it, he’s doing it to you. ”

Zihao hugged his knees to his chest, voice low. “But what if he’s just joking? What if I misread everything, and I’m just the stupid roommate who caught feelings? He’s cool, he’s talented, everyone likes him. Why would he ever mean it with me?”

The room went quiet for a moment. Then Xinlong threw a pillow at him, hitting him square in the face.

“Because you’re you , dumbass.”

Hanyu leaned back on his elbows, softer. “Zihao, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. He’s flirting with you because he wants you. Not some imaginary cooler version of you, not anyone else. Just you.”

Zihao blinked, overwhelmed, his throat tight with something he didn’t want to admit. “…You guys really think so?”

Xinlong gave him a crooked grin. “I don’t think. I know. And if you keep doubting yourself, I’ll drag Suren in here and make him spell it out for you.”

“Please don’t,” Zihao muttered, burying his face again— but this time, his ears were burning red.

The dorm was quiet when Zihao got back from late study group. He half-expected Suren to already be asleep, but instead, Suren was in the middle of the room, music playing softly from his speaker as he stretched.

Zihao froze in the doorway. Suren wasn’t even doing a full routine—just small movements, fluid, graceful—but watching him move felt like stumbling into something private and magnetic.

“You’re back,” Suren said, breathless but smiling, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “Perfect timing.”

Zihao set his bag down carefully. “…Perfect timing for what?”

Suren grinned, crossing the room before Zihao could react. He stopped very close—close enough that Zihao could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. “Perfect timing for me to ask you to be my partner.”

Zihao blinked rapidly. “P-partner?”

“For my dance project.” Suren’s tone was casual, but the way he tilted his head, eyes locked on Zihao’s, was anything but. “I need someone I can trust. Someone I’ll have good chemistry with. And I thought of you.”

Zihao’s heart did a full somersault. “Me? I—I don’t even dance.”

“That’s fine.” Suren’s smile turned soft, almost teasing. “I can lead. You just have to trust me.”

Zihao opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His brain screamed flirting! flirting! but his tongue couldn’t form words.

Suren, apparently amused by his silence, leaned in even closer, lowering his voice. “Unless you’re saying you don’t want to spend more time with me?”

Zihao’s ears went hot. “That’s not what I’m saying!”

“Good.” Suren pulled back slightly—still close, still smiling, but mercifully giving Zihao room to breathe. “Then it’s settled. You and me. I’ll text you the rehearsal times.”

Zihao nodded dumbly, pulse still racing as Suren went back to stretching, as if he hadn’t just thrown Zihao’s entire world off-balance.

The practice room was empty except for them, the mirrors reflecting their every movement. Zihao stood stiffly in the middle of the floor, feeling awkward in sweats, while Suren adjusted the playlist.

“Relax,” Suren said, stepping up close— too close—and taking Zihao’s wrists to lower his tense arms. “You’re not going into battle.”

“I feel like I am,” Zihao muttered, his pulse thundering.

Suren chuckled, then, without hesitation, placed Zihao’s hand on his own waist. The world dropped out from under him.

“That’s your spot,” Suren said simply, looking straight into his eyes. “Don’t let go.”

Zihao’s breath stuttered. “O-okay.”

When the music started, Suren guided him step by step. Zihao tripped once, twice, but Suren didn’t laugh—he just steadied him, one hand warm on Zihao’s shoulder, the other on his wrist, leading him through the rhythm until Zihao’s body started to follow.

“See?” Suren’s voice was low, his smile soft. “You can do it.”

Zihao’s chest tightened. He couldn’t tell if it was the music or the way Suren’s gaze lingered on his lips when he said it.

As they moved together, the distance shrank further—Suren leaning in, Zihao stumbling but caught every time, their breaths tangling. At one point, Suren spun him clumsily into place and ended with Zihao caged against the mirror, Suren’s hand braced beside his head.

Zihao froze. Their noses were so close.

Suren smirked just slightly. “Careful, Zihao. If you look at me like that, I’ll think you want something more than practice.”

Zihao’s entire body went hot. “I—I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Suren asked, deliberately not moving away. His voice was teasing, but his eyes were steady, serious.

Zihao swallowed hard. He couldn’t answer.

Suren finally stepped back, giving him room to breathe again. But his smile said everything: this wasn’t subtle anymore.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Zihao just nodded, dazed, because if he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out.

It was late. Zihao was already half-asleep at his desk, notes scattered everywhere, when the door creaked open. Suren slipped inside, hair damp from a shower, loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

Zihao blinked. “You’re back late.”

“Studio ran over.” Suren’s voice was quiet, casual. He crossed the room and leaned over Zihao’s chair to glance at his laptop screen. “You’re still working?”

“Trying to.” Zihao rubbed his eyes. He was hyperaware of Suren’s weight leaning against the back of his chair, the faint smell of shampoo.

Without asking, Suren reached past him to close the laptop. The brush of his arm against Zihao’s shoulder made Zihao jolt.

“You need sleep,” Suren said softly. “Come on.”

“I—wait, I should finish—”

“No.” Suren tugged gently on Zihao’s wrist until Zihao stood. He guided him to his bed instead of Zihao’s own, and before Zihao could protest, Suren sat down and pulled him right after, so close their thighs touched.

Zihao’s heart was trying to escape his chest. “Suren…”

“Shh.” Suren’s head dropped onto his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just… let me borrow this for a bit. You’re warm.”

Zihao sat frozen, every nerve lit. He didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

Minutes passed. The dorm was quiet except for Suren’s slow breathing. Zihao thought maybe he’d fallen asleep—until he felt Suren’s fingers brush against his hand, testing, deliberate.

Zihao’s pulse spiked. He didn’t move away.

Suren’s pinky hooked around his, casual, but unmistakable. When Zihao didn’t pull back, Suren’s grip slid lower, lacing their fingers together.

Zihao’s brain short-circuited. He wanted to ask what are we? what are you doing? but his throat locked up.

Instead, Suren tilted his face up, meeting Zihao’s wide eyes in the dim light. They were so close Zihao could see the reflection of the desk lamp in his irises.

“You’re so easy to fluster,” Suren murmured, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “It’s cute.”

Zihao swallowed hard, every inch of him burning. He couldn’t tell if this was teasing or… or more.

But Suren didn’t move away. Not this time. He just rested against Zihao like he belonged there, holding his hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Zihao stayed awake long after Suren drifted off, heart hammering, mind looping one terrifying, exhilarating thought: I think he likes me.

Zihao hadn’t slept much. He kept replaying it — the warmth of Suren’s head on his shoulder, their hands tangled, the way Suren had looked at him in the dark. That wasn’t nothing.

But when he woke up, Suren was already moving around the room, humming under his breath as he tied his hair back, like nothing had happened.

Zihao sat up slowly. His throat was dry. “Morning.”

Suren smiled, casually. “Morning. Want breakfast? I was thinking about grabbing something before class.”

Zihao hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”

They walked side by side to the cafeteria. Suren talked about dance rehearsals, about an upcoming group assignment. Zihao nodded at the right moments, but the words barely registered. All he could think was Why aren’t we talking about it? Did it mean something to him, or just—

They sat down with their food. Zihao pushed his eggs around, appetite gone. Finally, it spilled out:

“Suren… what are we doing?”

Suren blinked. “Eating breakfast?”

Zihao let out a shaky laugh. “Not that. Last night. You—” He broke off, cheeks hot. “You held my hand.”

For the first time, Suren’s easy expression faltered.

Zihao’s voice wavered. “I need to know if I’m imagining things. Because if I am, just—just tell me. Please. I can’t keep going like this.”

Silence stretched. Zihao’s heart hammered in his ears.

Then Suren leaned across the table, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes softened, no teasing in them now.

“You’re not imagining it,” he said quietly. “I like you, Zihao.”

Zihao’s breath caught. “…You do?”

Suren’s lips curved, not into his usual smirk but something gentler. “Yeah. I’ve liked you for a while. But you always look like you’re about to run away whenever I get close, so I was… waiting.”

Zihao covered his face with both hands, half laughing, half ready to combust. “Oh my god.”

Suren reached over, tugging his hands down, threading their fingers together across the table, bold as anything. “You don’t have to run anymore. Unless it’s into me.”

Zihao groaned. “That’s so cheesy.”

Suren grinned. “But you’re smiling.”

The dorm was quiet, late enough that most of the floor had gone out or gone to sleep. Zihao had just set his laptop aside when he realized Suren was staring at him, as if he was waiting for something.

Zihao’s pulse stuttered. “What?” he managed, his voice too small.

Suren didn’t answer. He crossed the narrow space between their beds and stopped right in front of him. Zihao looked up, wide-eyed, trapped in that gaze he’d once only admired from across lecture halls.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Suren leaned down, closing the gap in one decisive motion.

The kiss hit like fire. Not tentative, not testing — but full, overwhelming, certain . Zihao’s breath caught as Suren’s lips pressed against his, fierce and unrelenting, like he had no intention of letting Zihao doubt this ever again. Zihao’s hands found Suren’s shirt before he even realized, clutching at him desperately, pulling him closer. Suren shifted, one hand cupping Zihao’s jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his ear, anchoring him in place.

Zihao let out a sound — half-gasp, half-whimper — swallowed immediately into the kiss. His mind went blank except for this , except for Suren’s warmth and urgency and the raw truth pouring out without a single word.

When Suren finally slowed, lips still brushing against his, Zihao’s chest heaved, dizzy with how much had just been said without saying anything at all.

No confession had ever been this clear.

No words could have carried it better.

The kiss broke for just a breath. Suren’s forehead rested against Zihao’s, his hand still cupping his jaw as if he wasn’t willing to let go yet. Zihao’s heart thundered so hard he thought it might bruise his ribs. He was trembling, not from fear, but from the weight of everything he’d dreamed of colliding with reality.

Suren’s eyes searched his, steady, certain. Always certain.

For the first time, Zihao didn’t look away.

His fingers, still clutching Suren’s shirt, flexed — and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled him back down. This time Zihao kissed him, messy and desperate, all his insecurities bleeding out and turning into something fiercer than he knew he had. Suren made a sound — surprised, then pleased — before meeting him halfway, answering with the same intensity.

Zihao’s other hand slid up, tangling in Suren’s hair, tugging him closer until there was no space left to question. Suren shifted, knees braced against Zihao’s mattress, as if grounding him in the storm they’d both stepped into.

It wasn’t polished, it wasn’t careful. But it was theirs . Zihao’s answer, finally spoken not in words but in fire against Suren’s lips, in the way he refused to let go.

When they finally slowed, breaths ragged, Zihao’s forehead bumped against Suren’s shoulder, laughter slipping out of him in disbelief. Suren just wrapped an arm around him, holding him steady, lips brushing his temple.

For once, Zihao didn’t spiral. Didn’t doubt.

Because there was no going back from that.

Zihao was still pressed against Suren’s shoulder, his pulse trying to calm, when he felt Suren shift slightly. A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest before Suren murmured, voice low but steady:

“...You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Zihao froze, breath catching. Then he groaned into Suren’s shirt, half mortified, half giddy, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “ don’t say stuff like that.”

Suren only smiled, tightening his hold around him. “Why not? It’s true.”

Zihao’s ears burned, but he didn’t move away. Not this time.

Zihao sat on the edge of the couch, twisting his fingers together like he was about to confess to a crime. “So… uh. I kissed him.”

Hanyu, who was half-lying with a bag of chips, blinked slowly. “…You kissed Suren?”

Zihao’s ears went hot. “Well, he kissed me first. But then I kissed him back. So. We kissed. And… we’re… together.”

There was a pause where Xinlong and Hanyu just looked at him, and Zihao braced for teasing—except it didn’t come. Instead, Xinlong’s face split into the widest smile Zihao had ever seen.

“Finally,” Xinlong said softly, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “Zihao, you’ve been beating yourself up for months thinking you weren’t good enough. And look. He’s your boyfriend now.”

Zihao blinked, the word boyfriend ringing in his ears. It still felt unreal.

Hanyu sat up, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “I hope you remember this next time your brain tells you you’re not worth it. Suren doesn’t play games, man. If he chose you, he really chose you.”

Zihao ducked his head, but a smile broke through, small and helpless. “…It feels like I got lucky. Like, what if it’s just—”

“Nope,” Xinlong cut in firmly. “None of that. You’re not lucky. He’s lucky too. You hear me? You’re thoughtful, stubborn, kind… you drive us crazy sometimes, but you’re one of the best people I know. Don’t downplay yourself.”

Zihao swallowed hard, his chest tight, because he could hear how much they meant it. “…Thanks. Really.”

Hanyu leaned back with a satisfied grin. “You deserve it. And now you have to do one thing for us.”

Zihao frowned. “What?”

“Introduce him properly,” Hanyu said, like it was obvious.

Xinlong nodded immediately. “Yeah. We’ve seen him around campus, sure, but that doesn’t count. He’s important to you—so he matters to us too. We want to know the guy who makes you smile like this.”

Zihao’s cheeks burned, but the warmth in his chest spread. For once, the weight of his insecurities felt lighter. “You guys are impossible,” he muttered, smiling despite himself.

“Get used to it,” Xinlong said, bumping his shoulder. “We’re your impossible.”

They were lying around the dorm late in the evening, Suren stretched out on his bed with a book balanced on his chest, Zihao pretending to study but really just watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Zihao cleared his throat. “Uh, so… I need you to do something for me.”

Suren looked up, brow quirking. “That sounds ominous. What is it?”

Zihao fiddled with his pen, cheeks a little pink. “Meet my friends.”

Suren blinked, then sat up a little. “You mean Xinlong and Hanyu?”

“Yeah.” Zihao’s voice softened without him meaning to. “They’ve… been with me through everything. Even when I was at my worst. They never let me feel like I was alone, even when I convinced myself I was. Honestly, I wouldn’t have made it here without them.”

Suren set his book aside, watching him carefully now. Zihao rubbed at the back of his neck, forcing himself to keep going.

“They’re loud sometimes, and they tease me too much, but… they’re my people, you know? My safe place. I love them, just—just differently. They’re like home.” He let out a small laugh, embarrassed. “So, yeah. If we’re… if we’re really doing this, I want them to know you. Because you’re important to me, and they’re important to me, and I want the two parts of my life to fit together.”

For a moment, Suren just stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile curved at his lips. “Zihao…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know that’s one of the things I like most about you, right? The way you talk about the people you love.”

Zihao’s ears went hot. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Suren cut in gently, grin widening. “And I can’t wait to meet them properly. Anyone who means that much to you is someone I want in my corner too.”

Zihao ducked his head, but the little knot in his chest loosened. He hadn’t realized how much it mattered until he said it aloud.

Xinlong and Hanyu had claimed a corner booth at their usual café, waving wildly the moment Zihao and Suren walked in. Zihao’s stomach was doing nervous flips, but Suren just gave his hand a reassuring squeeze under the table as they slid into the seats.

“Finally,” Xinlong said with a grin, giving Suren a once-over. “We’ve been waiting to meet the legendary roommate who managed to get this guy to stop sulking every weekend.”

Zihao groaned. “Don’t start.”

Hanyu laughed, leaning across the table to offer Suren a handshake. “It’s good to meet you. I’m glad you’re here. Zihao’s been smiling more lately, and we know who to thank for that.”

Suren shook his hand, warmth in his expression. “I’m glad too.”

The conversation eased into stories, Xinlong cracking jokes, Hanyu asking about Suren’s dance major. Suren handled it easily, even teasing Zihao a little, which made Xinlong cackle and Zihao kick him under the table. But eventually, Hanyu’s tone softened, and he glanced between them.

“You seem great,” he said, “and it’s obvious Zihao’s crazy about you.” His eyes narrowed just slightly, protective but not unkind. “But just so we’re clear… if you ever hurt him, you’ll have to deal with us.”

Zihao’s face went red. “Hanyu—”

But Suren didn’t flinch. He looked at both of them, then at Zihao, and said firmly, “I won’t. I couldn’t.”

Xinlong grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good answer.”

Zihao buried his face in his hands, mumbling something about regretting everything, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

The evening ended too quickly. They spilled out of the café together, the city air cooler now, the street buzzing.

“Text when you get back,” Hanyu reminded Zihao automatically, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Zihao nodded, but his chest felt tight. He turned to Suren with a small smile. “Wait for me a sec?”

Suren tilted his head but didn’t ask questions, stepping a little aside while Zihao faced Xinlong and Hanyu. For a moment, he just looked at them—his ride-or-die, the ones who’d pulled him through every breakdown and sleepless night.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and wrapped them both up in his arms. No quick side hug, no playful shoulder bump. A proper hug, full and tight, like he was trying to put every word he couldn’t say into the gesture.

Xinlong let out a startled laugh, muffled against Zihao’s shoulder. “What’s this about?”

“I love you guys,” Zihao said, voice steadier than he expected but thick with feeling. “I mean it. You’ve always had my back, even when I was… a mess about everything. You never let me give up. And I don’t think I’ve ever really told you how much that means to me.”

Neither of them pulled away. Hanyu’s hand came up to squeeze his back firmly. “You don’t need to say it. We already know.”

“Still,” Zihao whispered. “I wanted to.”

Xinlong pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, his usual grin softened into something gentler. “We love you too, idiot. Nothing’s changing that.”

When Zihao finally let go, his eyes stung, but he was smiling. Suren was waiting patiently a few steps away, hands in his pockets, gaze soft—like he’d seen enough to understand without needing details.

Zihao jogged the few steps back to where Suren was waiting, cheeks still warm from the hug. Suren fell into step beside him easily, their shoulders brushing as they headed down the street.

For a beat, neither said anything. Then Suren glanced sideways, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“So…” he drawled, voice light, “should I be worried I’ve got competition? Those two looked like they’ve got a pretty big claim on your heart.”

Zihao blinked at him, then laughed, embarrassed and fond all at once. “They do. But it’s… different. They’re my family, basically. The ones who’ve been with me through everything.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “You don’t have to worry. You’re—you’re the one I chose like this.”

Suren’s grin widened, soft around the edges, and he bumped their shoulders deliberately. “Good. Because I don’t plan on sharing that spot.”

Zihao’s stomach flipped, but in the best way. He shook his head, smiling helplessly, and reached for Suren’s hand. Suren squeezed back, steady and sure, like the teasing was just another way of saying I feel the same .

The door clicked shut, and Suren didn’t give Zihao a chance to breathe. His mouth was on him instantly, hot and demanding, kisses that burned away every ounce of hesitation Zihao had ever carried.

Zihao stumbled back against the door with a muffled gasp, Suren’s body pressed flush against his, hands roaming like he couldn’t decide where to hold him first—his waist, his jaw, his shoulders. Zihao’s own fingers tangled in Suren’s hair, pulling him closer, greedy now, no longer afraid of wanting too much.

Their kisses turned messier, wetter, the sound of them filling the quiet room as Suren pushed him toward the bed. Zihao’s heart was racing, his knees nearly buckling with how overwhelming it felt—this was Suren, the boy he’d crushed on from afar, the boy who turned out to want him back just as fiercely.

By the time they collapsed onto the mattress, they were both laughing breathlessly between kisses, laughter that dissolved quickly into more urgent touches. Suren pulled back just long enough to look at him, eyes dark and steady.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, voice rough.

Zihao’s answer came in another kiss, deeper than all the rest, a promise pressed into Suren’s mouth: me too.

And when the light outside their window finally dimmed, the room was filled not with words, but with the sound of love neither of them would ever doubt again.