Dear Roommate Please Stop Being Hot [BL]-Chapter 205: Soft Hours, Certain Hearts

The bags rustled softly as they stepped out of the store, the afternoon sun settling lazy and golden across the quiet street.

The frantic energy of the weekday was gone, replaced by the distant laughter from a café, a dog barking down the block, and the faint rhythm of music spilling from a passing car.

Luca shifted his grocery bag to one hand and reached for Noel’s with the other—no hesitation, no furtive glances.

Just a slow, deliberate intertwining of fingers, simple and grounding.

Noel didn’t pull away.

His thumb brushed against Luca’s knuckle, the barest motion, but it spoke volumes.

It said he was here, fully present, and for once, not calculating who might be watching.

"Feels weird," Noel murmured, his gaze fixed ahead.

"What does?"

"This," he said. "Not hiding."

A smile touched Luca’s lips. "Weird good or weird bad?"

A pause, then the faintest breath of a smile in return. "Weird good."

Luca gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Then let’s get used to it."

They crossed the street, wrapped in a silence that needed no filling.

Every few steps, Luca swung their clasped hands just enough to draw a quiet, helpless sigh from Noel—a sound that only widened Luca’s grin.

"You’re enjoying this," Noel observed, though there was no bite in his tone.

"Of course. You’re holding my hand in public. That’s a top-tier couple achievement."

A low, genuine laugh escaped Noel before he could stop it. "You’re impossible."

"I’m consistent," Luca countered, bumping his shoulder lightly against Noel’s. "You love that about me."

Noel didn’t answer with words. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

But his thumb stroked the back of Luca’s hand again, slow and certain, and that was confirmation enough.

By the time they turned onto their street, the air carried the faint scent of wet concrete and jasmine from a neighbor’s garden.

Luca tilted his face toward the sun. "See? We didn’t even need a car. Fresh air, light cardio, mild emotional growth."

"Emotional growth?"

"Yeah," Luca said, flashing a grin. "You held my hand for more than ten seconds. That’s basically therapy."

Noel shook his head, though the smile lingered this time. "You really can’t be serious for a full minute."

"Not when I’m happy," Luca said, the words softer now, stripped of their usual teasing.

That quiet honesty hung between them, heavier than the joke deserved.

Noel glanced at him, something warm flickering in his eyes before he looked away.

When they reached their building, Luca tugged him to a gentle stop at the base of the steps. "Hey."

Noel turned.

Luca leaned in, his voice a low murmur, a half-smile ghosting his lips. "Next time, I’m buying you flowers again."

Noel looked at him for a long moment—then shook his head, a real smile finally breaking through. "Then I’ll cook next time."

"Deal," Luca murmured. "As long as you’re not planning to poison me."

"I’ll think about it."

They stepped inside, the lobby light catching the edges of their joined hands before the door swung shut, closing out the city and leaving them wrapped in the soft echo of their own laughter.

The apartment felt slower that afternoon, sunlight pooling in warm patches across the countertops.

The gentle hum of traffic filtered through the open balcony door.

Noel stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, watching steam curl from a pot of sauce that smelled richly of garlic and simmering tomatoes.

Behind him, Luca leaned against the counter, chin propped in his hand. "You look way too serious for someone boiling tomatoes."

"It’s called cooking," Noel said without turning. "Not chaos."

"Chaos is subjective."

"Salt isn’t." Noel reached for a small bowl, measuring a precise pinch between his fingers. He shot a look over his shoulder. "You—are banned from seasoning anything until further notice."

Luca gasped, hand flying to his heart. "Excuse me? I’m a visionary. You don’t understand my flavor instincts."

"Your ’instincts’ almost gave me sodium poisoning last time," Noel stated, deadpan.

"It was passion, not salt."

"It was salt," Noel corrected, stirring the sauce. His tone was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Luca edged closer, peering into the pot. "So, what are we making again?"

"Spaghetti. Simple. Safe."

"Safe sounds boring."

"Safe means edible."

Luca snorted, stepping up beside him. "Fine. Teach me your boring way."

Noel passed him the wooden spoon. "Stir. Gently. Like you’re not trying to start a storm."

Luca immediately exaggerated the motion, stirring with a theatrical flourish. "Like this?"

Noel exhaled slowly. "You’re impossible."

"Admit it," Luca said, turning to grin at him, "you love me impossible."

Noel didn’t answer right away. He simply reached out and guided Luca’s hand, correcting the motion. "Small circles. Let it move with the heat."

Their hands brushed. Luca stilled, the air shifting palpably around them.

He whispered, his voice softer now, "I like it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Talk like I’m worth teaching."

Noel’s eyes flicked to his, soft but unreadable. "You just need patience."

"Then I’ll learn it," Luca said, the words almost teasing, but his voice low with sincerity. "If it means I get to keep doing this."

Noel’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He turned back to the stove, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "You talk too much."

"You listen too well," Luca countered.

Noel reached for the pasta, pouring it into the boiling water. "Set the timer."

Luca leaned over, deliberately brushing against him as he complied. "You trust me with the timer but not the salt?"

"Timers can’t kill you."

"Debatable."

Noel finally laughed then—a quiet, reluctant sound that slipped out and filled the kitchen better than any music could.

By the time lunch was done, the kitchen bore the comfortable evidence of their efforts.

They plated the food, the sauce had thickened perfectly, and Luca was grinning as if he’d discovered a new art form. "Look at that. I helped."

"You stirred."

"Same thing."

Noel slid a plate toward him. "Try it."

Luca took a bite, his expression turning thoughtfully critical. "Not bad."

"Not bad?"

"I mean—it’s missing a touch of—"

"Don’t," Noel warned, and Luca broke into a laugh that echoed warmly off the walls.

They ate by the window as the sunlight slipped lower, their conversation a gentle drift between jokes and comfortable silences.

Luca twirled another forkful of pasta. "You know, if work was half as calm as this, I’d actually like Monday’s."

Noel smiled faintly, his gaze on the hazy skyline. "Maybe calm is something you have to earn."

Luca looked at him for a long moment. "Then I’m earning it with you."

Noel didn’t look back right away. He just reached for his glass, his voice barely a whisper. "You already are."

Luca leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching Noel taste the sauce with a focus that made the mundane feel significant.

"You added more salt, didn’t you?" Noel asked, glancing up.

Luca hesitated. "Define ’more.’"

"That’s a yes." Noel sighed, but he was smiling, spoon still in hand. "You’re banned from the salt jar for life."

"Unfair. What if I’m just naturally flavorful?"

"Then I’ll remind you—your charm doesn’t season pasta."

They both laughed. The sauce was, in truth, barely edible, but Luca swore it was the best thing he’d ever tasted because Noel had made it.

The slanting sun painting their plates gold, the city’s hum a soft soundtrack beneath them.

A deep, slow peace settled in the pauses between their words, in the quiet clink of forks and the warmth of shared laughter.

When Luca leaned back in his chair, he said softly, "Next weekend, I’m cooking again."

"God help me," Noel murmured, the affection in his voice undeniable.

---

Sunday blurred by in a soft, unhurried haze.

They spent a half-day cleaning,music playing low in the background.

Noel folded laundry with methodical precision while Luca tried—and largely failed—to help, distracted every few minutes by something that wasn’t work.

A kiss pressed to Noel’s shoulder here, a playful poke there.

Noel pretended annoyance, but a faint, enduring smile gave him away.

By evening, they found themselves tangled on the couch.

Noel was half-asleep against Luca’s chest,their fingers loosely laced together.

Outside, the sky deepened to a soft indigo, and the city lights began to flicker on one by one.

Luca brushed his thumb over Noel’s hand in a slow, rhythmic pattern, as if afraid to shatter the perfection of the moment.

"This," Luca whispered into the quiet, "is how every weekend should end."

Noel didn’t open his eyes. "Then make sure it always does."

And just like that, a deep, contented silence folded around them—steady, warm, and full of everything left unspoken.

The night settled slow and warm, city lights painting faint, shifting patterns on the walls.

The lingering scent of dinner—garlic, warmth, home—still hung in the air.

Luca had dimmed the lights, shrinking the world down to just their space.

Noel was half-curled on the couch, a book open in his lap but unread, his eyes too heavy for the words.

Luca came up behind him, resting his chin on Noel’s shoulder.

"You’re reading the same page again," Luca murmured, his voice a soft vibration.

"I’m trying," Noel said quietly. "You’re distracting."

"That’s the goal."

Luca took the book gently from his hands and set it aside.

He leaned closer until the space between them vanished.

Noel’s lashes lifted—slow, deliberate.

Their eyes met in a tender hush that asked for no permission.

Luca’s fingers brushed the line of Noel’s jaw, tracing a path to his lips. Noel didn’t pull away.

The kiss came easily, as if they had been moving toward it all day—unrushed, lingering, a silent conversation of breath and heartbeat and quiet need.

When they finally parted, Noel’s voice was a soft whisper. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Make me forget everything else."

Luca smiled, his forehead resting against Noel’s. "Then let’s stay like this a little longer."

They did—until the world outside faded to nothing, until even the clock on the wall seemed to surrender its measurement of time.

Later, when Noel finally stirred, Luca was already watching him, his expression utterly tender.

"Goodnight, babe," Luca whispered, brushing a thumb along Noel’s cheekbone.

Noel’s lips curved into a faint, sleep-softened smile. "Goodnight, trouble."

The room fell still once more, wrapped in a quiet warmth that felt, unmistakably, like home.