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Win never signed up for this.
And by this, he didn’t mean college, or the swim team, or even the fact that he had to live off-campus to get any peace and quiet.
He meant Team.
Team, who was supposed to be just a roommate.
Team, who was messy and loud and allergic to silence.
Team, who bargained his way into Win’s rented apartment because “Dean’s dorm room smells like dead socks and regret.”
At first, it was fine.
Annoying, but manageable.
They set a chore schedule. Team ignored it. Win redid it.
Team took up the entire fridge with snacks. Win surrendered one shelf and gave up arguing.
Team played music while doing laundry. Win wore noise-cancelling headphones.
Normal stuff.
Until it… wasn’t.
Until the weird things started.
Until Win noticed that Team would randomly clean the bathroom without being asked.
Or leave his favorite drink on the table with a sticky note: “Drink this or I’ll drink it for you.”
Or plug in Win’s phone when he forgot, or fold his towel after practice, or casually throw an arm over Win’s shoulder while watching TV like it was nothing.
Like he’d always done it.
Like Win belonged there.
And Win?
Win began to lose his mind.
Not all at once. Just little by little.
A quiet panic that crept in during the most mundane moments — watching Team fall asleep on the couch, hearing him hum in the kitchen, seeing his hair stick up in the mornings.
It wasn’t a crush.
It was a chronic condition.
And the worst part?
Team had no idea.
He just existed. Soft, dumb, happy, lethal.
And Win suffered.
Quietly. Invisibly. Every single day.
This was supposed to be easy — just two roommates, co-existing.
Now Win couldn’t look at a half-folded blanket or a shared plate of dumplings without feeling like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest.
He’d made it 3 months like this.
Month 4 is when the carrot incident happened.
And that’s where things really started to fall apart.
______________
Win came home expecting silence.
Maybe the faint hum of Team watching anime at full volume. Maybe a pile of unmatched socks on the couch. Maybe—if he was lucky—leftover dumplings that hadn’t been claimed.
Instead, he was hit with… garlic. Soy sauce. Something sizzling.
And humming.
Win frowned. Humming meant danger.
He followed the sound cautiously into the kitchen—and immediately stopped.
Team was at the counter. Wearing an apron. Hair a mess. Humming some off-key melody from an ad jingle that had been stuck in Win’s head all week.
He was cooking.
And not just heating water for instant noodles. No, this was legit cooking—pan on the stove, rice already in the cooker, ingredients neatly laid out.
Win's brain stalled. "What... are you doing?"
Team glanced over. “Making dinner.”
Win blinked. “You don’t cook.”
“I cook sometimes.”
“You once set fire to a boiled egg.”
“That was one time,” Team said defensively, turning back to his chopping board. “Anyway, I was bored.”
Win took a cautious step forward. And that’s when he saw it.
The carrots.
Neatly chopped.
Shaped. Like. Hearts.
"...Team," Win said slowly, "Why are the carrots shaped like that?"
Team didn’t even look up. “Like what?”
“Like they belong in a kindergarten bento box.”
“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Felt cute.”
Win stared at the carrots. Then at Team. Then back at the carrots.
His chest did this weird fluttery thing and he hated it.
“You—" he began, then stopped.
What was he supposed to say? Stop being cute, I’m trying to survive here?
Or Can you please not turn my kitchen into a domestic fantasy? I’m dangerously close to catching feelings I’m already drowning in?
So instead, Win just stood there. Useless.
Then turned. Walked out of the kitchen.
And immediately face-planted onto the living room couch.
---
Ten minutes later, Team called out, “Food’s ready!” like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just committed a full rom-com crime scene in broad daylight.
Like he hadn’t accidentally weaponized vegetables.
Win got up. Walked to the table. Sat down. Ate without saying a word.
But every bite of food tasted like panic.
Because suddenly he was realizing something terrifying:
This wasn’t just a roommate anymore.
This was a problem with heart-shaped carrots and a perfect pout and a way of making Win feel like he was walking barefoot into a soft disaster.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
---
Heart carrots: 1. Win: 0. Sanity: missing in action.
___________________________
It started with Team wanting snacks.
That alone should’ve been a warning sign. Team wanting snacks meant trouble. Chaos. A possible dent in Win’s wallet and definitely in his self-control.
But Win was tired, lounging on the couch after practice, pretending to be engrossed in whatever drama was playing on the screen.
Team emerged from the bedroom, hair still damp from a shower, wearing Win’s oversized hoodie like it was his birthright.
He plopped onto the couch next to him, dramatically draped his legs over Win’s lap, and sighed loudly.
Win didn’t look away from the TV. “What.”
“I’m craving Lay’s.”
“Then go buy some.”
Another sigh. Deeper. More wounded.
Then—softly, almost innocently:
> “Hiaaaa~ can you go with me?”
Win blinked.
That tone. That voice.
The exact combination of sugar, sleepiness, and calculated weaponization!
He dared to glance at him.
Team was staring up at him through his lashes, lips slightly pushed out, hoodie sleeves covering half his fingers. He looked like a kicked puppy in need of emotional support chips.
Win opened his mouth to say no.
Really, he did.
Instead, what came out was: “...Okay.”
Team beamed.
Win regretted everything.
---
Fifteen minutes later, they were at 7-Eleven. Team was clutching two bags of chips and a drink, humming under his breath, and nudging Win toward the freezer section.
“I’m getting ice cream too,” he declared.
“You’re going to rot your teeth.”
“I’ll let you pay for the dental work.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You said okay though,” Team sang, leaning against him.
Win sighed. “I’m never saying yes to you again.”
“You say that every time.”
And the worst part was — Team was right.
Win would say yes again.
And again.
Because every time Team looked at him with those eyes and said “Hiaaaa~”, something inside Win short-circuited. Like a switch flipped from reasonable adult to willing servant.
It was a problem. A growing one.
Win stared at Team’s ridiculous snack pile and wondered, for the hundredth time:
How the hell did this happen.
And more importantly—
How was he supposed to survive it.
_______________________
It wasn’t unusual for Team to steal clothes.
It started small — a t-shirt here, a pair of fuzzy socks there, a cap that mysteriously vanished and reappeared on Team’s head like it belonged there.
Win didn’t question it. He had bigger problems.
Like finals. Or the way Team chewed pens when he was focused. Or the fact that Win kept noticing how soft his voice got when he was sleepy.
So yeah, the hoodie thing? Not new.
But this time?
This time, it was his favorite hoodie.
Dark gray. Soft. Slightly oversized even on Win. One of those rare pieces of clothing that felt like comfort and cool weather and home.
And Team… had it on.
Win walked into the apartment after practice and nearly dropped his keys.
There he was.
Team.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch.
Hair still damp. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Cheeks puffed from eating something chewy.
Looking like a human cinnamon roll that had learned how to weaponize coziness.
Win just… stood there.
Team looked up. “Hey.”
“That’s mine,” Win said, pointing at the hoodie.
“Hmm?”
Win blinked. “My hoodie.”
Team looked down like he hadn’t noticed. “Oh, yeah. I was cold.”
“…You have your own hoodies.”
“This one smells nicer.”
Win’s brain flatlined.
Team didn’t even flinch. Just said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather. “Smells like you.”
Win stared.
Team blinked back at him, completely unfazed, still chewing. “What? You used that fabric softener I like, right?”
“This isn’t about laundry,” Win croaked.
Team tilted his head. “Then what’s the problem?”
Win backed away. Slowly. Calmly. With the grace of a man having a full-blown emotional crisis.
---
He ended up in his room. Door closed. Lights off. Lying face-down on his bed.
Muffled: “This is psychological warfare.”
He could still see it — the sleeves covering Team’s hands, the way the hoodie bunched around his neck, the way his hair fell just right against the gray fabric.
Win was in danger.
This wasn’t a crush anymore.
This was a disaster wrapped in soft cotton.
And the worst part?
He was starting to wonder what would happen if Team wore it again.
On purpose.
While calling him Hiaaa~.
Win groaned into his pillow.
“I need help.”
_____________________
Win wasn’t even supposed to be outside.
He was supposed to be at the pool, finishing up laps. But Coach had cut practice short (miracle), and Win decided to stop by the café near campus to grab an iced Americano.
What he didn’t expect was to walk into an emotional ambush.
He spotted Team first — sitting on the curb outside their favorite bubble tea shop, crouched near a bush. His backpack was abandoned beside him. His phone forgotten.
And in front of him—
A cat.
Small. Orange. Sleeping in a sunbeam.
Win slowed down, confused. Curious.
Then he heard it.
“Who’s a wittle baby? Hmm? Such a squishy lil face! You’re such a fluffy pancake, yes you are—”
Win froze.
Team’s voice was two octaves softer. Gentle. Full of sugar and sunshine and something that made Win’s knees feel a little weird.
He peeked around the corner.
Team was baby-talking the cat. Rubbing its head. Smiling with that open, boyish grin that made Win feel like he was watching the sun rise in real time.
Win stared.
The cat purred.
Team giggled. GIGGLED.
Win’s brain crashed and rebooted in the span of five seconds.
He leaned back against the wall, chest tight, palms suddenly sweaty.
What the hell.
What the actual, criminal hell.
Who gave Team the right to be this adorable with a stray cat in public where people could see?
Who gave him permission to kneel in golden light like some kind of street angel and say words like “squishy pancake” with a straight face?
This wasn’t fair.
This was biological warfare disguised as a warm boy in a hoodie.
---
Team looked up and spotted him.
“Oh, Hia!” he called brightly. “Look, it likes me!”
Win blinked slowly.
The cat rubbed against Team’s hand and purred louder.
Team beamed. “He’s so sweet! I’m naming him Boba.”
Win nodded slowly, like he hadn’t just had a silent breakdown five feet away.
“Cool,” he managed.
“You wanna pet him?”
Win shook his head. “No. I’m allergic.”
“To cats?”
“To—” he paused. “...Never mind.”
---
Five minutes later, Team was walking beside him, happily chatting about the cat. Win was quiet.
Inside, his entire soul was screaming.
Because Team?
Team had just added baby voice, soft hands, and stray-cat energy to his ever-growing arsenal of cuteness.
And Win?
Win was officially not going to survive the semester.
____________________
Sundays were for cleaning.
That was the rule. Set by Win. Enforced by Win. Lived by—
Not Team.
Team had his own routine:
Blast music.
Dance like no one’s watching.
Somehow make more mess than he cleaned.
Win had gone to take out the trash. He’d been gone for five minutes.
Five.
When he came back, he stopped dead in the doorway.
There, in the middle of their tiny living room, was Team.
Wearing pajama pants. A ratty crop t-shirt. One sock.
Mop in one hand. The other waving in the air like a backup dancer in a music video.
Headphones on. Eyes closed.
And he was dancing.
Not well.
Not even in rhythm.
But with so much enthusiasm that it made Win’s stomach do that horrible fluttery thing again.
Team spun once.
Then did a weird shoulder wiggle.
Then dipped the mop like it was a dance partner.
Then sang loudly into the mop head like it was a mic.
Win’s mouth fell open. His soul left his body. His heart curled up in a blanket and cried.
He didn’t move. Just stood there like an idiot.
Watching.
Absolutely enthralled.
It wasn’t even about the dancing. It was about the stupid little things:
The way Team bounced when the beat dropped.
The way he scrunched his nose before yelling lyrics.
The way he smiled to himself like he was the star of his own private concert.
Win didn’t know what song it was. He didn’t care.
He just knew one thing:
He was doomed.
---
Team turned mid-spin—and finally noticed him.
He froze.
They stared at each other.
Team, panting slightly, pulled off one headphone. “Hey. Didn’t see you come back.”
Win blinked. “Clearly.”
“You’re judging me.”
“No.”
“You’re totally judging me.”
“I’m…” Win cleared his throat. “...Honestly kind of impressed.”
Team’s eyes lit up. “You wanna join?”
“Absolutely not.”
Team shrugged, turning back to his mop. “Your loss.”
Win escaped into the kitchen before he did something very stupid, like tackle Team mid-spin and kiss him until the mop fell over.
He leaned against the fridge, breathing hard.
He couldn’t take much more of this.
There was no defense against bad dancing and pure joy.
Especially when it came in the form of a boy with one sock and no shame.
______________________
The smell hit Win before he even opened the door.
Something was burning.
He unlocked the apartment and stepped inside in a hurry, half-ready to call the fire department—only to freeze at the sight in front of him.
Team was standing in the kitchen.
Face streaked with flour. Oven mitts on both hands.
And on the counter behind him…
A tray.
A very, very blackened tray.
Win stared. “What did you do.”
Team looked up, eyes bright. “I baked!”
Win slowly approached, like he was approaching a wild animal—or a crime scene. “You what?”
“I made brownies.”
“You made… charcoal.”
Team pouted. “They’re just a little crispy on the edges.”
“Team. They’re crispy in the middle.”
He ignored that and pulled off the mitts, reaching for a spatula. “You still have to try one.”
“Why would I—?”
“Because,” Team said smugly, “I made them for you.”
Win blinked.
That… short-circuited something in his brain.
“For me?”
Team nodded. “You’ve been all tired lately. Grumpy. Quiet. I thought maybe sugar would help.”
Win said nothing. Mostly because he’d lost the ability to form coherent words.
Team placed one slightly less-burnt piece on a plate and shoved it into his hands. “Don’t look at it too long. Just eat it.”
Win took a bite.
It was objectively terrible.
Dry. Slightly bitter. Edges threatening to chip a tooth.
But none of that mattered.
Because Team was standing there, fidgeting. Watching. Waiting for his verdict like he’d submitted a final exam with glitter on it.
Win chewed slowly. Swallowed.
And said, “It’s good.”
Team narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”
“I’ve eaten worse.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Team laughed, finally relaxing. “You don’t have to like it. Just… I dunno. It’s the thought, right?”
Win looked at him. Covered in flour. Hair flopping into his eyes. Grinning like this was the highlight of his week.
Win was done for.
He took another bite, voluntarily.
And smiled. A real one.
Team blinked at him.
“…You’re actually eating it.”
Win shrugged. “Tastes like effort.”
Team raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
Win nodded. “Biggest one I’ve got.”
Team laughed again—bright and careless and everything that made Win fall even harder.
---
Later that night, Win stared at the tray again, now wrapped in foil and put away like it wasn’t a baking disaster.
He touched the edge of the foil and whispered to himself:
“I’m going to marry that idiot.”
Then immediately panicked and knocked over the sugar container.
______________________
It was dumpling night.
And dumpling night meant war.
Team always fought for the crispy-bottom ones. Win claimed the extra soy sauce. And by the end of the meal, there was always one final dumpling left sitting in the middle of the plate — The Sacred Last One™.
Tonight was no different.
The plate was mostly empty. The dipping sauce was almost gone. Team was sipping his iced tea and pretending to be uninterested in what remained.
Win narrowed his eyes. “You want it?”
Team shook his head. “Nah. You take it.”
Suspicious.
“Why?” Win asked.
Team shrugged. “You like this filling more than I do.”
Lies. Team loved this filling. They’d had arguments about it. Almost punch-level arguments.
But there was no mischief in his face. No smirk. Just a soft, stupid little smile.
Win picked up the dumpling slowly. Ate it in silence. Eyes still on Team.
Something was wrong.
He was being too nice.
And then it happened.
As Win wiped his fingers, Team leaned back in his chair, looked at him, and said:
“You’re my favorite person, you know.”
Win froze.
Blink. Breathe. Panic.
“What?” he croaked.
“I said you’re my—”
“No, I heard you.”
Team tilted his head. “Then why do you look like you swallowed the soy sauce packet whole?”
Win stared. His heart thudded. His soul wept.
Why was this man like this?
Why was he giving away dumplings and casually handing out declarations like it was normal? Like Win wasn’t five minutes away from melting into the floorboards?
“I—” Win started.
Then knocked over his drink.
Ice. Everywhere.
Team yelped and scrambled for napkins. Win just sat there, stunned, as the tea soaked into his sleeve and the words “favorite person” echoed like a fire alarm inside his chest.
---
Later, after they’d cleaned up, Team casually walked past him and tapped his shoulder.
Win looked up.
Team grinned. “Still your favorite dumpling, though.”
And then walked away, humming.
Win slumped into the chair and muttered to himself:
“I’m going to die. And it’s going to be because of someone adorable.”
__________________________
Team was not a lightweight.
At least, that’s what he claimed.
But three shots in, and Win could already see the signs:
The overconfident grin
The too-loud laughter
The way he clung to Win’s arm like a koala in a wind tunnel
They were at Dean and Pharm’s tiny get-together.
Harmless. Low-key. Just drinks, snacks, and music.
Win had only looked away for two minutes.
Now Team was pressed against his side, leaning so heavily that Win had to brace his leg to keep from tipping over.
“Win,” Team slurred dramatically, “you’re soooo good to me.”
Win blinked. “You’re drunk.”
Team pouted. “I’m grateful.”
“No, you’re giggling.”
“That’s how gratitude works!”
Dean snorted. Pharm looked deeply entertained.
Team curled closer. “You always take care of me. You’re such a good hiaaa~.”
Win froze.
Team was looking up at him. Wide eyes. Pouty lips. Voice dipped just enough to be dangerous.
“You always carry my bags. You always get me Lay’s. You even remember the soft pillow I like!”
Win stared at him, absolutely dying inside.
“You’re like... my favorite person. But, like... also, hot.”
Win choked. “Excuse me?”
Team nodded solemnly. “So hot. So dependable. Like if a boyfriend and a bodyguard had a baby.”
“Please stop talking.”
Dean wheezed. Pharm was hiding behind his cup.
Team just leaned his cheek on Win’s shoulder. “Mmm. Smells like you.”
“Team—”
“I feel safe,” Team whispered. “Like a sleepy duck.”
“What—what does that even mean?”
Team didn’t answer. He’d already passed out.
Just like that.
Dead asleep. On Win’s shoulder.
Face peaceful. Mouth slightly open. Warmth pressed against Win’s ribs like a trap.
---
Win didn’t move for the next 15 minutes.
Because if he did, he might:
Explode
Scream
Or confess his love to a sleeping idiot who’d just compared him to a hot duck bodyguard
None of those were safe options.
So he sat still. Quiet.
Let Team breathe against his neck.
And whispered to himself:
“We are never letting him drink again.”
__________________________
They made it back home.
Somehow.
Team had mostly sobered up — after Win force-fed him water, made him eat a banana, and sat him on the bathroom floor until the drunk giggles turned into tired sighs.
Now, Team was curled up on the couch. Wrapped in a blanket burrito. Hair still messy. Cheeks flushed from the leftover heat of alcohol.
Win set down the water bottle and sat beside him.
“You feeling okay?”
Team nodded slowly. “Mhm.”
“You’re not gonna throw up, right?”
“Nope.”
“Promise?”
Team opened one eye. “I’m not a baby.”
“You tried to high-five a plant fifteen minutes ago.”
“It looked friendly.”
Win snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”
Team grinned sleepily. “You stayed with me though.”
“You think I’d let you roam drunk and unsupervised?”
“You always stay,” Team murmured. “You never leave me behind.”
Win paused.
That… wasn’t just drunk talk.
That was real.
Too real.
He glanced over — Team was staring at him. Half-lidded. Completely honest in the way only sleepy people could be.
“You’re always there,” Team whispered. “Even when I’m dumb. Even when I forget stuff. Even when I act like I don’t notice things… I do.”
Win blinked. “Team…”
“You’re warm,” Team said softly. “You’re always warm.”
The room was quiet.
Outside, a dog barked. A car passed. Win’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
And then—barely above a breath:
“I think I love you.”
---
Win froze.
His world stopped.
Everything. Just… paused.
Team’s eyes had fluttered shut. His breathing slowed.
Asleep.
As if he hadn’t just detonated Win’s entire universe with five sleepy words.
Win stared at him.
For a full minute. Maybe ten.
His hand moved on its own — brushing a strand of hair from Team’s forehead. Gentle. Careful.
“I think I love you too,” he whispered back.
Then leaned in. Planted the softest kiss on Team’s temple.
And sat there in silence, hand still in his hair, wondering if he’d dreamt it all.
______________________
Team had dragged him to the rooftop of their dorm.
He’d made a whole thing out of it — fairy lights strung between the pipes, a ridiculous picnic mat covered in Lay’s packets, grape soda, and an old speaker softly playing their shared playlist.
There were no crowds. No cameras. Just the sky above them and the city twinkling below.
And Team, fidgeting, eyes darting everywhere but at Win.
“I know it’s dumb,” Team mumbled. “I just thought… you always take care of me. I wanted to do something back, y’know? Just one night where I make you feel how—how much I…”
He exhaled sharply. “Whatever. Never mind.”
Win said nothing.
He couldn’t.
Because his heart was pounding. His ears were ringing. His skin buzzed like it was lit from the inside.
This boy. This infuriating, sunshine-in-a-hoodie, soft-voiced disaster of a boy.
Win stepped forward — slow, deliberate — until they were toe to toe.
Team finally looked up.
“What?”
Win didn’t answer. Just stared at him.
The fairy lights flickered gold in Team’s eyes, and something inside Win snapped.
---
He cupped Team’s jaw.
And kissed him.
Not softly. Not gently.
Hungry. Deep. Full of everything he’d held back for too long.
Team gasped, lips parting just enough for Win to slide in, his tongue tracing the edge of a whimper. He didn’t stop — just kissed deeper, harder, until Team’s knees buckled and Win had to hold him up by the waist.
Win pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot against Team’s neck.
“You always do this,” he whispered.
“You drive me insane.”
His mouth trailed down — open kisses along the column of Team’s throat, each one slow and wet and a little too much.
“You talk in that voice,” kiss.
“You wear my hoodie like it’s yours,” lick.
“You look at me like I’m something you dreamed up—” bite.
Team whimpered — his hands were clutched in Win’s shirt now, knuckles white, whole body trembling like he didn’t know where to run or how to breathe.
“You planned this night,” Win growled, lips brushing the curve of his ear.
“And now you’re going to take responsibility for what it’s doing to me.”
Then he sank his teeth into Team’s neck — not rough, but enough to make Team let out a broken sound Win had never heard before.
He kissed the mark better. Tongue flicking out slowly.
Team looked up, completely undone.
Flushed. Breathless.
Eyes wide and glassy, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving like he’d run miles.
Win smiled. Just barely.
And kissed him again.
Slow this time. Deep. Melting.
Like a promise.
Like an answer.
Like I love you, spoken without a single word.
---
When they finally pulled apart, Team sagged into him — legs weak, head on Win’s shoulder.
Win wrapped his arms around him, grounding them both.
“You’re mine now,” he murmured. “No takebacks.”
Team laughed. Soft. Dizzy.
“I wasn’t planning to.”