Dear Roommate Please Stop Being Hot [BL] Chapter 190: Something Warm Waiting

The morning crept in slow, pale light spilling between the curtains.

The city was still half-asleep, the hum outside muted, like the world had agreed to grant them a little more ti.

Luca stirred first.

He blinked against the brightness, then glanced down at the weight resting against his chest.

Noel was still there, hair mussed from the pillow, breathing steady, his arm draped heavy and sure across Luca’s middle.

For a long mont, Luca didn’t move.

He just watched—every rise and fall of Noel’s chest, every quiet line of ease smoothed into his face.

The rare softness made Luca’s lips curve into a smile he didn’t bother to hide.

When Noel finally shifted, half-waking, Luca whispered, "Morning."

A low sound rumbled from Noel’s throat—sowhere between a reply and a protest.

He buried his face against Luca’s shoulder.

"Not a morning person, huh?" Luca teased gently, brushing a hand through his hair. "Good thing I am. I’ll carry the conversation until you catch up."

"Don’t," Noel murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

Luca grinned wider. "Then at least open your eyes. You’ll miss how good you look like this."

Noel groaned, but one eye cracked open anyway, narrowing at him.

Luca laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room.

Luca was still grinning when Noel finally shifted, lifting his head just enough to et his eyes.

For a heartbeat, the room stilled—just the faint tick of the clock, the muted city hum.

Then Noel leaned in, brushing his lips against Luca’s in the barest whisper of a kiss.

It wasn’t urgent, not even ant to wake him fully—it was simply there, quiet and certain. A morning hello.

Luca blinked, caught off guard, then his smile softened into sothing smaller, warr. "Well... good morning to you too."

Noel didn’t answer.

He just let his head fall back to Luca’s shoulder, eyes closing again, arm curling tighter as if to wordlessly claim the space.

"You’re impossible," Luca murmured, but there was no bite in it.

His hand traced lazy patterns across Noel’s back, fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt. "Kiss like that and then go back to sleep? Not fair."

A low hum was Noel’s only response, but his mouth curved faintly against Luca’s collarbone, betraying him.

Luca shook his head, laughing under his breath, the sound muffled in the hush of the morning. "Fine. Stay there. I’ll keep watch."

And so they did—Luca awake, Noel drifting at the edge of dreams, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling stretching between them.

The quiet stretched after Noel’s breathing evened out again, soft and steady against Luca’s shoulder.

Luca lingered there, staring at the ceiling, before carefully sliding out from under his arm.

Noel shifted, lips parting slightly in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

He always wakes first, Luca thought, pausing at the edge of the bed to glance back.

Noel’s face was calm, unguarded in a way it rarely was—no furrowed brows, no sharp retort ready on his tongue.

Just... Noel. And sothing about that tugged at Luca’s chest.

Maybe, for once, I should beat him to it.

Do sothing for him instead of the other way around.

A grin curled at his lips. Breakfast. Easy, right? I can handle breakfast.

Barefoot, Luca padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, shirt creased and hanging loose on his fra.

He dropped into a chair, unlocked his phone, and swiped lazily through the usual—news, s, photos he’d already scrolled a hundred tis.

His stomach gave a low, impatient growl, reminding him why he was there.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, thumbing open the search bar.

Easy breakfast recipes.

The list made him grin.

Pancakes, smoothies, toast... and then his eyes caught on olette—simple, quick, foolproof.

"Perfect," he murmured. "I can totally do that."

He propped his phone against a mug, the cheerful voice of the presenter filling the quiet kitchen.

Rolling up his sleeves with the solemnity of a surgeon, Luca squared his shoulders. "Alright. Let’s do this."

"Dice it fine," the video instructed.

Luca hacked at the onion with uneven chunks, wincing as the knife screeched across the cutting board. "Fine-ish," he muttered.

He pictured Noel watching him now-arms crossed, eyebrow arched, unimpressed_and found himself smiling anyway. But he’s not here. This is my turn.

"Step one_eggs."

"Eggs, check." Luca plucked them from the fridge and lined them up neatly on the counter like soldiers.

"Whisk until smooth."

He grabbed a fork, whisked too fast, and splattered a drop across the counter. "Smooth... or at least enthusiastic," he mumbled.

"Add a pinch of salt."

"How much is a pinch?" Luca leaned over the screen, squinting.

He tossed in a careful sprinkle, hesitated, then shook the container again. "Seasoned by instinct. Very professional."

The butter sizzled when it hit the pan, warm and rich in the air.

Luca followed each step with almost comical seriousness, flicking his eyes between the screen and the skillet like he was cramming for an exam.

When the eggs hit the hot pan with a sharp hiss, he leaned closer, spatula poised.

I want him to wake up to this sll, Luca thought.

To sothing warm waiting for him.

He deserves mornings that don’t feel heavy.

The olette folded in on itself—ssy, lopsided, but holding together.

Luca let out a relieved laugh, grinning at his reflection in the pan’s sheen. "See? Who needs you, chef guy? I’ve got this."

The edges crisped too fast, and he nearly flipped it early, but steadied his hand. "Not today, disaster," he muttered, voice low and dramatic.

The kitchen filled with the gentle hiss of butter, the scrape of spatula, and Luca’s running comntary—half performance, half reassurance to himself.

By the ti the video chirped serve hot and enjoy, Luca was already plating his creation.

It wasn’t picture-perfect_the edges browned unevenly, the center puffier than the thumbnail promised—but he stared at it with sothing like pride.

A little crooked, a little ssy, but it was his. And it was for Noel.

The sll carried first—warm, buttery, faintly smoky.

Noel stirred, brow twitching as if sothing was tugging him gently out of sleep.

His hand reached across the sheets, finding only cool linen where Luca should’ve been.

His eyes blinked open, slow, adjusting to the thin slant of morning light.

For once, the room was quiet. Too quiet. Noel sat up, listening—then he heard it.

The faint scrape of a spatula, a muttered curse under breath, and the cheerful, tinny voice of a video playing sowhere down the hall.

He exhaled through his nose, already suspecting.

When he padded barefoot into the kitchen, the sight nearly pulled a smile from him on the spot.

Luca stood in front of the stove like it was an adversary.

Hair sticking up every which way, sleeves rolled too high, phone balanced against a mug, he hovered over the pan with a spatula gripped like a weapon.

His face lit with triumph as he slid sothing_olette-shaped but far from perfect,onto a plate.

Noel leaned against the doorway, arms folding across his chest. "You’re up early."

Luca jumped, nearly dropping the spatula. "Jesus_you’re supposed to still be asleep."

He tried to cover the plate with his arm, as if Noel hadn’t already seen it.

One dark brow arched. "That... is breakfast?"

"Correction." Luca straightened, chin tilting up with mock pride. "That is your breakfast. Made with love, minimal swearing, and maybe a tiny bit of smoke."

Noel stepped closer, gaze flicking from the browned edges of the olette to Luca’s flushed face. "You cooked this?"

"Yeah," Luca said quickly, defensive but also-soft. "I thought, you always wake up first, you always take care of everything. So... I wanted you to wake up to sothing instead."

The kitchen fell quiet.

Noel’s expression softened in ways Luca wasn’t expecting.

He reached out, brushing his fingers over Luca’s wrist where he still clutched the spatula.

"You’re ridiculous," Noel murmured, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Luca’s grin faltered into sothing more real. "Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous."

For a long mont, Noel just looked at him—at the crooked olette, the ssy counter, the earnestness Luca couldn’t hide.

Then, without a word, Noel took the plate from his hands and set it carefully on the table.

"Sit," he said simply.

"What—"

"You made breakfast. You’re eating with ."

Luca blinked, then broke into a grin so wide it crinkled his eyes. "Guess that ans I passed the taste test already."

Noel didn’t answer, but as he set forks on the table, Luca swore he saw the corner of his mouth curve, just barely.

Luca slid into his chair, bouncing a little in place. "Mont of truth," Luca said, drumming his fingers against the table. "Prepare to have your life changed by... egg."

Noel gave him a flat look but cut into the olette all the sa.

The fork pressed through a slightly too-thick layer, steam curling faintly as he lifted the bite.

He paused, watching Luca’s expectant face before taking it in.

Luca leaned forward, wide-eyed. "Well?"

Noel chewed slowly, deliberately. His expression betrayed nothing.

Luca groaned. "Don’t do that. You’re making it dramatic on purpose—"

"It’s edible," Noel said at last.

"Edible?" Luca sputtered. "That’s it? My masterpiece, my hours of blood, sweat, and Google—’edible’?"

Noel took another bite, calr now. "The salt’s uneven."

Luca dropped his forehead onto the table with a loud thunk. "Tragic. Critic slain by his own creation."

But then Noel added, quieter: "It’s good."

Luca’s head shot up. "Wait—what?"

"You heard ." Noel t his gaze, steady. "It’s not perfect. But it’s... good. Because it’s yours."

For a heartbeat, Luca didn’t say anything.

His grin softened into sothing smaller, steadier, almost shy. "You’re kind of the worst at complints, you know that?"

"But," Noel said, taking another bite, "you’re still smiling."

"Because you’re eating it," Luca countered, reaching over to steal a forkful for himself.

He chewed, grimaced slightly, then laughed. "Okay, yeah, maybe the salt’s a little heavy. But points for effort?"

Noel shook his head, but his eyes lingered on Luca, on the way his laughter filled the kitchen. "Points," he conceded.

"Ha!" Luca declared, leaning back with triumph. "Chef Luca, one. Grumpy Moon, zero."

Noel’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Finish eating."

They ate together, the olette disappearing between them bite by bite.

It wasn’t quiet—Luca filled the space with little comnts, teasing jabs, dramatic sighs_but beneath it all was a warmth Noel couldn’t deny.

For once, the morning didn’t feel rushed or heavy.

It just felt... theirs.