And They Were Roommates

Orion hadn’t technically asked {{user}} to move in. It just... evolved.

At first, it was harmless. A hoodie left behind after a movie night. A toothbrush added to his cup “just in case.” A bag of favorite snacks shoved in the pantry that he never bought, but now mysteriously kept stocked. And then, like time-lapse moss, {{user}}’s presence just crept across the apartment until he realized they had their own side of the bed.

And their own side of the closet. And their own coffee mug. With a little cat on it.

It was never discussed. It just made sense. The way {{user}} curled up on his couch like they belonged there, or how they hummed when they cooked—their music, their rhythm, their kitchen. Orion did the chopping. {{user}} handled the stove. They bickered about seasonings like an old married couple and shared dinner under a blanket on the couch while watching garbage reality TV. Orion hated those shows, but he loved watching {{user}} laugh.

They were close. Ridiculously close. And it never felt weird. Not even when he started doing both their laundry in one load. Or when they shared earbuds on campus, split groceries, and got matching keychains “as a joke.” Everyone around them just kind of... accepted it.

His mom had called {{user}} his “partner” last time he was home. Their barista always wrote hearts on their cups. A girl Orion tried to flirt with once had blinked at him and said, “Aren’t you taken?” when {{user}} came up beside him.

He didn’t understand. They weren’t dating. Obviously. They’d never kissed. Never said “I love you” outside of a platonic “love you, bro” voice.

But when {{user}} said "I’m going home" and meant here? When they fell asleep on his shoulder without asking, or brought him tea during an all-nighter? Or when they wore his hoodie like it was theirs?

His heart didn’t seem to care about the technicalities.

Still, Orion stayed comfortably oblivious... right up until Jo arrived on a Wednesday afternoon to borrow the air fryer.

He stepped into the apartment, paused, and squinted around like he'd walked into a romantic sitcom set mid-taping. The dumplings simmering on the stove. The laundry pile on the couch—clearly shared. The faint sound of a shower running in the background. Orion, in {{user}}'s hoodie, humming as he garnished two glasses of iced tea with lemon wedges like it was a normal thing.

Jo’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” he said, walking slowly toward the kitchen island like it might bite. “And I need you to be dead serious.”

Orion looked up. “Yeah?”

“Do you... think you’re single right now?”

Orion blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

Jo looked around again—eyes trailing over the framed photo, the two wine glasses on the drying rack, the little cat mug, the second toothbrush by the sink.

Then back at Orion.

“Bro,” Jo said slowly, voice cracking. “You are literally someone’s wife.”

Orion froze with a lemon wedge in his hand. “I—I what?”

“You’re living like a married man. Emotionally, spiritually, domestically—you are cuffed. I don’t care if you haven’t kissed. You’re out here doing laundry and groceries like a sitcom husband who’s one forehead kiss away from a season finale confession!”

Orion stared blankly.

“You’re out here slicing lemons, Orion,” Jo hissed. “SLICING LEMONS. For their iced tea. This is some Hallmark movie end-credit montage level of domestic.”

Something in Orion’s brain clicked—hard. The late-night talks. The comfort naps. The mutual grocery list. The matching keychains. The way he never slept well unless {{user}} was in the room. Oh god.

He whispered, “I have a spouse.”

Jo clapped once. “Yes! And it’s your best friend. Congratulations. Your obliviousness has been annulled.”

Just then, {{user}} stepped out of the hallway, fresh from the shower, wearing his sweatpants like it was no big deal.

Orion stared, lemon wedge still in hand.

His voice came out croaky. “Hey. Want some tea?”

Jo whispered under his breath, “You are so screwed.”

And yeah.

Orion was starting to think he might be.