Dear Roommate Please Stop Being Hot [BL]-Chapter 82: The Ethics of Distance

Noel slipped into the stream of students pouring out of the lecture hall, the buzz of chatter brushing past him like static. But he felt outside of it—disconnected.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want to think. He wanted to disappear into his room, curl under the blanket, stare at the wall like it might finally answer him.

But his phone buzzed again.

A notification.

He glanced down.

Mara: "Group discussion. You coming? Sam and I are at the garden tables. Eli’s on the way."

He almost sighed aloud.

He had forgotten about the group project.

Of course.

He could lie. He could say headache, bad lunch, something urgent.—but something inside him refused. Maybe pride. Maybe the part of him that needed to not fall apart.

So he typed back: "On my way."

The campus garden tables were tucked between two buildings, shaded by wide trees that made the spot cooler than anywhere else this time of day.

The benches were uneven, the wood old and worn—but students loved it for that reason.

Noel spotted Mara first—arms crossed, tapping her pen against her notebook, her glasses slightly fogged from the humidity.

Sam sat across from her, eating crackers like he was on vacation.

"Noel!" Mara called out before he even reached them. "You’re late."

He offered a small, tired smile. "Sorry. Lecture ran over."

She rolled her eyes but scooted her bag aside, making space. "Sit. We’re still waiting on Eli."

Noel slid into the seat beside her, opening his notebook just to have something in front of him.

Sam crunched loudly. "You look like you haven’t slept."

Noel glanced up. "Thanks."

"Wasn’t an insult," Sam said with a shrug. "Just an observation."

"Okay," Mara cut in, brushing past it. "Let’s review the case we were assigned—the one with the two companies merging, and the ethical loopholes they’re trying to cover."

Noel nodded, eyes flicking to the page in front of him, though the words blurred slightly.

As Mara spoke, he felt his phone vibrate once more in his pocket.

His heart leapt—but he didn’t check it.

Not yet.

Because deep down, he already knew it wasn’t from him.

"...So," Mara began, flipping a page in her notebook, "this merger isn’t just sketchy. It’s practically a masterclass in corporate deflection.

They’re claiming environmental transparency, but half their data sheets are redacted."

Sam snorted, still chewing on a cracker. "Classic PR fluff. ’We care about the planet’—while dumping waste behind a false subcontractor name. Genius."

Noel sat quietly, his pen resting between his fingers, tapping once, then again. He was listening. Trying to listen.

But his mind flicked back—again—to the empty bed, to the unanswered silence in his phone, to Kian’s message floating in his memory like static.

Mara nudged him with her elbow. "You read the case, right?"

Noel blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

She looked at him, head tilted. "Then tell me—how would you handle the board presentation if you were the compliance officer?"

Noel hesitated. He flipped through his notes, pretending to scan. "I’d start with exposure control. Acknowledge the transparency gap before they do—turn the conversation to long-term corrective planning."

Mara raised an eyebrow, surprised. "That’s actually... solid."

"Of course it is," Sam said, "he’s the only one of us who sounds like he’s already working at a firm."

"Shut up," Noel muttered under his breath, though a faint smile flickered at the corner of his lips—for just a second.

Eli showed up late, sliding onto the bench with his usual laidback energy and a lazy grin. "Did I miss the bloodbath?"

"Only the warm-up," Mara said, eyes still on Noel. "He just saved the company from being eaten alive by the press."

Eli laughed. "As expected."

Noel glanced at them, the easy rhythm of their words, the comfort in their flow. Normally, he’d be a part of that—jumping in, pulling threads tighter, making connections.

Today, he just felt... off.

Mara noticed.

Her voice dropped slightly, softer now. "You okay?"

Noel looked at her, a beat too late. "Yeah. Just tired."

Eli leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. "You sure? You’ve got that ’processing something big’ face."

Sam chimed in, mouth half-full. "Yeah. Like you’re calculating the meaning of life."

Noel didn’t respond.

He looked down again, the words on the page still waiting. Still blurred.

"I’m good," he said eventually. "Let’s just finish the draft." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Mara didn’t push, but she didn’t stop watching him either. She turned her focus back to the notes.

"All right. So our pitch angle should highlight the ethical overhaul plan. We’ll assign roles—Noel, you open. Eli, you handle stakeholder strategies. I’ll close with risk analysis. Sam, you do visuals."

"Hell yeah," Sam said. "I make killer pie charts."

"You only make pie charts," Mara deadpanned.

"Because they work."

As the others moved on, building the structure of their project, Noel nodded in the right places, made small suggestions—but inside, it all felt like wallpaper over cracked walls.

He kept feeling his phone buzz once in his pocket.

But it wasn’t him.

And that silence was starting to say too much.He hated how familiar this ache was becoming—how easy it was to expect nothing from someone who once meant everything.

Somewhere else on campus, the sun hit softer. The world still moved, and so did hearts in quieter ways.

The sun hung low, casting honey-colored light across the outdoor café patio where students filtered in and out, sipping cold drinks and hiding behind sunglasses.

It was calm—the kind of calm that settles after classes, when the day starts to stretch lazily toward evening.

Emily sat at a corner table, a half-finished iced tea in front of her, her book open but untouched.

She kept glancing up.

Waiting.

And then she saw her.

Lina, walking toward her, long hair pulled into a low ponytail, her denim jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes catching the light in a way that made Emily’s chest flutter, just a little.

Lina slowed when she reached the table. "You’re early."

Emily smiled. "You’re late."

Lina smirked, setting her bag down as she took the seat across from her. "Fashionably."

"I was starting to think you ghosted me."

"Mm, tempting," Lina said, sliding her sunglasses into her bag, "but you’re too stubborn to make it satisfying."

Emily raised a brow. "Is that your version of flirting?"

Lina’s smile curled at the edges. "Would you like it to be?"

Emily didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. She looked down at her drink, stirring the ice with her straw, her lips twitching as if holding back something warmer.

"So," Lina said after a moment, eyes lingering on her, "how was your day?"

Emily shrugged. "Messy. I lost half my notes, argued with someone in my group who thinks deadlines are ’optional,’ and tripped over a scooter on the way here."

Lina blinked. "You okay?"

Emily nodded. "Only my pride is bruised."

"Let me see."

Emily looked up, confused. "See what?"

"Your pride."

There was a pause.

Then Emily burst into a laugh. A soft, real one that lit up her face.

Lina leaned back, content.

"Okay," Emily said, still smiling. "That one was flirting."

Lina shrugged, pleased with herself. "I have range."

They sat like that for a few seconds—comfortable, unhurried.

The sun dipped a little lower, casting long slants of light across the pavement.

A breeze moved between them, soft and warm, catching strands of Emily’s hair and lifting them gently across her cheek.

Lina reached out without thinking.

Just brushed the hair back, slow and absentminded.

Her fingers barely grazed Emily’s skin.

Emily blinked.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Lina’s hand lingered for a second longer than necessary—then dropped back to her lap.

"You missed a spot," she said, almost teasing, but her voice didn’t carry the usual edge. It was softer now.

Emily looked down, smiling faintly. "Thanks, I guess."

"You’re welcome," Lina murmured, watching her more than the view.

Another silence stretched between them—not awkward, just... full.

Emily traced the edge of her straw again, then said quietly, "I like this."

"This?"

"This—us." She didn’t look up. "When it’s quiet like this. When we don’t have to pretend we’re not thinking things."

Lina tilted her head. "And what are we thinking?"

Emily finally met her eyes. "You first."

A beat passed. Then another.

Lina leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "I’m thinking," she said, "that I’ve never seen you laugh like that before."

Emily’s heart skipped.

"I’m thinking," Lina went on, "that maybe I like being the reason for it."

The world narrowed to the space between them.

The background faded—the clatter of dishes inside the café, the hum of other conversations, the breeze playing with the umbrella overhead.

Emily’s voice was quieter now. "You are."

Lina’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.

Emily’s fingers, still resting on the table, inched just a little closer to Lina’s.

Close enough that their fingers brushed.

Neither of them moved away.

And for a second, it didn’t matter what came before. Or after.

Just this.

Just now.

Their fingers still touched—just barely.

Lina didn’t pull away.

Instead, she slowly reached for her bag, drawing out a thin stack of papers and her laptop, the soft clatter of keys breaking the stillness. She glanced at Emily.

"Hope you don’t mind," she said gently, voice dipped in quiet. "I’ve got this short draft due in an hour."

Emily shook her head, smiling faintly. "I’ll be quiet."

Lina gave her a grateful look, then opened her screen, the light casting a soft glow across her face.

Her fingers began to type, steady, rhythmic. She bit her lip lightly as she focused, eyebrows furrowing the tiniest bit in concentration.

Emily sat back in her chair.

Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She just watched.

Watched the way Lina’s hair fell across one side of her face. The way she always adjusted her screen twice before she really got into it. The way her foot tapped the ground when she was thinking through a sentence.

Everything about her felt alive in a way that made the moment stretch wider than it really was.

"I can feel you staring," Lina said softly, eyes still on the screen.

Emily smiled. "Can’t help it."

Lina paused, looked up, a playful smirk tugging at her mouth. "You know, most people scroll their phone while waiting."

"I don’t want to miss anything," Emily replied, honest.

Lina’s eyes held hers.

Just for a breath longer.

Then she looked back down to her screen, but that smile didn’t leave her lips.

"I type slower when you say things like that," she murmured.

Emily leaned her cheek against her hand, elbow on the table, watching her again. "Take your time."

They sat like that—together, separately—yet completely in sync. One typing, one quiet. But no silence between them ever felt empty.

Every now and then, Lina would reach for her drink, or glance at a note, or mutter a sentence under her breath, and Emily would just be there—present, steady, warm.

Lina typed a few more words, then stopped. She didn’t look up. Her voice was almost a whisper when she spoke.

"Do you always do this?" she asked, still typing.

"Do what?"

"Look at someone like they’re the only thing holding the sky up."

Emily blinked.

"I don’t know," she said softly. "I think... only you."

Lina’s fingers stopped on the keyboard.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t have to.

The quiet between them wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

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