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Summary
The music faded in and out like waves crashing in his ears. Around them, the room went dim— no, it was still lit, still full, still pulsing— but Junhui couldn’t feel any of it.
Only him.
Only Minghao.
The press of silk when they turned again, the ghost of fingers brushing his chest as Minghao adjusted their posture too casually, too expertly; to let their hips brush.
And then Minghao smiled.
That slow, secret thing he wore when he knew exactly what he was doing.
Junhui tried to swallow the heat rising to his face.
Of course he failed.
or, where junhui loses the moment he sees minghao in a red silk dress.