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Flour, Fur, and First Christmas

Tian Lei

It’s snowing lightly outside, the kind that looks like someone turned the world’s volume down.

Beijing does this in winter. The cold doesn’t just sit on your skin, it presses into the edges of everything and makes even the streetlights feel quieter. Through the gap in the curtains I can see the courtyard roof dusted white, the bare branches holding flakes like they’re trying to remember softness.

I’m awake before the sky is.

I always am. It’s not even anxiety anymore, not fully. It’s just… the body I built over years of call times and airport alarms and “be ready by five.” A military internal clock that doesn’t care about holidays.

Christmas Day. Our first one living together.

I lie still for a moment and listen.

Zi Yu’s breathing is deep and uneven in that way that tells me he’s finally sleeping properly. Tour rehearsals have been chewing through him for weeks. The first concert weekend kicked off over the weekend, and even though he’s home right now, his body is still half on stage, half in a van, half under lights. He flew back and collapsed into this bed like someone dropping a heavy bag they’ve been carrying too long.

He sleeps with his mouth slightly open, hair tufted in the back, hoodie hood bunched under his neck. There’s cat hair on the hoodie. There is always cat hair on the hoodie now.

On the floor, Simba shifts. Nails click once against the wood.

Old dog. Old soul. He doesn’t leap up anymore. He doesn’t do the dramatic puppy scramble. But he does lift his head the moment my breathing changes, as if he’s been assigned the job of keeping track of me and refuses to retire.

His eyes meet mine.

Where are you going? the look says.

I glance at the time.

I have a plan.

Quiet breakfast. A small surprise. Something couple-holiday appropriate without being theatrical. Something that says I’m here without saying it too loud, even in the safety of our walls.

I start to slide one leg toward the edge of the bed.

Simba’s head rises higher, ears pricking.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

He blinks slowly, unconvinced.

I try again, carefully. Slowly. Like I’m defusing something.

A tiny sound erupts near Zi Yu’s chest: an indignant, squeaky complaint, sharp as a microphone feedback.

Xiao Shiyi, who has spent the entire night curled inside Zi Yu’s hoodie like he pays rent, has woken up and decided movement is a personal attack. He wriggles deeper into the fabric, then pops his head out and yells at me as if I’m late to a meeting.

“Shh,” I whisper.

He yells again, louder.

Da Yu, meanwhile, is sprawled across my shin like a warm dumpling someone set down and forgot to pick up. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t object. He simply… exists. Heavy. Immovable. He takes up space the way I take up space: quiet, stubborn, convinced that if he just stays put, the world will adjust around him.

We bought them last November. Two tiny kittens from a rescue who somehow grew into personalities faster than they grew into bodies.

Xiao Shiyi is Zi Yu through and through: fast, loud, dramatic, convinced he is the centre of any room and not entirely wrong about it.

Da Yu is… mine. He follows me. He sits on my feet when I brush my teeth. He watches me cook like I’m performing a sacred ritual. He looks at chaos and decides the best response is to become heavier.

I try to lift my leg.

Da Yu stretches, extending his paws as if he’s claiming territory.

Xiao Shiyi climbs onto my thigh like he’s reinforcing the blockade.

Simba inches closer to the bed, tail thumping once, slow and satisfied, as if he’s been waiting for backup.

I close my eyes for a second.

“Let me go,” I whisper, because apparently I’m negotiating with a coalition now. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

This, unfortunately, is interpreted as a formal invitation.

Xiao Shiyi climbs higher.

Da Yu rolls over and somehow doubles his weight.

Simba nudges my calf with his nose, then places his chin on the mattress like he wants a turn too.

Zi Yu sleeps through everything.

Of course he does. His face is soft in sleep, unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself in public. There are faint marks on his fingertips from rehearsals, from costume changes, from hours of gripping a microphone. The hoodie he’s wearing is covered in cat hair, and the sight of it makes something in my chest go warm and quiet.

This is the part of life I used to tell myself I couldn’t have. The mundane evidence. The unglamorous proof.

I give up.

I sink back into the pillow, a tiny defeat that doesn’t sting. The weight of three animals pins me down like a joke the universe is telling gently.

Outside, snow continues to fall.

Inside, everything is warm.

It hits me then, almost sideways, how we got here.

A year ago, we were sitting in a café pretending it wasn’t a date because denial was one of our favourite hobbies. He was wrapped in a black and white striped knitted sweater with a matching scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright like he’d been drinking sugar and hope in equal measure.

He was talking about cats.

Not in a casual way. In that earnest, yearning way he has when he’s trying to be light but the truth keeps slipping through.

“Maybe when I’m stable,” he’d said, stirring his coffee like stability was something you could summon with enough motion. “When I’m not… floating.”

He’d laughed after it, as if to make it a joke.

I remember watching his mouth, the way it curved around the words, and thinking: He wants a home. He just doesn’t dare to believe he can have one.

Now there are two kittens in our bed and an old dog guarding my ankles and the hoodie he’s sleeping in is furry with proof that we are no longer floating.

It has been a whirlwind since the reunion. Five months of learning how to be domestic without flinching, how to close doors without feeling like we’re hiding, how to buy groceries like normal people when the world outside keeps trying to turn our existence into commentary.

And then the concert tour preparations hit like a tidal wave.

Zi Yu threw himself into it with an intensity that still amazes me. He isn’t just singing. He’s producing. He’s directing. He’s in meetings about lighting cues, arguing about costume details, editing transitions, obsessing over the set list like it’s a story he needs to tell correctly. He’s hands-on to a degree that would intimidate most people twice his age.

Last year, he told me he didn’t think Revenged Love would be a hit. He said it like it didn’t matter, not even a stepping stone, not something he wanted to be defined by. I believed him at the time. I also believed the world wouldn’t be kind enough to reward sincerity.

I was wrong.

And watching him step into this tour, watching him take control of his own narrative with both hands, I feel something close to awe. Pride, sharp and tender.

I also worry.

Because he pushes himself like the body is an inconvenience. Like sleep is optional. Like if he slows down, something will be taken from him again.

That worry is why my surprise is practical.

A scarf, soft and warm, the kind that will disappear into his stage jackets but still do its job.

Tour supplies hidden in a little pouch: throat candy, hand warmers, a tiny humidifier that fits in a hotel room. Things that won’t stop the world, but might soften it at the edges.

I told myself it was just sensible.

It’s not.

It’s love, translated into objects.

Eventually, with the patience of a man negotiating with a small army, I manage to extricate myself.

It takes time.

First I gently slide Da Yu off my shin, which is like moving a warm stone that has decided it’s part of the landscape. He protests by going limp, fully embracing the strategy of dead weight. I lift him anyway and set him on the pillow, where he immediately curls up and closes his eyes like I’ve done him a favour.

Xiao Shiyi tries to follow me.

I scoop him up, and he wriggles, offended, tiny claws catching on my sleeve.

“Traitor,” he seems to say, loudly.

Simba watches the whole thing with a patient expression that suggests he’s seen every version of my nonsense and has decided this is simply who I am.

When I finally get my feet onto the floor, I pause by the bed.

Zi Yu’s face is turned toward the pillow, lashes resting against his cheeks. He looks younger like this, softer, all the stage brightness dimmed down to something private.

I lean over and kiss his forehead.

It’s brief. Light. Warm.

He makes a small sound, barely there, and doesn’t wake.

“Sleep,” I whisper.

Then I escape to the kitchen.

The air is colder out here. The tiles chill my feet through my socks. The window above the sink shows snow drifting down into the courtyard, quiet as a secret.

I take out the pancake pre-mix I bought yesterday and set it on the counter.

Christmas pancakes. That’s the plan. Nothing fancy. Just a small ritual. Fruit toppings, cream, maple syrup. Something that feels like a holiday without needing explanation.

I slice strawberries first. Then kiwi. Then banana, because Zi Yu insists it’s “the most festive fruit” which makes no sense but I’ve learned not to argue with his holiday logic.

I’m halfway through cutting the strawberries when Xiao Shiyi appears.

Of course he does.

He trots into the kitchen like he owns it, tail up, eyes bright with curiosity and mischief. He hops onto the counter with the confidence of someone who has never faced consequences in his life.

“Down,” I tell him.

He sits.

He stares at the bowl of pancake flour like it’s an enemy.

“No,” I warn.

He blinks slowly, then extends one paw, very deliberate, and taps the edge of the bowl.

The bowl wobbles.

I reach out too late.

The bowl tips.

A soft white explosion blooms across the counter like a miniature snowstorm.

Flour pours out in a cloud, drifting down onto my hands, my shirt, the fruit slices, the floor. Xiao Shiyi is directly under it, ears disappearing into white dust. He freezes for half a second, offended, then shakes himself violently, sending flour everywhere like confetti.

Simba ambles in at that exact moment, sees the cloud, and sneezes so hard his whole head jerks.

Da Yu appears behind him, drawn by the drama, and steps directly into the flour pile with one paw.

He looks at me.

Then, with the calm inevitability of my own personality mirrored back at me, he steps forward again. And again. Tracking flour across the floor in neat little prints like he’s documenting the disaster.

Xiao Shiyi, meanwhile, has decided the flour is a toy.

He pounces.

He skids.

He slides into the fruit bowl, sending strawberries scattering like red marbles.

I stand there for one second, staring at my kitchen now decorated in chaos, and I can’t even be angry. It’s too ridiculous. Too domestic.

“Xiao Shiyi,” I say, the way you say someone’s full name when they’ve committed a crime.

He meows back, loud and unapologetic, as if I’m the unreasonable one.

I reach for a cloth. The cloth is immediately stolen. Xiao Shiyi grabs it in his mouth and runs, dragging it across flour like a triumphant flag.

Simba tries to follow, slips slightly, and gives me a look that says: I am too old for this.

Da Yu sits in the middle of the mess like a statue, flour dusting his whiskers, eyes half-lidded as if he’s meditating.

I’m crouched on the floor trying to salvage strawberries when I hear soft footsteps in the hallway.

I look up.

Zi Yu stands in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, hoodie covered in cat hair. For half a second his face is blank as he tries to compute the scene: me flour-dusted, Simba with flour on his nose, Da Yu powdered like a donut, Xiao Shiyi sprinting like a tiny hurricane.

Then Zi Yu takes one step into the kitchen.

His foot hits flour.

Time slows in the most stupid way.

His eyes widen. His arms flail, instinctively searching for balance.

“Yue Yue—”

I launch forward.

I catch him just in time—an arm around his waist, hand at his back—but the momentum takes both of us down anyway. My knee slips. His shoulder bumps my chest. We hit the floor in a messy, undignified tangle that sends another small puff of flour into the air like a final insult.

When we stop moving, he’s on top of me, both of us breathing hard.

And then—because the universe has a sense of humour—Zi Yu looks down at me, flour streaked across his cheek and hoodie, and starts laughing.

Not polite laughter. Not camera laughter. The kind that breaks out of you like relief.

I laugh too, helpless.

His laughter gets louder when he realises there’s flour in my hair, and then louder again when he looks down at himself and sees he’s now basically wearing the kitchen.

“You—” he tries to speak but can’t. He wheezes. “You tried to—be romantic—”

“I did,” I say, breathless. “This is romance.”

He laughs harder, shaking with it, forehead dropping toward my shoulder.

I tilt my head back and deadpan, “It’s like a snow-themed couple activity. Very seasonal.”

Zi Yu loses it completely.

He’s laughing so hard his eyes squeeze shut, his face pressed against my chest, and the sound—bright and unguarded—does something to me that I can’t name without it turning into a confession.

I stop laughing first.

Not because it isn’t funny. It is. But because I’m looking at him—this exhausted, brilliant man covered in flour, laughing like he’s safe—and the tenderness hits like a wave.

He catches my gaze and the laughter falters for a second, replaced by something shy.

His ears go pink. His mouth opens like he might say something too honest, then he pulls back and blurts, too quickly, “Merry Christmas.”

It’s an obvious cover. A lifeline thrown over his own embarrassment.

I smile.

“Merry Christmas,” I echo.

Then I tilt my chin up and kiss him.

At first it’s soft—just a press of lips, a quiet acknowledgement. But Zi Yu’s hand slides into my hair, fingers curling, and the kiss deepens without either of us deciding it should. Flour smudges between us. His hoodie bunches under my hand. I taste strawberry sweetness on his mouth, or maybe it’s just the idea of breakfast we never got to make.

He sighs into me, and something in my chest loosens, warm and aching.

Then—

A loud mrrp.

Xiao Shiyi appears at our heads like a tiny supervisor, glaring down at us. He meows again, sharper, and pats my cheek with a floury paw as if demanding attention.

Da Yu waddles over and sits beside Zi Yu’s shoulder, staring with disapproval like we’ve interrupted his morning routine.

Simba shuffles in and sniffs Zi Yu’s hair, then gives a long suffering sigh that feels deeply judgemental.

Zi Yu breaks the kiss and stares at the pets like they’ve personally betrayed him.

“Seriously?” he says, breathless.

Xiao Shiyi meows again, louder, then climbs onto Zi Yu’s back like a mountain.

Zi Yu groans dramatically and collapses forward, forehead landing on my shoulder.

“Happy Christmas,” he mutters into my neck. “We’re living in a zoo.”

I chuckle, brushing flour off his cheek with my thumb. “A very romantic zoo.”

He lifts his head, eyes bright again, and points at Xiao Shiyi like he’s making an accusation in court.

“That one is you,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “He’s loud.”

“Exactly,” Zi Yu says, smug.

Then he looks at Da Yu, who is sitting calmly like nothing in the world could move him.

“And that one is you,” he adds, softer.

I don’t answer, because my throat tightens around something too tender.

Zi Yu shifts, still half on top of me, and gives me a quick, floury kiss—shorter this time, like a promise snuck in before the world can interrupt again.

“Okay,” he says, pushing himself up with a groan. “Plan B.”

“Plan B?” I ask.

Zi Yu looks around the kitchen, at the flour snowstorm, at the strawberries scattered like casualties, at Simba lying down directly in the mess as if surrendering.

He shrugs, utterly sincere.

“We eat whatever survives,” he says. “Then we shower together.”

Xiao Shiyi yells as if approving.

Da Yu blinks slowly.

Simba sighs.

Zi Yu grins at me, flour on his eyelashes, and for a second the whole world narrows down to this: snow outside, chaos inside, and the quiet glow of us learning—still learning—how to live without hiding.

I reach for his hand.

“Deal,” I say.

And we let the scene fade out in laughter and flour and the soft, ridiculous miracle of being home.

—-

Zi Yu

I wake up to weight.

Not the bad kind—just… the kind that means I’m not alone.

Simba is curled against the back of my knees like a warm, elderly boulder, his breathing slow and steady, the kind of rhythm you can borrow when your own life has been too loud. Da Yu is tucked against my thigh, heavy and trusting, his little body radiating heat like he’s decided my leg is home base. And Xiao Shiyi—of course Xiao Shiyi—is buried inside my hoodie like a smug tenant, his head poking out near my collarbone, whiskers brushing my chin every time he breathes.

Outside, Beijing is white.

Snow drifts past the window in soft sheets, turning the courtyard into something quiet and clean. Even the light feels different—muted, gentle, like the sky is speaking in whispers.

For a second I just lie there and listen.

From the other room I can hear Tian Lei moving around. Soft footsteps on tile. A drawer opening. The clink of a bowl. The faint, familiar rhythm of him in the kitchen—pattering, careful, purposeful.

He was awake before me. Of course he was. His internal alarm clock is unfair. Mine is on “snooze until the universe forces me up.”

I smile into my pillow.

He’s making breakfast.

It’s his love language, honestly. He doesn’t say “I love you” the way I do—quick, impulsive, slipping out between jokes. He says it with warm food and clean towels and making sure my phone is charged before I leave the house. He says it by taking care of me so quietly I sometimes don’t notice until I’m already safe.

For a moment I just… soak in the fact that I’m here. That this is our morning. That I can hear him in the next room and not in a different city.

Five months ago I didn’t think this was possible.

I’d gotten used to wanting him like a habit—like something you do in private, silently, because saying it out loud would make it real enough to lose. When we reunited, it felt like stepping into a room you thought was burned down and finding the lights still on.

And since then… everything has been moving so fast.

Music festivals. Rehearsals. Meetings. The concert tour, which is still so unreal my brain keeps checking for the punchline. My first ever tour. My dream, the one I used to talk about like it belonged to some future version of me—someone more stable, someone more worthy, someone who wouldn’t mess it up.

And now it’s here.

Last weekend was the kickoff. The first stage. The first roar of the crowd that made my knees go weak and my lungs forget how to work. I walked out and the lights hit me and I thought, This is it. This is what I wanted.

And then, immediately, I thought: If Tian Lei isn’t here, it’s nothing.

Which is dramatic. I know. It sounds like something I’d say to make people laugh.

But it’s the truth.

I can be on top of the world with music, with applause, with cameras and cheers and the kind of attention I used to crave like oxygen—and none of it matters if I come home to silence.

Being with him again is the real dream.

The house we’re building together—this quiet domestic gravity—feels more impossible than any stage.

I think about the last couple of months and my chest tightens with that warm ache that always comes before tears.

There were so many nights I came home from rehearsal dead tired, body buzzing like an overused wire, voice raw, shoulders locked up. I’d open the door expecting the usual emptiness—hotel-room emptiness, tour emptiness—and instead Tian Lei would be there, waiting. Not hovering. Not making a big deal. Just… present.

We’d eat together even if it was late. Sometimes he’d sit across from me while I shoveled noodles into my mouth like a starving animal, and he’d watch with that quiet, soft focus that makes me feel seen in a way applause never does.

Afterwards he’d massage my shoulders, his hands slow and firm, like he was coaxing the tension out instead of fighting it. Sometimes he’d run a bath for me, testing the water with his wrist, adding those stupid little bath salts he pretends he doesn’t care about but somehow remembers to restock.

All of this while his own schedule was insane—photoshoots, brand endorsements, variety guestings, flights that left him looking tired in that controlled way he tries to hide.

He still waited.

He still cooked.

He still made space for me, like my exhaustion wasn’t an inconvenience but something he could carry with me.

It makes me feel stupidly lucky.

It makes me feel terrified too, sometimes. Because what if I don’t deserve this? What if I mess it up? What if I’m not actually good enough and everyone realises it and the tour collapses and the dream turns into a joke?

I’ve been living in that fear for weeks.

A million things can go wrong on tour. A mic malfunction. A voice crack. A missed cue. A wardrobe disaster. The wrong note in the wrong moment that gets clipped and posted and dissected until it feels like a verdict.

I’ve had nights where I stare at the ceiling and my brain is a list of possible failures, running itself into the ground.

And every time, Tian Lei reassures me like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“You’re ready,” he says, calm and steady.

“You’ve worked for this.”

“I’ve watched you. I know what you can do.”

Sometimes he doesn’t even say much. He just reaches for my hand, squeezes once, and the panic in my chest quiets like it’s been given permission to rest.

His belief keeps me going.

I genuinely don’t think I could do this without him.

Which brings me to the scarf.

My Christmas gift. My thank you gift. My I don’t know how to say what you’ve done for me so I’m going to make you something you can wear gift.

I knitted it in stolen moments—the stupidest idea I’ve had all year given my schedule, but also the most necessary. Late nights with my fingers aching, yarn looped around my wrist like a tether. Between rehearsals when everyone else was scrolling on their phones and I was counting stitches like it was prayer. In the dressing rooms with the overhead lights too harsh and my eyes half closing, but my hands refusing to stop.

It’s blue and yellow, because I wanted it to look like winter sky meeting warm light. Because I wanted him to have something bright in a season that can feel so grey. Because it’s our fandom colors. Because I… wanted him to have something that was mine.

Last night I sneaked off after he fell asleep so I could wrap it.

Rookie mistake.

I left it on the couch for two seconds—two seconds—because I realised I didn’t have scissors and tape. I walked to the drawer, rummaged around, came back—

—and Xiao Shiyi was trying to wear it.

Not kidding. He had somehow gotten his entire head through a loop and was parading around like he was on a runway, tail up, meowing triumphantly, dragging the scarf behind him like a cape.

I panicked, of course. Tried to pull it off gently. Xiao Shiyi fought like a tiny demon.

By the time I rescued it, the scarf was frayed and there was a hole in the middle like it had survived battle.

I stared at it for a long time, heart sinking, trying not to cry over yarn like a crazy person.

Then I improvised.

Patchwork.

I cut a small fabric patch and stitched it on top to cover the hole—little fish shapes, because Da Yu’s name is Big Fish and because it felt like the universe was mocking me in a way I could lean into. The fish are small and slightly uneven, but they’re cute. The patch sits right over the damaged spot, like a tiny, bright apology.

It… works.

Sort of.

I’m still nervous Tian Lei will see it and immediately know I ruined it and tried to hide it.

But maybe that’s part of it too. Maybe it being imperfect makes it more honest.

I’m thinking all this when I hear a sudden ruckus from the kitchen.

Not just the usual clink-clink of cooking.

This is… chaos.

A thud. A sharp little yowl. Something skidding. A sneeze—Simba’s sneeze, which is a very specific old-dog sound that always makes me laugh.

I blink, suddenly alert. I haven’t noticed the pets have woken up and wandered into the kitchen while I was busy with my musings.

I push myself up, hair sticking up in every direction, and shuffle out of bed.

The floor is cold. The air smells like winter and home.

I follow the noise toward the kitchen, heart light and curious and suspicious.

And when I reach the doorway—

I stop.

For a second my brain doesn’t understand what it’s seeing.

Tian Lei is in the middle of the kitchen, half crouched, flour dusting his hair and shoulders like he’s been caught in a snowstorm indoors. Simba is standing near his feet with flour on his nose, looking deeply betrayed by the concept of baking. Da Yu is sitting in the middle of a white patch on the floor like a powdered donut, blinking slowly, completely calm, as if he’s meditating through disaster.

And Xiao Shiyi—

Xiao Shiyi is sprinting across the counter like a tiny cyclone, leaving flour trails behind him, meowing with the righteous confidence of someone who believes he’s helping.

There are strawberries scattered across the floor like casualties. A bowl is tipped over. The air itself looks dusty, like the kitchen is still settling from an explosion.

I stare.

Tian Lei looks up at me like a man caught mid-crime.

For exactly half a second, we just hold eye contact.

Then my foot slides forward—because of course it does, because the universe loves timing—and the flour on the floor betrays me.

I slip.

My stomach drops. My arms flail. There’s a split second where I think, This is it. This is how I die. Covered in flour on Christmas morning.

“Lei—!”

He lunges.

His arm wraps around my waist and he catches me—he actually catches me—but the momentum is too much and both of us go down anyway in a messy tumble that sends another soft puff of flour into the air like a cruel little finale.

We hit the floor.

Hard enough to make me gasp. Soft enough that it doesn’t hurt. Just humiliating.

And when I realise I’m on top of him, flour on my hoodie, flour on my face, flour probably inside my soul—

I start laughing.

It bursts out of me like I can’t hold it back. It’s not cute laughter. It’s helpless, wheezing, stupid laughter.

Tian Lei laughs too, breathless under me, his hands still at my waist like he’s making sure I didn’t break.

His eyes meet mine, and even through the flour and chaos I can see it—his expression torn between exasperation and fondness.

“I tried to be romantic,” he says, dead serious.

I laugh harder, almost choking. “This—this is—romantic?”

He blinks slowly, like he’s considering the argument, then says in the most even voice:

“It’s interactive. Seasonal. Couple bonding.”

I lose it.

I drop my forehead onto his chest and laugh until my eyes sting.

For a moment, the laughter softens and I lift my head, still hovering over him, and I catch him looking at me.

Not laughing now.

Just… tender.

Like he’s memorising this. Like he’s thinking, We made it. We’re here. We’re safe enough to be ridiculous.

My face gets hot.

I panic like I always do when emotion is too real.

“Merry Christmas,” I blurt.

It’s the dumbest cover. The most obvious.

His mouth twitches. His eyes soften further.

“Merry Christmas,” he says back.

Then he kisses me.

At first it’s gentle—just a press of lips, warm and steady. Flour smudges between us. My hands find his shoulders. My heart does that stupid thing where it forgets to be cool.

The kiss deepens without permission.

He tastes like coffee and sugar and something that feels like home. I sigh into him, and he tilts his chin up, pulling me closer, like he’s not afraid of wanting anymore.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but us. Snow outside. Flour inside. His hands anchoring me like he’s making a vow with touch.

Then—

A loud, offended mrrp.

Xiao Shiyi appears at our faces like a tiny hall monitor, glaring down as if we’ve violated a household rule. He pats Tian Lei’s cheek with a floury paw and meows again, louder, like he’s calling for backup.

Da Yu waddles over and sits beside my shoulder, eyes half-lidded, radiating disapproval.

Simba sighs and lies down directly in the flour patch as if surrendering to the day.

I break the kiss and stare at the pets, breathless.

Tian Lei exhales a laugh under me.

“Seriously?” I say to no one in particular.

Xiao Shiyi meows again, triumphant.

I shake my head, wiping flour off my cheek with my sleeve, which only makes it worse.

Then I look down at Tian Lei, still on the floor, hair dusted white, eyes warm, and I can’t help myself.

I grin.

“Happy Christmas,” I announce. “We live in a bakery now.”

Tian Lei laughs, a low sound that makes my chest feel full.

Outside, snow keeps falling.

Inside, the world is chaos and flour and warm hands and the quiet glow of us learning—still learning—how to live without hiding.

And somehow, it’s perfect.

-——

Tian Lei

We clean up like we’ve done it a hundred times, even though it’s only been a month of kitten ownership and five months of learning how to live like the world can’t kick our door in at any moment.

Zi Yu insists he’s helping. His definition of helping is standing in the doorway with flour on his cheek and laughing every time I try to sweep a straight line.

“I can’t believe you turned Christmas into a baking show,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“It was a controlled operation,” I reply, wiping the counter. “Until someone sabotaged it.”

He points immediately at Xiao Shiyi. “Him.”

Xiao Shiyi meows as if he’s been slandered, then bites the corner of the dishcloth and runs.

“That,” Zi Yu says, triumphant. “Exhibit A.”

Simba chooses that moment to walk through the remaining flour patch with the patience of an old man crossing a wet street, then sneezes and looks at me like I orchestrated this personally.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Your father is incompetent.”

Zi Yu gasps. “Your father?”

Simba huffs and turns in a slow circle before lying down directly on the cleanest towel I’ve just placed on the floor.

Da Yu sits beside him like a small statue, calm as ever, flour still dusting his whiskers. He blinks at me with the same unhurried judgement I see in the mirror when I’m trying to pretend I’m not sentimental.

I rinse the fruit that survived. I remake the batter in a new bowl with the exaggerated caution of someone handling chemicals. I make sure Xiao Shiyi is temporarily contained in Zi Yu’s arms, because that kitten has the attention span of a firework.

Zi Yu perches on the counter, legs swinging, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He watches me like this is entertainment.

“You’re very serious about pancakes,” he says.

“I’m serious about not getting flour-bombed twice in one morning.”

He laughs, then leans forward and steals a strawberry from the cutting board.

I tap his hand lightly with the spatula. “No.”

He makes a wounded sound. “You hit me with a weapon.”

“It’s kitchen discipline.”

He grins. “Boyfriend-coded.”

I flip the first pancake. “Eat later.”

“Okay,” he says, then immediately steals another strawberry.

I flick my eyes up at him. “Yue Yue.”

He points at Simba. “Look. Even Simba thinks you’re too strict.”

Simba doesn’t move. He just breathes like an ancient guardian, unimpressed with our dynamic.

I can’t help smiling. It comes out of me quietly, before I can stop it.

This is what he does. He drags normalcy into a room and makes it sit down. He makes me laugh even when the part of me that used to be afraid says laughter is loud. Dangerous. Noticeable.

When the pancakes start stacking on the plate, golden and warm, the kitchen finally smells like something that isn’t chaos. Butter. Sugar. Heat.

Zi Yu inhales theatrically. “Okay. Now it’s romantic.”

“Now it’s breakfast.”

He hops off the counter and reaches for the cream. “Cream makes it romantic.”

“Cream makes it… cream.”

He puts a spoonful in his mouth anyway and stares at me like he’s daring me to stop him.

I don’t. I just shake my head and carry the plate to the table.

Outside, snow keeps drifting down in slow sheets. The window is slightly fogged from the heat inside. The city feels far away, muted under winter.

We sit.

It’s an ordinary scene, except I’m aware of it like it could vanish: pancakes, fruit, maple syrup, two kittens trying to climb onto the table, Simba stationed by my chair like I’m the one in need of guarding.

Xiao Shiyi chooses Zi Yu’s lap immediately, curling as if his job is to keep Zi Yu anchored to earth. Da Yu, predictably, gravitates toward me, pressing against my ankle, heavy and calm.

Zi Yu pours maple syrup with dramatic flair. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You’re judging.”

“I’m observing.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s judging with better PR.”

I hum, noncommittal, and slide a plate toward him.

He takes a bite and makes an exaggerated sound. “Okay. Fine. This is very good.”

“It’s pancakes.”

“It’s your pancakes,” he corrects, like there’s a difference.

There is.

He keeps eating, fast at first, like he’s been hungry for more than food. Then slower, once the warmth settles into him.

“You did well last weekend,” I say, casual, like I’m not holding my breath.

Zi Yu’s eyes flick up. A flash of vulnerability, quickly covered. “It was… okay.”

“It wasn’t okay,” I say. “You were amazing.”

He shrugs, trying to play it down. “I didn’t fall off the stage. That’s the baseline.”

“I saw the clips,” I reply. “Your transitions were clean. Your breath control held. You didn’t push the high note when you didn’t need to.”

His mouth twitches. “Doctor Tian.”

“I’m serious.”

He scoops cream onto a strawberry and points it at me like a microphone. “Tell me you weren’t nervous.”

I pause. I consider lying.

Then I choose honesty, because that’s what we promised each other in this house.

“I was,” I admit. “Not because I think you’ll fail. Because I know how hard you drive yourself.”

Zi Yu looks down at his plate. “I’m fine.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“That’s not a personality trait,” I say.

He snorts, then takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “You sound like my manager.”

“I sound like someone who has to live with you when you get sick.”

He brightens instantly, as if I’ve offered him a weapon. “Oh? So you’re admitting you’re stuck with me?”

“I’m admitting Simba will be upset if you disappear.”

Simba’s tail thumps once, like he agrees with the statement.

Zi Yu laughs. “Wow. Priorities.”

I take a sip of coffee, let the warmth settle. “Also… I like you.”

He goes quiet for a fraction of a second, the way he does when a simple statement slips past his defenses.

Then he makes his face bright again. “Just ‘like’?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He rolls his eyes and kicks my shin lightly under the table. It’s affectionate. It’s his way of saying I’m here without making it heavy.

He asks about my own schedule, too, like he always does. Photoshoots. Endorsements. A variety guesting that’s coming up. He mocks the makeup, the styling, the way I have to smile on cue.

“You’re cheating on me with cameras,” he says, dramatic.

“Cameras don’t call me at 3 a.m. to ask if throat candy is a scam.”

He points his fork at me. “It’s not a scam. It’s self-care.”

“It’s sugar.”

“It’s healing sugar.”

We bicker back and forth until the plate is half empty and the room feels fully awake.

It’s only then that I remember what day it is. Or rather, what it means here.

Christmas isn’t childhood nostalgia in Beijing. It’s couples. It’s gestures. It’s small, private devotion.

Zi Yu is still in my hoodie, still half asleep at the edges, but his eyes are bright. I can feel him circling something, restless energy under his skin.

I decide to go first, because if I don’t, he’ll overthink and tie himself into knots.

“Wait,” I say, standing.

Zi Yu looks up, instantly suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing the operation,” I reply, and walk to the counter.

The gift pouch is where I hid it: hand warmers, throat candy, the tiny humidifier that fits into a hotel room, and the scarf. I take them and return to the table like it’s nothing.

But my pulse ticks a little faster anyway.

I set the pouch down first, then the scarf folded neatly on top.

Zi Yu stares.

I keep my voice calm. “Tour supplies.”

He lifts the pouch, peeks inside, and his expression softens almost against his will. He laughs quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s practical.”

He pulls out the humidifier, eyebrows raised. “This is… very boyfriend-coded.”

“Again with that.”

He digs out the hand warmers and throat candy and looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to tease or melt.

Then he unfolds the scarf.

It’s expensive. I know it is. I chose it that way because tour life is hard and Beijing winter is cruel and he deserves softness that doesn’t itch. But the customization is subtle—his initials stitched inside the edge, small enough that only he will see it.

Zi Yu’s fingers pause.

His thumb traces the letters once, like he’s checking they’re real. His face shifts, the teasing falling away for a second.

I watch him pretend he isn’t moved.

“Wow,” he says finally, light tone, but his eyes are warm. “This is… rich rich.”

“It’s a scarf.”

“It has my initials,” he points out, accusation disguised as humor. “You’re showing off.”

“It’s inside,” I say. “No one sees it.”

Zi Yu looks up at me. “I see it.”

My chest tightens a little.

He clears his throat and wraps the scarf around his neck immediately, even though the room is warm. Then he sits there wearing it like armor, like proof.

“It’s… really nice,” he says, voice softer.

“Good.”

He smiles, but it’s small and strange, like he’s happy and overwhelmed at the same time.

And then, I see the shift.

His shoulders tighten. His gaze darts away. He suddenly looks too busy, too restless, like he’s searching for something to do with his hands.

He takes a sip of water that isn’t there.

I wait.

Zi Yu sets the scarf down carefully, too carefully, and says casually, “So, mine… isn’t ready.”

I blink. “Not ready?”

He nods too fast. “Yeah. I still need to… buy it.”

The lie is thin. It’s not even a good lie. His voice goes slightly higher at the end, like it’s trying to climb out of the sentence.

“Buy it,” I repeat.

“Yes,” he says, eyes fixed on Da Yu like Da Yu can save him. “Like a proper gift. Not… improvised.”

I stare at him.

He won’t meet my eyes.

I could let him off. I could pretend I believe it. I could do the thing I used to do—make everything easy by not asking.

But we promised. Honestly, or not at all.

I keep my tone gentle. “Yue Yue.”

He makes a small sound. “What?”

“You’ve been disappearing at night.”

He freezes.

“And you keep hiding your hands when you come back,” I add, calmly. “Like you did something you don’t want me to see.”

His face goes blank for a second, then brightens too fast. “Maybe I’m cheating on you with—”

“Don’t,” I say, not sharp, just firm.

He swallows. His eyes flick up, caught.

The kittens choose that moment to be unhelpful.

Xiao Shiyi crawls higher on his lap, then yells at Da Yu for existing. Da Yu blinks slowly and does nothing, which somehow makes Xiao Shiyi angrier.

Zi Yu uses the distraction to attempt escape.

“I’ll—uh—get water,” he says, already shifting. “Also Simba looks like he needs—”

He starts to stand.

I reach out and catch him by the waist, fingers closing gently but decisively. I pull him back down.

He lands right in my lap with a small yelp, shocked laughter bursting out of him.

“Gege!”

“Sit,” I say, voice low, amused. “Christmas rules.”

He wriggles once, purely out of pride, then gives up because he knows he’s outmatched. His back presses against my chest, warm through the hoodie.

He mumbles, “You can’t just… manhandle me.”

“I can,” I say. “I just did.”

He snorts, embarrassed, and turns his head slightly like he wants to glare at me but can’t fully commit when he’s sitting in my lap.

Simba watches from the side like he’s supervising. Da Yu purrs at my ankle. Xiao Shiyi tries to climb onto Zi Yu’s shoulder like he wants to be part of the confrontation.

Zi Yu exhales, defeated. “Fine.”

He gestures vaguely toward the living room. “It’s… over there.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Go get it.”

He hesitates. Then, because he’s dramatic, he covers his face with his sleeves and says, “This is humiliating.”

“Why?”

“Because yours is…” He flaps a hand. “Nice.”

I keep my arm around his waist, steady. “Zi Yu.”

He sighs, then slips out of my lap with exaggerated reluctance, like he’s being sent to the gallows. He walks to the living room and returns with a wrapped package held carefully in both hands like it might explode.

He doesn’t look at me when he hands it over.

“Here,” he says quickly. “Before I change my mind.”

I take it.

He immediately starts talking, words tripping over each other.

“Okay so, listen, it’s not—like—it’s fine but also not fine—Xiao Shiyi attacked it, and then I patched it, and I know you already have nicer ones, like way nicer ones, and it was stupid, and I—”

“Yue Yue,” I interrupt softly.

He stops, breath caught, eyes wide.

I start unwrapping slowly, carefully. Not because the paper matters, but because I want him to see that I’m not rushing past whatever he put into this.

Inside is a scarf.

Blue and yellow.

Handmade. Uneven in the way handmade things are. There’s patchwork on one section—little fish shapes stitched over a spot that was clearly damaged, the repair done with stubborn care.

It’s… beautiful.

Not in a luxury way. In an honest way.

Zi Yu keeps talking, as if silence will kill him. “The hole was there, and I couldn’t redo it because I didn’t have time because rehearsals and then the kickoff and then—anyway, I know you have like twelve scarfs already and they’re all expensive and this is—this is like—”

“It’s yours,” I say.

He pauses. His mouth opens, then closes.

I run my fingers over the fish patch. It’s slightly raised under my thumb, the stitches tight and determined.

Zi Yu’s voice comes out smaller. “It was stupid of me to make you a scarf.”

I look up.

His eyes are bright with embarrassment and something softer under it, like he’s afraid I’ll dismiss his effort as childish.

“I mean,” he rushes on, “you already have so many, and yours are like… proper. Luxurious. This is like a kindergarten craft—”

I hold his gaze.

Then I say the truth, simply, because it’s the only thing that matters:

“But none of them were made by someone I love.”

Zi Yu goes completely still.

His breath catches like he didn’t expect the word. Like he expected me to dodge it, to soften it into something safer.

I don’t.

I touch the scarf again, reverent, and add quietly, “I’ll treasure it forever.”

His eyes shine. He tries to laugh it off, but the sound comes out shaky.

“You’re ridiculous,” he whispers.

“You’re the one who stayed up at night making this,” I reply.

“I didn’t stay up,” he lies immediately. “I slept plenty.”

I lift an eyebrow.

He caves. “Okay. I didn’t sleep.”

I reach for his waist again and pull him back into my lap, slower this time, gentler. He settles against me, warm, and for a second he’s quiet.

Outside, snow keeps falling.

Inside, the house feels like it’s holding its breath with us.

Then he turns his head a little, not looking at me directly, and says something I don’t think he meant to say out loud.

“My success would be nothing,” he murmurs, “if it wasn’t for you.”

My chest tightens.

He continues, words spilling now that he’s started, voice soft with that rare seriousness he tries to hide behind humor.

“The last couple of months…” he swallows. “I almost broke down, you know? All the preparation. All the what-ifs. Every night I thought: what if I’m not good enough, what if something goes wrong, what if I disappoint everyone.” He laughs once, bitter and small. “And you just—kept being there.”

I don’t move. I don’t interrupt. I just hold him at the waist like an anchor.

“You waited up for me,” he says, voice rough. “You fed me. You massaged my shoulders when I couldn’t lift my arms. You made baths. You didn’t—make me talk when I couldn’t.” He finally looks at me, eyes bright. “Your support… your quiet care… it’s everything. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

My throat burns.

He looks away again, embarrassed by his own sincerity.

“So—” he says quickly, trying to shove it back into humor, “this is the only thing I could think of to repay you.”

I blink. “Repay me?”

He nods, cheeks pink. “Yeah.”

I can’t help it. The worry in me is real, but the affection is louder.

“If you want to repay me,” I say slowly, letting my voice go dry, “you can think of more creative ways in the bedroom.”

There’s a beat of absolute silence.

Zi Yu goes so still I can feel him buffering.

Then his head snaps toward me, eyes wide, ears turning bright red.

“Tian Lei!” he hisses, scandalised. “We have children.”

Simba lifts his head like he’s offended by being called a child.

Da Yu blinks slowly, unimpressed.

Xiao Shiyi meows as if shouting evidence!.

Zi Yu gestures wildly at the pets. “They’re right there!”

“They don’t understand Mandarin,” I say, deadpan.

Zi Yu stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Then he splutters, “Xiao Shiyi understands everything! He’s literally judging you right now.”

Xiao Shiyi chooses that moment to pat Zi Yu’s chin with a paw like he’s consoling him.

I bite back a smile.

Zi Yu tries to recover dignity by lifting his chin. “Also,” he says, voice firmer, “if you want repayment, you should… submit an application.”

“An application.”

He nods vigorously, committing to the bit. “Yes. With references.”

“References,” I echo.

“Simba can be your character witness,” he says, pointing at the dog. “He knows you’re a menace.”

Simba huffs and lies back down like he refuses to be involved in this nonsense.

I let my laughter out, low, warm, and Zi Yu’s face does that thing it always does when I laugh—softens, relieved, like the room just got safer.

I can feel the impulse in him the second the tenderness sits too long—the little shift of his weight, the way his shoulders tense like he’s about to make a joke and flee at the same time. Zi Yu has always done that: he’ll give you something honest, then immediately try to outrun the feeling before it can embarrass him.

He leans back against me for one more breath, Xiao Shiyi purring like a small engine in his lap, and then he clears his throat and tries to turn it casual.

“Okay,” he says, too brisk, “I’ll go get water. And also… clean myself up, because I’m still—flour.”

His voice lifts at the end like he’s hoping the sentence can rescue him from his own sincerity.

I tighten my arm around his waist.

Not hard. Just enough to stop him.

He goes still.

“Where are you going?” I ask, mild.

“Water,” he repeats, like hydration is a legal defense. “Doctor Tian said—”

I hum, as if I’m considering the argument.

I’m not.

What I’m thinking—what I’ve been thinking since I saw the scarf, since I clocked the exhaustion in his eyes, since I realised he’s been burning his spare time down to make something for me—is simple:

I need him to stop running himself into the ground.

The last couple of weeks, he’s been stretched thin by rehearsals and tour prep. His nerves have been gnawing at him even when he pretends they aren’t. He comes home wired and tired, smiling too bright, hands trembling slightly when he thinks I’m not looking. He thinks he’s hiding it.

He isn’t.

And now I have proof of where some of that exhaustion went: into yarn and stitches and late nights he shouldn’t have sacrificed.

Above all else, I don’t want him sick.

I worry more than I admit. I worry in practical ways—throat candy, humidifier, hand warmers, scarf—because it’s safer to turn fear into logistics than to say it out loud.

But it’s fear, still. Fear of his body failing him. Fear of him forcing himself to keep shining until something breaks. Fear of him thinking he has to earn love.

So when he starts to stand, I stand too.

With him.

In my arms.

The lift is easy—he’s not heavy, and I’m strong enough, and honestly I’ve wanted to do this for a while just to watch his face go scandalised. I hook one arm under his thighs, the other around his back, and hoist him up like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Zi Yu makes a noise that I can only describe as a squeak.

“Gege!” he blurts, grabbing my shoulders on instinct, half laughing, half horrified. “What are you doing?!”

“Creative repayment,” I say, deadpan.

His cheeks go bright red so fast it’s almost impressive.

“You can’t just—” he sputters. “You can’t just kidnap people on Christmas!”

I take a step toward the hallway.

He bounces slightly in my arms and slaps my shoulder with the lightest hits imaginable, all outrage and no real resistance. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“This is an abuse of boyfriend privileges!”

I tilt my head as if I’m thinking. “Is it?”

“Yes!”

I hum. “File a complaint.”

“I will!” he says immediately, because he has to win on principle. “I’m tweeting about this!”

I don’t even pause. “You don’t have your phone.”

He freezes.

Then he gasps, truly offended. “You planned this!”

I let the smallest smile slip. “I always plan.”

Behind us, Xiao Shiyi yells from the living room—loud, outraged, like he’s filing the complaint on Zi Yu’s behalf.

Da Yu meows once, calm and approving of my choices.

Simba sighs, deep and ancient, the sound of an old dog who has seen too much human nonsense and has stopped trying to understand.

Zi Yu twists in my hold, still trying to maintain dignity. “Gege,” he says, voice pitched in scandal, “the children!”

Simba lifts his head like he’s offended by being called a child.

Da Yu blinks slowly.

Xiao Shiyi yells again, louder, as if to say yes, father, we are traumatised.

“They’ll survive,” I say.

He groans, burying his face briefly against my shoulder, and I feel his laugh vibrate through his chest into mine. It’s softer now than the earlier laughter—less defensive, more helpless. That warmth eases something in me.

I carry him down the hallway with steady steps. The house is quiet except for the soft hush of snow outside and the occasional complaint-meow from the living room.

“This is humiliating,” he mutters into my shoulder.

“You say that a lot,” I reply.

“Because you keep humiliating me.”

I glance down at him, and my teasing eases when I see the flush in his cheeks isn’t only embarrassment. His eyes are bright. Tired. Soft in the way they only get when he’s safe.

“You’re cute,” I say simply.

He goes quiet so fast it’s almost funny.

But I don’t laugh at him. I can feel the truth of it settle between us—the way he always tries to outrun tenderness, and the way a single sincere sentence can stop him in place.

He looks away, pretending his face isn’t hot for reasons that have nothing to do with being carried like a romcom lead.

I adjust my grip, careful, not jostling him. The movement is small, but it matters. It’s me saying without words: I’m holding you. I’ve got you.

He murmurs, smaller now, “At least… close the door.”

I step into the bedroom and nudge the door shut with my foot.

Outside, Xiao Shiyi lets out one final offended meow—like a farewell protest—then the sound muffles, and the house softens around us.

The world narrows.

I lower Zi Yu onto the bed, slower now, gentler. Not like a sack of potatoes anymore—like something precious, like someone I’m constantly afraid the world will steal.

My hand stays at his waist after I’ve set him down, thumb pressing once through the fabric, grounding both of us.

He’s still laughing a little, breathless, eyes warm.

I look at him—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, the faint exhaustion at the edges of his smile—and my chest tightens with something that isn’t fear this time. It’s gratitude. It’s tenderness. It’s the quiet shock of we’re here.

I lean down and kiss his forehead.

Not dramatic. Not asking for anything. Just a warm press of lips, a punctuation mark.

“Merry Christmas,” I murmur.

He swallows, eyes flickering, then whispers back, “Merry Christmas.”

For a moment we just look at each other in the soft winter light, snow falling quietly beyond the window, and I let myself think the thought I usually keep locked away because it feels too vulnerable to name:

I don’t need the world to understand us.

I just need him healthy.

Here.

Safe enough to laugh.

Safe enough to stop running.

My hand tightens at his waist—just slightly—and I stay close, like I’m guarding something fragile and holy, while the rest of the house waits outside with paws and judgment and the muffled, ridiculous proof that we’re not hiding anymore.

Not here.

——-

Zi Yu

We end up eating pancakes anyway.

Not immediately—first there’s the whole “clean up the kitchen so it stops looking like a crime scene” situation—but eventually the flour settles, the counters get wiped, and Tian Lei reclaims the morning like he always does: calmly, methodically, with the steady patience of a man who refuses to let chaos win.

He’s in his element in the kitchen. It’s almost unfair. Some people express love with grand speeches or dramatic gestures. Tian Lei expresses love by feeding you and making sure you don’t get sick.

I sit on the counter in my hoodie, legs swinging, watching him remake the batter with the exaggerated caution of someone handling explosives.

“Are you traumatised?” I ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Yes.”

I grin. “By me or by the cats?”

He finally glances at me, deadpan. “Yes.”

I laugh, because it’s ridiculous, because the house is warm, because snow is falling outside like the world is trying to be gentle, and because I can hear Simba breathing near my feet like an old guardian who has decided this is his pack now.

Xiao Shiyi tries to climb the cabinet. Tian Lei catches him with one hand without even turning fully, like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Down,” he says.

Xiao Shiyi screams in protest.

“He’s you,” Tian Lei says quietly.

I gasp, offended. “I do not scream.”

He flips a pancake. “You do.”

“I do not.”

He glances at me again. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You do.”

I open my mouth to argue and then realise… I absolutely do.

Fine.

He plates the pancakes—golden, warm, perfect—and carries them to the table like it’s ceremony. Fruit in bowls. Cream. Maple syrup. The works.

It’s domestic. It’s stupidly sweet. It’s also the kind of thing I didn’t let myself want for a long time, because wanting felt like tempting fate.

We sit down.

Simba stations himself by Tian Lei’s chair like a bodyguard. Da Yu immediately abandons me to curl into Tian Lei’s foot, because that cat has loyalty like a contract. Xiao Shiyi climbs into my lap and wedges himself under my arm like he’s claiming territory.

“Your son is clingy,” I tell Tian Lei, nodding at Da Yu.

“Our son is calm,” Tian Lei corrects, nodding at Da Yu.

I point at Xiao Shiyi, who has already shoved his face into the cream bowl. “And mine is criminal.”

Tian Lei hums. “Accurate.”

I pour maple syrup like I’m on a cooking show. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging,” Tian Lei says.

“You’re judging.”

“I’m observing.”

“That’s judging with better PR.”

He sips his coffee like he’s immune to my nonsense, but his eyes are warm, and that warmth is enough to make my chest go quiet.

We talk like we do now—small talk that’s actually a form of care.

“How’s your throat?” he asks casually, like he’s not tracking my health like it’s his job.

“Fine,” I say.

He raises his eyebrow slightly.

I sigh. “Okay. A little scratchy.”

He nods like he expected it. “Warm water later.”

“Doctor Tian.”

He doesn’t smile, but I see the tiny curve at the corner of his mouth anyway. “Don’t push the high note if it feels rough.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ask about his own schedule too, because he always tries to make mine the priority and I refuse to let him disappear into support-mode completely.

“You’re cheating on me with cameras again,” I accuse, stabbing a strawberry with my fork.

He finally looks offended. “Cameras don’t call me at 3 a.m.”

I grin. “I don’t call you at 3 a.m.”

He pauses. “You did.”

“That was urgent,” I say, utterly sincere. “I needed to know if throat candy is a scam.”

“It’s sugar.”

“It’s healing sugar.”

He exhales a soft laugh and I feel something loosen in me.

This—this banter, this normal, this warm table with pancakes and pets and snow outside—feels more unreal than any stage.

And then I remember.

Christmas.

Couples holiday.

Gifts.

My stomach tightens.

Because my gift is… not impressive.

It’s not expensive. It’s not sleek. It’s not something you can post online with a brand tag.

It’s handmade. Uneven. Patched. It has little fish on it because Xiao Shiyi tried to wear it last night like a cape and put a hole in the middle.

I keep telling myself it’s the thought that counts, but then I look at Tian Lei—this man who buys things that are practical and high quality and perfect—and I feel my confidence drain like water.

He stands up first.

“Wait,” he says.

Immediately my heart jumps. Suspicion. Anticipation.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Finishing the operation,” he replies, like he’s on a mission.

He walks to the counter and returns with a small pouch and a folded scarf on top.

My stomach flips.

He sets them down in front of me with that calm, understated manner he uses when he’s trying not to make tenderness too obvious.

“Tour supplies,” he says.

I blink, then open the pouch.

Throat candy. Hand warmers. A tiny humidifier. The kind that fits in a hotel room.

My chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.

Because of course he thought of this. Of course he did. He’s been quietly worrying about me getting sick since rehearsals started. He’s been doing that thing where he pretends it’s casual—“Drink water,” “Sleep early,” “Don’t push yourself”—but I’ve seen the way his eyes track me when I cough. The way he watches me eat like he’s counting calories for survival.

I look up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he says.

“Boyfriend-coded,” I announce automatically, because humor is my shield when emotion gets too close.

He rolls his eyes slightly. “Again with that.”

Then I unfold the scarf.

And I understand immediately that it’s expensive.

Soft. Heavy. The kind of fabric that feels like money and care at the same time.

I run my fingers over it, stunned.

Then I see it.

My initials—subtle, stitched inside the edge, small enough that only I would notice.

My thumb pauses over the letters like they might burn.

My throat closes.

Because this is what he does. He pays attention. He remembers. He makes sure I feel seen in ways that don’t require an audience.

He watches my face like he’s pretending not to.

I lift my gaze and try to recover my teasing voice.

“Wow,” I manage, forcing brightness. “This is… rich rich.”

“It’s a scarf,” he says, as if I’m being dramatic.

“It has my initials,” I point out, accusatory. “You’re showing off.”

“It’s inside,” he counters. “No one sees it.”

I swallow.

“I see it,” I say quietly.

And suddenly I’m wearing it, because if I don’t put it on right now I might actually cry into pancakes and that would be embarrassing.

The scarf is warm around my neck even though the room is warm already.

My heart is not.

My heart is overheating.

And now—now I’m fully screwed.

Because my gift is patched.

My gift is uneven.

My gift looks like something a sleep-deprived goblin made on a tour bus while spiraling about whether he’s good enough.

I feel self-conscious in a way that makes my skin prickle.

So I do what I always do when I’m cornered by tenderness.

I lie.

“Well,” I say, too casual, “mine isn’t ready.”

Tian Lei’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Not ready?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I still need to… buy it.”

The lie sounds fake even to me. My voice went up at the end like my throat is trying to escape.

“Buy it,” he repeats.

I nod too fast. “A proper gift.”

He watches me for a moment—calm, quiet, terrifyingly perceptive.

Then, gently, he says, “Yue Yue.”

My stomach drops.

“You’ve been disappearing at night,” he continues, voice level.

I freeze.

“And you keep hiding your hands when you come back,” he adds, like he’s listing facts in a report. “You think I don’t notice because I don’t ask.”

My face heats. I open my mouth, then close it. There’s no clever comeback that doesn’t make me look guilty.

I scramble for escape.

“I’ll—uh—get water,” I blurt. “Also Simba looks like he needs—”

I start to stand.

And then Tian Lei’s hand closes around my waist.

Not rough. Not aggressive. Just… decisive.

He pulls me back down like gravity is his right, and I land directly in his lap with a small yelp.

“Lei ge!”

“Sit,” he says, amused but firm. “Christmas rules.”

I squirm out of principle, then give up because it’s useless and because his arm around my waist is warm and steady and makes my brain short circuit.

“This is humiliating,” I mutter.

“Why?”

“Because your gift is nice,” I say, and it comes out more honest than I intended.

He doesn’t answer. He just waits.

I sigh, defeated, and gesture toward the living room. “It’s… over there.”

He releases me just enough for me to retrieve it. I move like I’m walking to my own execution.

When I come back, I hand the wrapped package to him without meeting his eyes.

“Here,” I say quickly. “Before I change my mind.”

He takes it carefully, like it matters.

And then the words spill out of me because silence is worse.

“Okay so, listen, it’s not—like—it’s fine but also not fine—Xiao Shiyi attacked it and then I patched it and I know you already have nicer ones—like way nicer ones—and it was stupid and—”

“Yue Yue,” he says softly.

I stop, breath caught.

He unwraps it slowly. Patiently. Like he’s making a point of not rushing past me.

The scarf appears.

Blue and yellow. Slightly uneven. The fish patch stitched over the repaired hole like a little apology.

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

I can’t bear the look he might give me—polite disappointment, forced gratitude, the kind you give a child.

So I talk again, faster.

“The hole wasn’t supposed to be there. I left it with Xiao Shiyi for two seconds and he tried to wear it like a cape—he’s insane—and I didn’t have time to redo it because rehearsals and then the kickoff and—anyway I know you already have a lot of scarfs and yours are like, proper, luxurious, and this is like—”

“It’s yours,” he says.

His voice is quiet.

I risk a glance.

He’s looking at the scarf like it’s fragile. Like it’s sacred.

I swallow hard.

“It was stupid of me to make you a scarf,” I mumble, because the self-consciousness is now choking me. “You already have so many expensive ones.”

He lifts his eyes to mine.

And then he says it—simple, direct, like it’s obvious:

“But none of them were made by someone I love.”

My breath catches like he punched it out of me.

My face goes hot. My eyes sting. I hate my body for betraying me so easily.

He runs his thumb over the fish patch, reverent.

“I’ll treasure it forever,” he adds. “Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s you.”

I laugh, shaky, because if I don’t laugh I’ll cry.

“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper.

“You’re the one who stayed up making it,” he replies.

“I did not stay up,” I lie immediately.

His eyebrow lifts.

I cave. “Okay. I didn’t sleep.”

He pulls me back into his lap again, slower this time, and the warmth of him behind me makes my chest ache.

Outside, snow keeps falling.

Inside, the house feels like it’s holding its breath with us.

“My success would be nothing,” I say, and the words come out before I can soften them into a joke, “if it wasn’t for you.”

I don’t look at him when I say it. I stare at the edge of the table instead, at the smear of maple syrup near my plate, at Xiao Shiyi’s paws kneading my thigh like he’s trying to anchor me in place. My ears are hot. My chest is too open. I can feel how bare the sentence is.

But it’s true.

It’s terrifyingly true.

The last couple of months have been a blur of rehearsals and meetings and stage diagrams and costume fittings and lists—so many lists—that my brain started to feel like a machine that only knows how to worry. My first concert tour. My dream finally arriving in my hands, heavy and real, with the kind of pressure that makes you afraid you’ll drop it in front of everyone.

And I did almost break down.

Not in a dramatic way. In the quiet way—lying on my back at night with my throat tight, staring at the ceiling, thinking of a thousand ways I could fail. A missed cue. A voice crack. A mic cutting out. A dance step wrong. A moment turning into a clip that gets replayed and dissected until it’s not a mistake anymore, it’s a verdict.

I never said that part out loud.

I kept it in my teeth, swallowed it like medicine, because the world doesn’t pay you for fear. It pays you for control.

But Tian Lei saw it anyway.

He always sees things I don’t say.

That reassurance—his belief—kept me going.

So when I say, “My success would be nothing if it wasn’t for you,” what I really mean is: I don’t know how to carry this without you beside me.

I finally lift my eyes to him.

He’s holding me at the waist, steadying me in his lap like I’m something precious and inconvenient. His face is calm, but I can see the worry in it—the tightness around his eyes, the way his thumb presses into my side like he’s counting my ribs, counting my limits.

“I almost broke down,” I admit quietly, and it feels like stepping off a ledge. “All the preparation. All the what-ifs. Every night I thought—what if I’m not good enough, what if something goes wrong, what if I disappoint everyone…”

I laugh once, small and bitter, because it’s embarrassing to say it out loud.

Then my voice softens again, because I can’t not be honest when he’s looking at me like this.

“And you just kept being there,” I say. “You waited up for me. You fed me. You… took care of me in the middle of my crazy schedule like it was the most normal thing in the world.” I swallow, throat tight. “It means a lot. It’s everything, actually.”

His eyes flicker, something deep and tender moving behind them. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t make it bigger than it needs to be. He just listens, like he’s letting me say it without shame.

I glance down at the scarf in his hands—my uneven, patched, stupid scarf with little fish covering the hole—and my cheeks burn again.

“So,” I say too quickly, because sincerity is dangerous when it sits too long, “this is the only thing I could think of to repay you.”

He blinks. “Repay me?”

I nod, mortified. “Yeah.”

His expression shifts—worry still there, but now amusement threading through it, warmth rising like a familiar tide.

“If you want to repay me,” he says slowly, voice going dry in that way he uses when he’s about to make me lose my composure, “you can think of more creative ways in the bedroom.”

For a second my brain stops working.

I stare at him like he’s spoken another language.

Then the heat hits my face all at once.

“Tian Lei!” I hiss, scandalised, and immediately point at the pets because I need evidence. “We have children.”

Simba lifts his head like he’s offended by being called a child.

Da Yu blinks slowly, serene.

Xiao Shiyi, traitor, chooses that exact moment to meow loudly as if he’s filing a formal complaint.

Tian Lei’s mouth twitches. “They don’t understand Mandarin.”

I splutter. “Xiao Shiyi understands everything! He’s literally judging you right now.”

Xiao Shiyi pats my chin with his paw like he’s consoling me through humiliation.

I press a sleeve to my burning cheeks and try to regain dignity through sheer willpower.

“Also,” I say, forcing my voice into something firm, “if you want repayment, you should… submit an application.”

He raises an eyebrow. “An application.”

“Yes,” I say, committing to the stupidity because it’s the only way I’ll survive. “With references.”

“References,” he echoes, like he’s genuinely considering it.

“Simba can be your character witness,” I add quickly. “He knows you’re a menace.”

Simba huffs and lies back down like he refuses to be involved in our nonsense.

Tian Lei laughs then—low and warm—and the sound makes my chest loosen in a way that’s unfair. It’s like the room gets softer around us. Like the snow outside quiets even more.

I glance up, still embarrassed, and I meet his eyes.

His teasing is still there, but underneath it is that steady, unshakable tenderness. The kind that doesn’t demand anything from me. The kind that just… stays.

“You’re tired,” he says softly, and the joke falls away. His thumb strokes my side once, gentle. “Don’t burn yourself out for me.”

I swallow. My throat aches with how much I want to be good enough for him.

“I wanted to give you something,” I whisper. “Something that’s mine.”

His gaze drops to the scarf again—the little fish patch, the uneven stitches, the stubborn repair—and he holds it like it’s precious.

“It is,” he says quietly.

And in that simple sentence, all my self-consciousness dissolves into something softer: gratitude, relief, love that feels too big for my chest.

I lean back against him, letting my weight rest where it belongs. Xiao Shiyi purrs louder as if approving. Da Yu shifts closer to Tian Lei’s foot. Simba sighs, old and content.

I should stand up.

That’s the normal response. That’s what a sane person does after confessing something raw, getting teased into blushing in front of three judgemental animals, and being held in someone’s lap like a stolen prize.

I should stand up and reclaim dignity.

Instead, I stay where I am, leaning back against him, letting his arm stay wrapped around my waist like it belongs there. The scarf I made—my uneven, patched, stupid scarf—is still in his hands. He keeps touching the fish patch with his thumb like it’s a secret he doesn’t want to forget.

My chest feels too full and too light at the same time.

I swallow and try to turn the moment back into something safe. “Okay,” I mumble, as if we’ve just finished a normal conversation. “I’ll go get water. And also—uh—clean myself up. Because I’m still… flour.”

It’s not a great excuse, but it’s an excuse.

I shift forward, attempting to get up.

The second my weight leaves his lap, his hand tightens at my waist.

Not hard. Not rough. Just decisive in that calm way he has when he’s already decided something and is giving you the courtesy of being carried along.

“Where are you going?” he asks, voice mild.

“Water,” I say quickly. “Hydration. Doctor Tian said—”

He hums like he’s entertaining me.

Then he stands up.

With me.

In his arms.

My brain takes a second to catch up.

There’s a brief, dizzying moment where my feet leave the floor and I realise—too late—that I’m being lifted like I weigh nothing. Like he’s picked up a cat, not a full-grown man with pride and bones and opinions.

I squeak. Actually squeak.

“Gege!” I grab at his shoulders on instinct, half laughing, half horrified. “What are you doing?!”

He adjusts his grip, one arm under my thighs, the other around my back, and looks at me with that maddening calm.

“Creative repayment,” he says.

My face goes nuclear.

“You can’t just—” I sputter. “You can’t just kidnap people on Christmas!”

He takes a step toward the hallway.

I bounce in his arms—humiliating—and pound his shoulder lightly. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“This is an abuse of boyfriend privileges!”

He glances down at me like he’s considering. “Is it?”

“Yes!”

He hums again, completely unbothered. “File a complaint.”

“I will!” I threaten, because my mouth is the only weapon I have right now. “I’m tweeting about this!”

He doesn’t even pause. “You don’t have your phone.”

I freeze.

Then I gasp, offended. “You planned this!”

He gives me the smallest smile. “I always plan.”

The hallway feels too bright. The air feels too warm. My heart is beating like I’m about to go on stage, except this stage is our home and the audience is currently three pets who are absolutely watching.

Xiao Shiyi yells from the living room, loud and outraged, like he’s filing the complaint for me.

Da Yu meows once, low and calm, as if he’s merely acknowledging the situation.

Simba sighs—deep, ancient, disappointed—and I swear it sounds like not again.

“Ge,” I say, trying to salvage a shred of dignity, “we have children.”

He looks genuinely amused now. “They’ll survive.”

Xiao Shiyi yells again as if to prove he will not.

I twist in Tian Lei’s hold, trying to glare at him properly, but it’s hard to maintain menace when I’m being carried bridal-style like a romcom heroine.

“This is humiliating,” I mutter.

He steps into the bedroom doorway. “You say that a lot.”

“Because you keep humiliating me!”

He pauses just long enough to look down at me, eyes softening in a way that makes my teasing falter for a second.

“You’re cute,” he says simply.

I go quiet.

That’s unfair. That’s cheating.

My throat tightens, and I hate myself for how fast it happens.

I look away, pretending my face isn’t hot for reasons that have nothing to do with embarrassment.

He shifts me slightly higher in his arms—careful, gentle—like he’s adjusting something precious. The tenderness in it lands heavier than the joke.

He’s not doing this to make fun of me.

He’s doing it because he can. Because we’re safe enough to play. Because he wants me close. Because he wants to pull me out of my head and into my body.

Because he’s been worrying about me, and this is his way of saying: Stop running yourself into the ground. Come here.

My voice comes out smaller. “At least… close the door.”

He steps inside and nudges the bedroom door shut with his foot.

Outside, Xiao Shiyi lets out a final offended meow.

Then—quiet.

The world narrows.

Tian Lei lowers me onto the bed, not like a sack of potatoes anymore, but like he’s setting down something that matters. His hand stays at my waist even after I’m on the mattress, thumb pressing once, steady and warm.

I’m still laughing a little, but it’s softer now. Less defensive.

I look up at him, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, heart doing stupid things.

He leans down and kisses my forehead—not dramatic, not demanding. Just a warm press of lips, like punctuation.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs.

My chest aches in that good, terrifying way.

I swallow, then whisper back, “Merry Christmas.”

And even though the pancakes are cooling in the other room, even though the scarves are probably getting sat on by Da Yu, even though the world outside is still loud and complicated—

right here, in this small warm bedroom, with snow falling quietly beyond the window and his hand still on my waist like a promise—

I feel it.

Not the performance version of happiness.

The real one.

The kind that doesn’t need an audience to exist.