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Xie Chengjun—known to millions as Changsheng—stared at the illuminated screen of his phone. Usually, this screen was filled with the frantic, colorful chaos of the Mid Lane, the sound of gold clinking and ultimate abilities firing. Today, it held an email that felt like a localized explosion.
He was going to Thailand.
He wasn't going as a member of the elite KPL Dream Team, but as a "special guest" for the second season of their variety show, 5 Hour Difference. Alongside his teammate DaShuai and Foshan DRG’s Huayen, he was being dropped into a roster of legends.
"Thailand, huh?" DaShuai leaned over his shoulder, grinning. "Think they’ll let us play Honor of Kings on the beach, or are we strictly on 'puzzle-solving' duty?"
"I'd rather face a five-man gank than solve a puzzle," Chengjun muttered, his heart doing a nervous rhythm against his ribs.
It wasn't the travel or the cameras that made his palms sweat. It was the roster list attached to the itinerary.
Mid Lane: Qing Rong.
Huang Yaoqin. The "God of Mid Lane." The man whose map awareness was so sharp it felt like he was reading Chengjun’s mind during scrims. He was a year older, a lifetime more composed, and currently the occupant of 90% of Chengjun’s private thoughts.
Crushing on a teammate was a professional hazard, sure. But crushing on the rival Mid Laner of Beijing JDG? That was a strategic disaster. You weren't supposed to want to protect the person you were meant to burst down in a team fight.
"Earth to Changsheng," DaShuai nudged him. "Start packing. I heard the Dream Team guys are already at the airport."
Chengjun locked his phone. He could handle this. He would be professional. He would be a guest. He would definitely not stare at the back of Huang Yaoqin’s head for the entire four-hour flight.
-
The VIP lounge at the airport was bustling with the kind of energy only a group of elite esports athletes could produce—a mix of high-end streetwear, expensive noise-canceling headphones, and the constant, rhythmic tapping of thumbs on phone screens.
Xie Chengjun gripped the strap of his backpack, his eyes scanning the room. He felt a wave of genuine relief when he spotted a familiar mop of hair. YiNuo (Xu Bicheng) was already there, looking relaxed as he chatted with the coaches. Beside him stood Cat (Chen Zhengzheng). Having his own team captain and a legendary veteran like Cat present felt like a safety net.
"Chengjun! Over here!" YiNuo waved him over with the easy-going confidence of a franchise star.
"Coming," Chengjun called back, his voice only cracking slightly.
As he approached his teammates, his peripheral vision betrayed him. Standing near the window, bathed in the soft morning light, was Qing Rong. Huang Yaoqin was listening intently to Gemini, nodding occasionally. He looked exactly like he did on the KPL broadcast—composed, sharp, and impossibly out of reach.
"Don't look so stiff," Cat said, clapping a hand on Chengjun's shoulder. Chen Zhengzheng had seen it all in this league; his gaze was far too observant for Chengjun’s comfort. "It’s a variety show, not the Grand Finals. Relax. If you get stuck on a puzzle, just hide behind YiNuo. He’s great at looking pretty while doing nothing."
"Hey!" YiNuo protested, though he was grinning.
The group dynamic shifted when a new face joined the circle. Jueyi (Liao Youxia), the young Bot Laner from Beijing JDG, walked in with a suitcase that looked heavier than he was. Since JiuWei had to stay back for team obligations, Jueyi had been called in as the last-minute replacement.
"Same age club!" Jueyi chirped, heading straight for Chengjun. "Ready for Thailand? I heard the humidity makes your phone screen slippery. We might actually have to use chalk on our thumbs just to walk around."
Chengjun laughed, grateful for Jueyi’s high energy. It was the perfect distraction. If he stayed close to his teammates and chatted with Jueyi, he could maintain his "professional rival" persona. He could pretend his heart wasn't hammering against his ribs every time Qing Rong laughed at something Gemini said.
But then, the production director clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention.
"Alright, everyone! Since we’re heading to the 'Land of Smiles,' we’re starting the bond-building now. For the flight and the first day in Bangkok, we’ve pre-assigned 'Buddy Pairs' to ensure the different teams mingle."
Chengjun’s stomach dropped. Please let me be with YiNuo. Please let me be with Cat.
The director looked at his clipboard. "First pair: Chengdu AG’s Changsheng and... Beijing JDG’s Qing Rong."
The world seemed to tilt. Beside him, Cat let out a low, amused hum that sounded suspiciously like he knew exactly what he was doing when he didn't protest the pairing.
-
The cabin of the Airbus A350 hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration that usually helped Xie Chengjun focus on his pre-match VODs. Today, however, that hum felt like static in his brain.
To his left, the "God of Mid Lane" was adjusting his neck pillow. Qing Rong was agonizingly polite. He had helped Chengjun stow his carry-on bag with a quiet, "Allow me," and a small, professional smile that had made Chengjun’s throat go dry. Now, they were side-by-side, their elbows nearly touching on the shared armrest.
Just a four-hour flight, Chengjun told himself, his heart hammering. Treat him like an enemy tower. Respect the distance. Don’t overextend.
Qing Rong pulled out a pair of sleek white earbuds, nodding once toward Chengjun. "I’m going to listen to some music. If you need anything, feel free to wake me."
"Oh, yeah. Sure. Same here," Chengjun stammered, quickly fumbling for his own wired earphones.
He didn't actually want to listen to music. He wanted to listen to the sound of Qing Rong breathing, or maybe find out what kind of playlist a three-time champion keeps on his phone. Instead, he pulled up a mindless action movie on the seatback entertainment system. He watched a car chase, then an explosion, but his mind was occupied by the presence to his left. He was hyper-aware of every time Qing Rong shifted his weight or turned a page in the digital book he was reading on his tablet.
Gradually, the early morning wake-up call and the adrenaline crash from the airport began to take their toll. The movie screen blurred. The subtitles became a messy soup of white characters. Chengjun’s head lolled once, then twice.
He didn't feel himself drifting off. He didn't feel his posture slump or his head begin the slow, inevitable tilt toward the left.
When he finally fell into a deep sleep, his head didn't hit the cold window glass. It landed, soft and heavy, right on the curve of Qing Rong’s shoulder.
Beside him, the older Mid Laner froze. Qing Rong’s eyes stayed fixed on his tablet, but he stopped scrolling. He felt the warmth of Chengjun’s forehead through his thin team jacket and the soft, steady puff of breath against his collarbone.
Qing Rong didn't move. He didn't shrug him off, and he didn't call the flight attendant. Very slowly, as if afraid of spooking a wild animal, Qing Rong reached up and adjusted the air vent above them, turning the cold flow away from the sleeping younger boy. Then, with a gaze that was far softer than anything he ever showed on a KPL stage, he looked down at the messy black hair resting against his arm.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and quietly closed his own eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, allowing the weight of the "rival" to remain exactly where it was.
-
The gentle jolt of the landing gear meeting the tarmac was what finally did it. Xie Chengjun’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurry and his neck feeling a strange, unfamiliar warmth. It took exactly three seconds for his brain to register the texture of a high-quality team jacket against his cheek and the scent of something clean, like cedar and laundry detergent.
He wasn't leaning against the window. He was buried into Qing Rong’s shoulder.
Chengjun scrambled back so fast he nearly smacked his head against the overhead light. His face went from pale to a deep, alarming crimson in record time. "I—I’m so sorry! Senior! I didn’t mean to—I was just—the movie was boring and I—"
He was rambling, his hands waving in a frantic, uncoordinated mess. He felt like a feeder in a ranked match, caught out of position with no Flash available.
Qing Rong didn’t look annoyed. In fact, he looked remarkably calm as he closed his tablet and stretched his left arm—the one Chengjun had been using as a pillow—with a slight wince. "It’s okay, Chengjun. Don't worry about it."
"But I... your arm must be numb," Chengjun squeaked, looking like he wanted the plane to open a trapdoor and drop him into the Gulf of Thailand.
"It’s fine," Qing Rong assured him, his voice steady and grounding. "We’ve all been exhausted lately. Between the tournament prep and the mandatory streaming hours, I think everyone’s battery is at 5%."
He gave Chengjun a small, knowing look. Being a professional gamer wasn't just about the stage; it was the endless nights of interacting with fans on camera, the "gift-counting" marathons, and the pressure of staying "on" even when you were drowning in sleep deprivation.
"Even the God of Mid Lane needs a nap sometimes," Qing Rong added with a hint of a smile. "I should thank you. Having someone lean on me kept me from nodding off and hitting my head on the tray table."
Before Chengjun could process the kindness in that statement, the cabin lights brightened and the voice of Gemini, their chaotic coach-turned-mentor for the show, boomed from five rows back.
"Alright, kids! Welcome to Bangkok! Hope you enjoyed the luxury of the flight, because the 'Variety' part of the variety show starts the moment you hit the arrivals hall!"
-
The humidity of Bangkok hit them like a physical wall the moment they stepped out of the airport. Chengjun felt his bangs immediately begin to curl.
The production crew stood by with cameras rolling, but no buses were in sight. Instead, the director handed each "Buddy Pair" a small envelope and a modest stack of Thai Baht.
"Welcome to the 'Lost in Translation' Challenge!" the director announced. "Your goal is to reach the hotel in the city center. You cannot use the production vehicles. You cannot use your personal translation apps. You have to navigate the public train or find a taxi using only the physical map provided in your envelope. First pair to check-in gets a room upgrade!"
Chengjun looked at the map, then at the bustling, chaotic crowd of Suvarnabhumi Airport. He felt a surge of anxiety. He was good at navigating the Summoner's Rift, but a foreign city?
"Hey, Changsheng," a voice said beside him.
He turned to see Qing Rong looking at the map with a focused, analytical expression—the same one he used when tracking the enemy Jungler’s path.
"Stay close to me," Qing Rong said, tucking the map under his arm and looking toward the Rail Link signs. "I’ll handle the directions. You keep an eye on our luggage. We’re not losing a single point of 'gold' on this trip."
Chengjun nodded dumbly, following half a step behind. He watched the back of Qing Rong’s head, his heart still thumping from the plane incident. He was supposed to be "protecting" his Mid Lane rival, but here he was, being led through a foreign country like a lost kitten.
Slow down, heart, Chengjun pleaded internally. We haven't even reached the hotel yet.
-
The confidence of the "God of Mid Lane" was legendary on the Rift, but in the sprawling, neon-lit labyrinth of Bangkok, even a 100% win-rate couldn't save them.
"I think we were supposed to turn left at the shrine," Qing Rong muttered, squinting at a physical map that was becoming increasingly crumpled. He looked genuinely troubled, a rare crack in his polished armor. "Chengjun, can you see a sign for the Skytrain? My sense of direction might be... bugged."
Chengjun snapped into action, his heart fluttering at the rare request for help. "I’ve got it! I remember seeing a blue building on the map near the hotel!"
They pivoted, weaving through the dense crowd of tourists and street food vendors. Chengjun took the lead, his eyes darting around like he was checking the mini-map for a jungle gank. But Bangkok was a complex map with no wards. Ten minutes later, they were staring at a dead-end alley filled with sleeping cats and parked scooters.
"Okay," Chengjun whispered, his ears turning red. "Maybe it wasn't the blue building."
Before Qing Rong could respond, the sky—which had been a blistering, clear blue only moments ago—turned a bruised purple. A crack of thunder shook the pavement, and then the clouds simply opened.
It wasn't a drizzle; it was a tropical deluge.
"Run!" Qing Rong shouted, grabbing Chengjun’s wrist.
They sprinted through the downpour, their sneakers splashing into deep puddles. By the time they tumbled into the gold-trimmed lobby of the hotel, they looked less like elite pro-gamers and more like two drowned labradors. Water dripped from their bangs and soaked through their thin team jerseys.
"Look who finally showed up," a voice drawled.
YiNuo was already there, looking remarkably dry alongside JDG’s NoFear. They had apparently navigated the city with the luck of a critical hit.
"You guys look pathetic," YiNuo grinned, though his eyes held a glimmer of concern. He snatched a stack of white towels from a nearby staff member and, true to his chaotic nature, didn't hand one to Chengjun—he chucked it directly at his head. "Dry off, Changsheng! You’re dripping on the fancy carpet!"
Chengjun sputtered, pulling the towel off his face, while NoFear more politely handed one to Qing Rong.
"Wait," Chengjun said, his voice suddenly small as he looked at his empty hands. "Wait... where are the bags?"
Qing Rong froze, his hand halfway through drying his hair. He looked at the sliding glass doors where the rain was still lashing down.
"The luggage," Chengjun gasped, his stomach doing a slow, nauseating somersault. "I was... I was holding the handles when we stopped at the fruit stall to check the map. Then the rain started and we ran and... I let go. I forgot to grab them."
He looked at Qing Rong, his eyes wide and brimming with genuine horror. He had lost the "God of Mid Lane’s" suitcase. Everything—his clothes, his chargers, his personal items—was gone in the Bangkok rain.
"I’m so sorry!" Chengjun bowed so low he nearly hit the floor. "Senior, I’m an idiot! I was supposed to be watching them! I’ll go back, I’ll find them, I—"
"Chengjun, stop," Qing Rong interrupted. He stepped forward, placing a damp hand on Chengjun’s shoulder to pull him upright. To Chengjun’s shock, Qing Rong wasn't angry. He looked... amused? "It was a monsoon. We were running for our lives. It’s just stuff."
"But your things—"
"We have our phones, don't we?" Qing Rong pulled his mobile device from his waterproof pocket, the screen glowing. "In our line of work, as long as we have these and a charging cable, we’re still in the game. Don't cry. We'll just have to borrow some clothes for tonight."
Chengjun stared at him, his heart doing that dangerous, rhythmic thumping again. Qing Rong was drenched, shivering slightly, and currently homeless in a foreign city, yet his first instinct was to make sure Chengjun didn't beat himself up.
He’s too kind, Chengjun thought despairingly. How am I supposed to get over him if he’s like this?
-
The hotel room was filled with the sound of rushing water from the shower, a steady rhythm that matched the rainfall still battering the windowpane. Xie Chengjun stood in the middle of the foyer, shivering in his damp jersey. In his hands, he clutched a folded set of clean clothes—a pair of loose shorts and an oversized Chengdu AG hoodie that YiNuo had practically shoved into his chest.
"I’m not explaining to the boss why our starting Mid Laner caught pneumonia in Thailand because I was too stingy to share a shirt," YiNuo had grumbled, though his eyes had softened for a split second before he shooed Chengjun toward the room.
Chengjun looked at the bathroom door. Qing Rong was in there. The "God of Mid Lane" was currently washing away the grime of their failed navigation, probably exhausted and resigned to losing his belongings.
The thought made Chengjun’s chest ache. It wasn't just about the clothes. For a pro player, a suitcase often held the small comforts of home—special chargers, specific hand warmers, or even a lucky mascot. He couldn't just sit here and wait for the production team to "fix" it tomorrow.
He set YiNuo’s clean clothes down on the side table, his jaw set in a line of uncharacteristic determination. He didn't change. If he was going back out, there was no point in getting the dry clothes wet.
He slipped out of the room quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.
Back in the lobby, the humidity felt like a heavy blanket. He approached the concierge desk, his mind racing. He didn't have a local SIM card yet, and his personal phone was tucked away, but he had the one thing every gamer possessed: a memory for maps and patterns.
He pulled the crumpled, water-stained paper map from his pocket. Using a borrowed pen from the front desk, he began to trace their frantic route in reverse. The fruit stall. The blue building. The narrow alley with the cats. He remembered exactly where he had felt the weight of the bags leave his hands when the sky broke open.
"Excuse me," he said to the concierge, using the most polite English he could muster. "I lost two bags. Near the... the Skytrain pillar? Station 'Siam'?"
For the next forty minutes, Chengjun was a man possessed. He worked the desk like he was managing a complex team-fight. He convinced the staff to call the local police substation near the fruit stall and even reached out to a nearby convenience store where they had briefly sought shelter.
He wasn't the "shy junior" anymore. He was Changsheng, the Mid Laner who held the line when the base was under siege.
"Yes, two suitcases. One black, one silver. My friend... my friend needs them," he pleaded over the phone, his voice steady despite the shivers racking his body.
He sat on a lobby chair, staring at the map he’d marked with X’s and arrows, waiting for a callback. He had ignored his own discomfort, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his mind entirely focused on recovering Qing Rong’s world. He didn't notice the elevator doors opening or the tall, lean figure stepping out, dressed in borrowed, slightly-too-short joggers and a plain white tee.
Qing Rong stood by the elevators, his hair damp and ruffled, watching the younger boy argue softly but firmly with a delivery driver over a landline phone.
Qing Rong didn't approach him immediately. He just watched the way Chengjun’s fingers traced the map—the same way he tracked enemy rotations. He realized then that Chengjun hadn't even showered. He was still in the same soaked, miserable clothes, sacrificing his own comfort to fix a mistake Qing Rong had already forgiven.
For the first time, the "God of Mid Lane" felt a strange, sharp tug in his chest that had nothing to do with a game.
-
The heavy glass doors of the lobby swung open, and Xie Chengjun stumbled in, looking like a drowned cat dragging two oversized prizes. His knuckles were white from gripping the handles of the black and silver suitcases. Beside him, a kind-eyed Thai man in a rain poncho waved off Chengjun’s frantic, repeated bows.
"Thank you!" Chengjun stammered, his voice hoarse. He had managed to track the bags to a small laundromat near the Skytrain pillar where they’d first panicked.
As the old man pulled away in a sputtering motorbike, Chengjun exhaled a breath that tasted like relief and rain. He straightened his damp shoulders, feeling a small surge of victory. He had fixed it. Qing Rong wouldn't have to sleep in borrowed clothes or worry about—
He froze.
Standing by the elevators was a figure that looked far too composed for the chaotic evening. Qing Rong was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He had showered, his hair was damp but neat, and he was wearing a simple white t-shirt that made him look unfairly like a model. His expression was unreadable—blank, steady, and fixed entirely on the shivering boy at the door.
"Chengjun," Qing Rong said, his voice low and resonant in the quiet lobby.
Chengjun let out a sound that was less of a greeting and more of a high-pitched squeak. The adrenaline that had carried him through the streets of Bangkok evaporated, replaced by a searing, full-body blush. He looked at his own soaked clothes, then at the two suitcases, then at the man he had a massive, inconvenient crush on.
"I—I found them! Here! Bags! Yours and mine! Safe!"
Before Qing Rong could even take a step toward him or utter a single word of thanks, Chengjun lunged forward. He shoved the handles of both suitcases toward Qing Rong with such force that the wheels rattled loudly on the marble floor.
"I have to—the clothes! YiNuo's clothes! Shower! Bye!"
In a move that would have been impressive if it weren't so tragic, Chengjun bolted. He didn't wait for the elevator. He didn't even look back to see if Qing Rong had caught the bags. He dove for the heavy fire-exit door and began sprinting up the stairs.
First floor. Second floor. Third floor.
His lungs burned. His wet sneakers squeaked rhythmically against the concrete steps. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he scolded himself with every flight. Why did I run? I looked like a thief returning stolen goods!
Downstairs, Qing Rong stood in absolute silence, his hands now resting on the handles of the two suitcases. He looked at the heavy door Chengjun had vanished through, then down at the silver suitcase that belonged to the younger boy.
A slow, puzzled blink was followed by a faint, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth. The "God of Mid Lane," known for his ice-cold composure under pressure, felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the tropical climate.
"The stairs?" Qing Rong whispered to the empty lobby. "We're on the twelfth floor."
He shook his head, a genuine, private smile finally breaking across his face. He gripped the handles and stepped into the elevator, his mind no longer on his lost belongings, but on the stubborn, selfless boy currently punishing his legs on the stairwell.
-
The "ding" of the elevator was the only sound in the quiet hallway as Huang Yaoqin stepped out, effortlessly pulling both suitcases behind him. He expected to find Xie Chengjun already in the room, perhaps hiding under the covers in embarrassment.
Instead, he found a heap of damp Chengdu AG red and black slumped against the doorframe of Room 1204.
"Chengjun?"
Yaoqin dropped the handles of the bags, the hollow thud echoing as he knelt down. Chengjun was shivering violently, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with a mixture of pure physical exhaustion and the creeping chill of a fever. He hadn't even made it inside; he had collapsed the moment he reached the summit of his frantic, stair-climbing escape.
"Chengjun, look at me. Can you stand?"
A faint, unintelligible mumble was the only response. Chengjun’s head lolled to the side, resting briefly against Yaoqin’s cool palm. He was half-conscious, his brain finally shutting down after the adrenaline of the "luggage heist" wore off.
Yaoqin didn't hesitate. He swiped his key card, pushed the door open, and half-carried, half-dragged the younger boy into the warmth of the room. He sat him on the edge of the bed, but Chengjun’s posture was like a house of cards—without Yaoqin’s hands on his shoulders, he would have slid right back onto the carpet.
"You need to get out of these clothes," Yaoqin said, his voice unusually sharp with worry. "Chengjun? The shower. You need a warm shower."
Chengjun blinked, his eyes focusing on Yaoqin’s face for a fleeting second. "Senior... bags... found them..."
"I know you did. You did great. Now move."
But Chengjun was completely out of it. His fingers fumbled uselessly at the hem of his soaked jersey, his motor skills gone. He looked up at Yaoqin with a dazed, trusting expression that made the older man’s heart skip a beat—a look of total vulnerability that no rival should ever see.
Yaoqin reached for the zipper of Chengjun's jacket, then paused. His hands hovered.
If I do this, he’ll never be able to look me in the eye again, Yaoqin realized. He knew how shy the younger Mid Laner was. If Chengjun woke up and realized his idol had undressed him, the embarrassment might actually kill him before the fever did.
Yaoqin reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over the contact list.
Cat. YiNuo. DaShuai.
They were just down the hall. They were Chengjun’s brothers, his teammates, the ones who saw him in the locker rooms every day. They would know how to handle his stubbornness. Most importantly, Chengjun would feel safe with them.
"Wait here," Yaoqin whispered, though Chengjun wasn't going anywhere. He stepped into the hallway, his chest tight. He hated the idea of letting someone else take over, but for the first time in his career, the "God of Mid Lane" didn't have a strategy that didn't involve breaking Chengjun’s heart.
-
Huang Yaoqin didn’t have time for the elevator or the long walk down the hall to where the younger AG boys were staying. He sprinted to the nearest door—Room 1208. He knew the veteran presence of Cat was his best bet.
He didn’t just knock; he practically pounded on the wood. When the door swung open, Chen Zhengzheng stood there in his pajamas, looking half-ready to fight and half-ready to go back to sleep.
"Yaoqin? What—"
"It's Chengjun," Yaoqin interrupted, his breath coming in short bursts. He grabbed Cat by the arm—an act of physical urgency that immediately wiped the sleep from the older man’s eyes—and hauled him toward Room 1204.
As they hurried down the carpeted hall, Yaoqin’s words tumbled out in a frantic rush. He explained the monsoon, the lost luggage, the 12-flight stair climb, and the fact that the stubborn kid hadn't even changed out of his soaked jersey before collapsing. By the time they entered the room, Cat’s expression had shifted from confusion to a deep, parental frown.
Chengjun was still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, swaying slightly. His skin was pale, his lips a faint shade of blue, but he was still trying to stay upright, as if his body refused to surrender in front of his idol.
"Move over, Yaoqin," Cat commanded, his veteran instincts taking the wheel. He stepped in, his touch firm but gentle as he checked Chengjun’s forehead. "Kid, you’re burning up. Why do you have to be so dramatic? It’s just a suitcase."
"Senior... found it..." Chengjun whispered, his eyes fluttering as he finally leaned into Cat’s support.
Yaoqin stepped back, his hands feeling suddenly empty. He watched as Cat expertly guided Chengjun through the process of getting into dry clothes and tucked him under the heavy hotel duvet. It was a practiced, brotherly care that Yaoqin realized he hadn't earned the right to give yet.
-
Once the room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and Chengjun’s heavy, congested breathing, the two legendary players stepped out onto the small balcony. The rain had slowed to a rhythmic drizzle over the Bangkok skyline.
Cat leaned against the railing, lighting a cigarette but not smoking it, just watching the cherry glow. "He’s stable. I gave him some fever reducers from my kit. He’ll be out for at least eight hours."
Yaoqin let out a long, shaky breath, looking out at the city lights. "I’ve never seen anyone run up twelve flights of stairs to avoid a conversation."
Cat snorted, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know the kid idolizes you, right? To him, you’re not just a rival. You’re the gold standard."
Yaoqin let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s pretty obvious. He looks at me like I hung the stars in the sky. It makes it hard to be a 'rival' when he’s treating me like a deity." He paused, his gaze softening as he thought of Chengjun’s shivering face. "Kind of reminds me of how you and your 'boyfriend' finally got together, don't you think?"
Cat’s head snapped toward him, and he delivered a sharp, joking smack to Yaoqin’s shoulder. "You brat. Keep your voice down. Me and him never talk about that stupid thing ever again, you know. That's ancient history."
"Sure it is," Yaoqin teased, though his eyes remained on the darkened room behind them. "But seriously. I didn't think he'd go that far for a bag."
"He didn't do it for the bag," Cat said, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. "He did it because he couldn't stand the idea of you being inconvenienced. That kid’s heart is too big for this league, Yaoqin. If you’re going to be his 'star,' try not to fall on him too hard."
-
The first thing Xie Chengjun felt when he woke up was the heavy, cotton-soft weight of a duvet. The second thing was a dull throb in his temples, a lingering souvenir from his frantic mountain-climbing expedition up the hotel stairs.
He blinked, the morning light filtering through the Bangkok humidity and the sheer curtains. Slowly, like a replay loading on a slow connection, the memories began to buffer.
The rain. The suitcases. The old man.
Then, the sharpest frame of all: Qing Rong standing by the elevators, looking like a statue of a god, and his own panicked, vertical sprint away from the scene. He remembered the door, the cold floor, and then... a pair of steady, warm hands and a voice that sounded far too gentle for a rival.
Chengjun’s eyes widened. He bolted upright, but his head spun so violently he immediately flopped back down. That was when he saw him.
Sitting in a cramped, velvet armchair shoved right up against the side of the bed was Huang Yaoqin. He was fast asleep, his head tilted back awkwardly against the headrest. His long fingers were still loosely curled around a damp, folded washcloth that had clearly been resting on Chengjun’s forehead earlier that night.
He stayed. He actually stayed.
The sheer weight of the realization hit Chengjun harder than a five-man ambush. In a blind, instinctive panic, he grabbed the edges of the duvet and pulled it over his head, effectively burying himself in a dark, fabric cocoon. He couldn't face him. He couldn't exist in a world where the Beijing JDG Mid-laner had watched him lose his mind, his bags, and his dignity all in one night.
A soft, low chuckle vibrated through the air. It was a sound like silk and gravel.
"You know, for a professional gamer, your stealth skills are remarkably low, Chengjun."
Chengjun froze under the blanket. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
"I can see the blanket shaking," Qing Rong’s voice came closer, sounding amused and dangerously warm. "And unless the hotel has ghosts, I'm fairly certain there's a very embarrassed AG Mid-laner hiding in there."
Slowly, carefully, a hand pressed against the top of the mound of blankets. It wasn't heavy, but it was grounding.
"Come out," Qing Rong coaxed. "Cat will kill me if he finds out that I somehow broke his favorite junior. He already gave me a lecture last night about 'not falling too hard' on you. I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders, if you don't mind."
Chengjun slowly lowered the edge of the blanket, just enough for his eyes to peek out. His hair was a chaotic mess, his face was still flushed from the lingering fever, and he looked entirely defenseless.
"Senior... you didn't sleep in your bed?" Chengjun’s voice was a tiny, raspy whisper.
Qing Rong leaned back in the chair, stretching his long limbs until his joints popped. He looked tired, with slight shadows under his eyes, but the look he gave Chengjun was anything but annoyed.
"Hard to sleep when my roommate is trying to set a world record for the highest fever in Southeast Asia," Yaoqin said, his lips curving into a real smile. "How do you feel? Still dizzy?"
"Just... embarrassed," Chengjun admitted, his voice muffled by the duvet.
"Good," Qing Rong replied, standing up and reaching for a bottle of water on the nightstand. "Hold onto that embarrassment. It might keep you from running up twelve flights of stairs next time. Now, drink this. We have a variety show to film, and I'm not letting you sit out just because you wanted to be a hero."
-
The sun over Bangkok’s Chatuchak Market was relentless, turning the narrow, crowded aisles into a shimmering maze of heat and spice.
The production crew for 5 Hour Difference had set up their cameras, the red lights blinking in the tropical glare. The director stood at the front of the group, a megaphone in hand.
"Alright, everyone! The first official mission in Thailand! You have forty minutes to find these five local ingredients," he announced, holding up a card with photos of galangal, lemongrass, Thai basil, bird's eye chilies, and palm sugar. "The catch? You must navigate the stalls using only the Thai phrases we taught you this morning. First pair back with all five items gets a 'Cooldown Pass' for the afternoon—meaning you get to skip the physical challenge and head straight to the pool!"
Xie Chengjun shifted his weight, his head still feeling a bit like it was floating in clouds. He was dressed in a fresh, dry shirt from his own suitcase, but he felt acutely aware of the cameras. And even more aware of the man standing less than two inches away from him.
Qing Rong hadn't left his side since they stepped off the bus. Usually, in variety shows, rivals kept a polite distance to build "tension," but Huang Yaoqin was treating Chengjun like he was a high-value objective that needed a constant escort.
"Stay close," Yaoqin murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd. "The director said if we get separated, we’re disqualified."
"I... I can walk on my own, Senior," Chengjun whispered, his face heating up despite the humidity.
"I know you can. But you also think twelve flights of stairs is a good way to spend an evening," Yaoqin countered, a teasing glint in his eyes.
"Ready... GO!" The director shouted.
The market exploded into motion. YiNuo and NoFear bolted toward a fruit stall, arguing loudly about which one was the ginger. Cat and Gemini were already haggling with a vendor using exaggerated hand gestures.
Chengjun started to move toward a vegetable stall, but the sheer volume of the crowd pushed against him. He felt a sudden, firm pressure around his wrist.
Yaoqin’s fingers were cool against his skin, his grip steady and impossible to ignore. He didn't just walk; he carved a path through the tourists, pulling Chengjun along behind him like a tethered support hero.
"Senior?" Chengjun gasped, his heart doing a frantic 180-BPM sprint.
"Don't get lost again," Yaoqin said over his shoulder, his stride purposeful. "I'm not chasing you through a monsoon twice."
The production crew scrambled to keep up, the cameramen exchanging confused glances. Usually, the "God of Mid Lane" was known for his cold, calculated distance, but here he was, practically dragging the AG Mid-laner through the market by the wrist, his expression focused and fiercely protective.
"There," Yaoqin pointed to a stall selling herbs. "Bird’s eye chilies. Chengjun, remember the Thai word?"
Chengjun swallowed hard, trying to focus on the red peppers and not the sensation of Yaoqin’s thumb resting against his pulse point. "P-Prik... Prik Kee Noo?"
"Good," Yaoqin praised, his grip tightening just a fraction as he leaned in to navigate the transaction. "Let's finish this. I want that pool pass for you so you can rest."
To everyone else, it looked like a top-tier pro athlete being competitive. To Chengjun, it felt like the world was narrowing down to just the heat of the sun and the hand around his wrist.
-
The "Cooldown Pass" slipped through their fingers like sand. Despite Qing Rong’s tactical navigation and his iron grip on Chengjun’s wrist, they had arrived at the finish line only to realize the "Thai Basil" Chengjun had proudly pointed out was actually a completely different, much bitterer herb.
YiNuo and NoFear stood by the cooling fans, smugly waving their gold-rimmed pool passes.
"The penalty for the last-place pair," The director announced, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "is the 'Tom Yum Challenge.' You must finish a bowl of authentic, extra-spicy Thai soup. No water, no milk, until the bowl is empty."
The staff brought out two steaming bowls. The broth was a deep, menacing crimson, topped with enough bird's eye chilies to make a grown man weep.
Qing Rong frowned, his protective instincts flaring up again. He looked at the soup, then at Chengjun’s still-pale face. "Director, he was sick last night. I’ll take the double penalty. I’ll eat his portion too."
"No," Chengjun interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. He stepped forward, his heart hammering not from fear of the spice, but from the weight of everyone’s gaze.
Across the square, he could see Cat standing with Coach Gemini. Cat’s arms were crossed, his brow furrowed in a clear look of "Don't you dare, kid." Beside him, YiNuo had stopped laughing, his expression turning wary. They knew Chengjun’s stomach wasn't used to this level of heat, especially after a fever.
But Chengjun didn't want to be the "weak link" anymore. He didn't want the God of Mid Lane to keep shielding him like a fragile support. He wanted to be a partner.
Before the cameras could even zoom in for a dramatic close-up, Chengjun picked up the spoon.
The first bite was an explosion of citrus and fire. The second bite felt like his throat was being branded. His eyes immediately began to water, and a bright red flush crept up from his neck to his ears.
"Chengjun, stop," Qing Rong whispered, reaching out to grab his arm. "You don't have to prove anything."
Chengjun didn't listen. He didn't look up. He focused on the bottom of the bowl as if it were an enemy nexus. He swallowed spoonful after spoonful, the spice burning a trail through his chest. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and his lips tingling with a numb, searing heat.
With one final, shaky breath, he tilted the bowl and finished the last of the broth.
Clack.
The empty bowl hit the table.
Silence fell over the market square. Even the production crew seemed stunned by the quiet intensity of the "shy" AG Mid-laner.
"Done," Chengjun gasped, his voice raspy. He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and teary, but filled with a stubborn pride.
Qing Rong didn't cheer. He didn't clap. He stood there, his jaw tight, looking at Chengjun with an expression that was terrifyingly intense. It wasn't just amusement anymore; it was something sharper, something that looked suspiciously like respect—and a heavy dose of frustration that he hadn't been able to stop him.
"You idiot," Qing Rong breathed, but he was already reaching for a cold, damp towel a staff member had brought over. He didn't give it to Chengjun; he took it and began gently dabbing the sweat from the younger boy’s forehead himself, his hands trembling just a fraction.
Behind them, Cat let out a long, audible sigh. "That brat," he muttered to Gemini. "He’s going to be the death of me—and JDG’s Mid-laner, too."
-
The bravado of the market square dissolved the second the hotel room door clicked shut.
Xie Chengjun didn't even make it to the bed. He bolted straight for the bathroom, the cool tile floor a sharp contrast to the wildfire currently roaring in his gut. The "Tom Yum Challenge" was taking its revenge. He collapsed in front of the toilet, hands clutching his stomach as he retched, his entire body trembling with the effort of dealing with the capsicum overload.
He heard the heavy footsteps of Qing Rong behind him. Usually, Chengjun would have died of embarrassment—being seen like this by his idol was his ultimate nightmare—but the pain was so sharp he couldn't even muster a blush.
"Chengjun!"
The bathroom door swung wide. Yaoqin didn't hesitate; he dropped to his knees in his expensive streetwear, ignoring the splash of water on the floor. He placed a steadying hand on Chengjun’s back, rubbing small, firm circles between his shoulder blades.
"I told you," Yaoqin said, his voice a mix of deep worry and a hint of a scold. "I told you to let me handle it. Why are you so stubborn?"
Chengjun couldn't answer. He just let out a low, pathetic whimper, leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain. He felt like a complete failure. He had wanted to look strong, to show Qing Rong that he was a partner worth having, but all he’d managed to do was end up on a bathroom floor in a foreign country.
I'm an idiot, Chengjun thought, his eyes stinging with fresh tears. I should have just listened. Now he has to take care of me again.
"Listen to me," Yaoqin said, his voice dropping to that grounding, professional tone he used when directing a game-winning play. "Stay right here. Don't try to move. I’m going to find the production medic or get some milk and antacids from the lobby. Do not—and I mean this, Chengjun—do not try to stand up until I get back."
Chengjun gave a weak, miserable nod.
Yaoqin lingered for a second, his hand resting on the back of Chengjun’s neck, his thumb grazing the hairline in a way that was far too intimate for "just rivals." Then, he was gone, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing in the suite.
Left alone in the quiet bathroom, Chengjun curled into a ball on the floor. The stomach cramps were relentless, a physical reminder that in the world of Honor of Kings, pride often came before a fall—or in this case, a complete gastrointestinal meltdown. He closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the way Yaoqin’s hand had felt. Even through the pain, that warmth was the only thing keeping him grounded.
-
The fire in Xie Chengjun’s stomach was a cruel teacher. Despite Qing Rong’s stern command to stay put, Chengjun’s internal alarm bells were screaming. He couldn't just sit there and wait for the "God of Mid Lane" to witness his total disintegration.
Stumbling out of the bathroom, he leaned heavily against the wall, every step feeling like he was walking through a swamp. He reached the nightstand, his trembling fingers fumbling for his phone. His vision blurred, but he found the contact he needed.
Cat.
"Cap..." he rasped the moment the line connected. "Help. Room 1204."
He didn't wait for a response. He dropped the phone and crawled back to the bathroom floor just as a fresh wave of nausea hit. His body was officially on strike—a combination of the lingering fever and the "Tom Yum" tactical error.
Minutes later, the door to the suite didn't just open; it was practically kicked in.
"Xie Chengjun!"
It was a chorus of two voices. Huang Yaoqin had arrived at the door at the exact same time as Cat, who looked like he’d sprinted from the hotel bar with his hair still in a messy top-knot. Yaoqin was clutching a plastic bag filled with bottled milk and local medicine, his face pale with a terror that far exceeded the situation.
They found him curled up by the tub, looking smaller than ever.
"You stubborn, thick-headed brat!" Cat shouted, though his hands were incredibly gentle as he pulled Chengjun away from the cold porcelain. "I told you at the market! I saw you looking at that soup like it was a challenge from the gods!"
Yaoqin stood in the doorway, frozen for a split second. He felt a sharp, stinging jab of déjà vu. This was exactly like the night before—him standing on the sidelines, helpless, while Cat took over with the ease of a big brother.
"I have the medicine," Yaoqin said, his voice tight. He handed the bag to Cat, but his eyes never left Chengjun.
"Give me the milk first," Cat commanded. He sat on the floor, propping Chengjun’s head against his shoulder just like he had after the stair incident. "Drink this. Small sips. If you throw it up, we're going to the hospital and I’m telling your mom."
Chengjun took a sip, the cool liquid finally putting out some of the flames. He looked past Cat’s shoulder and saw Yaoqin. The older man looked disheveled—his shirt wrinkled, his hair messy, and his chest still heaving from the run.
"Sorry," Chengjun whispered, his voice cracking. "Senior... I'm sorry."
Yaoqin didn't answer immediately. He stepped into the bathroom, knelt down on the other side of Chengjun, and took one of the younger boy’s cold hands in his. He didn't let go, even when Cat started lecturing them both about "professionalism" and "stomach lining."
"Don't apologize for being hurt," Yaoqin said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to cut through Chengjun’s pain. "But if you call Cat before you call me one more time... I might actually get offended."
Cat paused his fussing, glancing between the two Mid-laners. He saw the way Yaoqin was holding Chengjun’s hand—not like a rival, and not even like a friend. He saw the raw, exposed worry in Yaoqin’s eyes.
Oh, Cat thought, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. The 'God' is falling. And he’s falling faster than the kid did.
-
The fever and the spice had regressed Xie Chengjun’s mental age by at least fifteen years.
As Cat tried to stand up to leave the bathroom, Chengjun’s hand shot out with the speed of a Flash-initiated ultimate. He didn't grab the duvet or the pillow; he grabbed the hem of Cat’s shirt, his knuckles white.
"Cap... don't go," Chengjun mumbled, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. "Stay. Please."
Chen Zhengzheng froze, looking down at his Mid Laner. Usually, Chengjun was the model of professional distance—always bowing, always "Yes, Senior," always "Thank you, Captain." But right now, he was a shivering, miserable kid who just wanted the person he trusted most to stay in the room.
Across the bed, Yaoqin stood with a bottle of water in his hand. He watched the scene, his heart doing a complicated, uncomfortable twist. He bit his lip hard, his teeth digging into the skin to keep a frown from forming. He knew it was irrational. Chengjun and Cat had been teammates for ages. They were family. It made sense for Chengjun to cling to him.
But seeing Chengjun look at Cat with such total, unreserved dependence made a sharp, unfamiliar heat rise in Yaoqin’s chest. It was a different kind of burn than the Thai chilies.
I should be the one he’s clinging to, a traitorous voice in his head whispered.
"Chengjun, I'm literally three doors down," Cat said, his voice softening into that rare, gentle tone he only used for the younger AG members. "You’re in a room with a Triple Crown winner. You’ll be fine."
"No," Chengjun sniffled, his grip tightening. He looked like a lost puppy in oversized pajamas. "Stay."
Cat looked at Yaoqin. Yaoqin looked at the floor, still biting his lip so hard it was turning white. The silent communication between the two veterans was loud enough to fill the room. Cat saw the flicker of jealousy in the "God of Mid Lane’s" eyes and had to physically bite his own lip to stop a massive, teasing grin from breaking his face.
Huang Yaoqin, the most composed player in the KPL, is jealous of a sick kid’s captain, Cat thought, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. This is better than any Grand Final.
"Alright, alright," Cat sighed, dramatically patting Chengjun’s hand. "I’ll stay until you’re dead to the world. But if you drool on me, I'm benching you for the next scrim."
"Okay," Chengjun whispered, his eyes already beginning to drift shut as he leaned his head against the headboard, his hand still firmly anchored to Cat’s sleeve.
Yaoqin sat back in his armchair, watching the two of them. He was trapped in a weird limbo of being incredibly touched by the cuteness of the scene and being absolutely annoyed that he wasn't the one being clung to.
Cat caught Yaoqin’s eye and mouthed one word: Pathetic.
Yaoqin just glared at him, but he didn't move. He settled into the chair, prepared to wait out the "Captain's Shift" until he finally had his partner back. Cat, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling, fighting the urge to cackle at the sheer absurdity of the Beijing JDG star acting like a jilted bodyguard.
-
The exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours eventually proved stronger than any professional rivalry or "Captain’s duty."
Cat had intended to stay only until Chengjun’s breathing leveled out, but the cool air conditioning and the comfort of the oversized hotel bed were a trap. He had slumped down against the pillows on Chengjun's left, his eyes closing mid-sentence. Yaoqin, who had been watching from the armchair like a sentry, found his own eyelids growing heavy. The "sentinel" eventually surrendered, sliding onto the right side of the vast king-sized bed just to rest his eyes for a "moment."
When the golden Thai sun began to bleed through the gaps in the curtains the next morning, it illuminated a sight that no KPL fan would ever believe.
Xie Chengjun stirred first. His fever had broken, leaving him feeling light and unusually warm. He felt something solid and steady against his chest, a rhythmic heartbeat that wasn't his own. He instinctively squeezed his "pillow," nuzzling into the soft cotton of a t-shirt that smelled faintly of cedar.
Then, his brain fully booted up.
He opened one eye. Directly in front of his nose was the sharp, sleeping profile of Huang Yaoqin. Chengjun’s arm was thrown over Yaoqin’s waist, and his leg was hooked comfortably over the older man's thigh. He was practically glued to him.
Panicked, Chengjun tried to recoil, but he hit a wall of fabric behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Cat was sprawled on his other side, snoring softly, having lost the "battle for the junior" sometime in the middle of the night. In his sleep, Chengjun had completely abandoned his captain’s side, gravitating across the bed like a planet drawn to a sun, until he was anchored firmly to Yaoqin.
"Morning," a low, gravelly voice vibrated through the chest Chengjun was still pressing against.
Chengjun jumped, his face going from zero to a hundred on the "Tomato Scale" instantly. Yaoqin was awake. He hadn't just woken up, either—his eyes were clear, and there was a look of profound, smug satisfaction dancing in them.
"S-Senior! I... the bed... we..." Chengjun scrambled backward, nearly kicking Cat in the process.
"You move a lot in your sleep," Yaoqin said, stretching his arms over his head with a slow, feline grace. He didn't look bothered at all. In fact, he looked like he had just won the World Championship for the fourth time. "You spent half the night trying to use my arm as a headrest. I didn't want to wake you up and risk the fever coming back."
Cat groaned, finally blinking his eyes open. He took one look at the tangled mess of blankets, the flustered Chengjun, and the suspiciously happy Yaoqin.
"I stayed here to protect him from you," Cat muttered, rubbing his face. "And I wake up to find I've been relegated to the bench while you’re in the starting lineup. Unbelievable."
Yaoqin let out a soft laugh, sitting up and looking down at Chengjun, who was currently trying to merge with the headboard. "Don't look so terrified, Chengjun. You’re a very efficient heater. I slept great."
He reached out and, for the first time without the excuse of a fever or a crowd, ruffled Chengjun’s messy morning hair. The victory was silent, but absolute. He might have lost the "clinging" battle at midnight, but he had won the morning.
-
The production bus hummed with the sound of air conditioning as it wound its way toward the turquoise waters of Pattaya. After the morning’s "bedding disaster," the atmosphere in the AG-JDG corner of the bus was thick enough to choke a jungle assassin.
Xie Chengjun was pressed so hard against the window he was practically merging with the glass. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Huang Yaoqin’s steady heartbeat against his cheek. Every time he opened them, he caught Yaoqin watching him from the adjacent seat with a look that was less "professional rival" and more "predator who just found his favorite snack."
"Alright, everyone! Out!" Gemini shouted as they pulled onto a private stretch of white sand.
The heat was intense, but the ocean breeze offered a merciful reprieve. The director gathered the pairs near the shoreline, where a series of floating platforms had been anchored in the waist-deep water.
"Today’s challenge: The Carry and Conquer!" the director announced. "One partner must carry the other on their shoulders through the water to the platform. Once there, the rider must grab a flag while the 'base' keeps them steady against the waves. It’s all about balance, core strength, and—most importantly—trust."
Chengjun looked at the waves, then at Yaoqin. He was already calculating the physics. He was lighter, sure, but Yaoqin was taller and had the broader frame of someone who actually hit the gym between scrims.
"I'll be the base," Yaoqin said immediately. He was already stripping off his outer shirt, revealing a lean, athletic build that made Chengjun’s brain momentarily short-circuit. "You’re better at the 'grab' anyway. Your reaction time is faster."
"But Senior... the waves... what if I fall?"
"I won't let you fall," Yaoqin said, stepping closer. He leaned in, his voice dropping so the nearby boom mic barely caught it. "You stayed attached to me all night without falling off the bed, Chengjun. This should be easy for you."
Chengjun’s ears turned a violent shade of pink. "S-Senior! The cameras!"
"They didn't hear that," Yaoqin lied smoothly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Now, come here."
As they waded into the warm water, the physical reality of the morning's "tangle" was replaced by something much more deliberate. Yaoqin knelt in the surf, his back to Chengjun.
"Climb on. Grip my shoulders. Tight."
Chengjun hesitated for a split second before wrapping his legs around Yaoqin’s neck. The contact was electric. He could feel the cool salt water splashing against his skin and the incredible warmth of Yaoqin’s shoulders beneath his palms. As Yaoqin stood up, hoisting him into the air, Chengjun instinctively tightened his grip, his chest pressed against the back of Yaoqin’s head.
"Steady," Yaoqin grunted, his muscles tensing as a wave hit his waist. He reached up, his large hands anchoring firmly around Chengjun’s calves to keep him locked in place. "I've got you, Changsheng. Just reach for the flag."
From the shore, Cat watched them through a pair of sunglasses, shaking his head. "Look at them," he muttered to YiNuo. "Yaoqin is playing that 'protective senior' role a little too well. He’s not even looking at the other teams. He’s just making sure the kid doesn't get his hair wet."
YiNuo laughed, splashing some water toward NoFear. "He’s gone, Cap. JDG’s Mid Laner has officially been ganked by his own feelings."
-
The ocean didn't care about professional rankings or the meticulous scripts of a variety show. Just as Chengjun reached out a trembling hand for the red flag fluttering on the floating platform, a massive, rogue swell surged from the deep.
"Chengjun, hold on!" Yaoqin shouted, but the warning was swallowed by the roar of the water.
The wave slammed into Yaoqin’s chest with the force of a perfectly timed ultimate. Their balance, already precarious, shattered. In an explosion of white foam and saltwater, they tumbled backward. Chengjun’s world flipped—blue sky replaced by emerald green as they were dragged beneath the surface.
Under the water, the chaos of the beach vanished. There was no director shouting, no cameras buzzing, and no teammates cheering. There was only the muffled, heavy silence of the sea.
Chengjun opened his eyes, the salt stinging, but he didn't care. Directly in front of him, suspended in the shimmering, sun-streaked water, was Yaoqin. The older man hadn't let go; his hands were still locked firmly around Chengjun’s waist, pulling him close to ensure they weren't separated by the current. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, they hung there, face-to-face in the quiet blue. Yaoqin’s hair floated like dark silk, and his eyes—usually so sharp and calculating—were wide and filled with a raw, undeniable clarity.
Then, the buoyancy of the ocean pushed them upward.
They broke the surface simultaneously, gasping for air, lungs burning and skin slick with salt. The world rushed back in—the heat, the noise, the frantic shouting of the production crew—but neither of them looked toward the shore.
Yaoqin’s hands slid from Chengjun’s waist to his face, his palms cupping the younger boy’s wet cheeks. He didn't wait. He didn't ask. He simply leaned forward and captured Chengjun’s lips with his own.
It wasn't the tentative, shy kiss of a first crush. It was the kiss of a man who had spent forty-eight hours watching the person he loved suffer, run away, and fight for him. It was salt-water soaked, breathless, and desperate.
The beach went silent for exactly one second before erupting into absolute pandemonium.
"YES! GO ON!" YiNuo screamed, jumping up and down so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Cat stood frozen, his sunglasses slipping down his nose as he stared at his Mid Laner. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face. "Finally," he muttered under his breath. "The brat finally did it."
The production crew was in a frenzy—the camera operators were frantically zooming in, and Director Ice looked like he had just witnessed a miracle. The KPL Dream Team, coaches, and staff were all cheering, their whistles and claps echoing off the cliffs of Pattaya.
When they finally broke apart, Chengjun was trembling, his chest heaving as he stared at Yaoqin. The "God of Mid Lane" was breathing just as hard, his forehead resting against Chengjun’s. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the cheering crowd. He only looked at the boy in his arms.
"I told you," Yaoqin whispered, his voice thick with emotion and loud enough for only Chengjun to hear. "I wasn't going to let you fall."