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Wu Suowei did not fall in love all at once. He dissolved into it, quietly and helplessly, until there was nothing left of him that did not belong to Chi Cheng.If you had asked him when it had happened, he would not have been able to give you a date, or a moment, or even a reason. It wasn’t because his love lacked substance–it was because it had been built too slowly, too intricately, layered in a thousand fleeting instances that blurred together until they became something inevitable.

Sometimes, when the nights stretched too long and his thoughts refused to quiet, he would trace it all the way back to four years ago.The year everything in his life shifted.

That had been the year his mother remarried.

At first, he had been uncertain, lingering on the edges of a life that no longer felt entirely his. But Guo Chengyu had barreled into his world like a storm that refused to be ignored,loud and bright, and impossible to shut out. He laughed too much, spoke too fast, and had a habit of slinging an arm around Suowei’s shoulders as if they had known each other forever.

“Why are you standing all the way over there?” Guo Chengyu had complained on the very first day, frowning as he tugged Suowei closer. “You’re my brother now. Act like it.”

There had been no space left for awkwardness after that. There had been no room for hesitation. Guo Chengyu made sure of it.

And then, there was him. 

Chi Cheng entered Suowei’s life not with noise, but with presence. Where Guo Chengyu was overwhelming in the way he filled every silence, Chi Cheng was something steadier and quieter. The kind of person who didn’t need to demand attention to hold it.

“This is Suowei,” Guo Chengyu had said casually, pulling him forward. “My little brother.”

Suowei had half-hidden behind Guo Chengyu that day, fingers curled into the back of his brother’s shirt as though it could shield him from being perceived too closely. He remembered the way his heart had thudded, loud and uneven, as his gaze lifted, hesitant and curious, and met Chi Cheng’s for the first time.

Tall. That had been his first thought. And then,unfairly attractive.

But what stayed with him, what lingered long after that first meeting, was the way Chi Cheng had smiled at him.

It was not amused or distant. It was just….warm.

“So this is the famous little brother?” Chi Cheng had said, voice soft with something that immediately put him at ease. He crouched slightly, lowering himself to Suowei’s level instead of towering over him. “Hi, Suowei.”

There had been no teasing edge to his tone or impatience, just genuine kindness.

Suowei had swallowed, fingers tightening briefly before he managed a small, shy nod. “H-Hi.”

“Don’t scare him off,” Guo Chengyu had snorted, though there was fondness in it.

“I’m not,” Chi Cheng had replied easily, eyes still on Suowei, as if he was the only one that mattered in that moment. “He’s cute.”

The words had been simple. Casual, even.

But for some reason, they had lodged themselves somewhere deep inside Suowei’s chest, quiet and unnoticed at first, only to grow heavier with time.

Looking back now, maybe that had been the beginning or maybe it had been one of many beginnings that followed after.

New homes, new people–he had not known where to place himself, how much space he was allowed to take. And yet, somehow, Chi Cheng had never made him feel like an intrusion. There had been no awkward probing questions, no impatient glances exchanged over his head, only an ease that settled around him before he could even grow nervous. Chi Cheng had spoken to him like he mattered from the very first moment, like he wasn’t just an extension of Guo Chengyu but someone worth noticing on his own. It was subtle, almost impossible to pinpoint, but it had been enough to draw Suowei out inch by inch, until hiding behind his brother no longer felt necessary. From that day forward, something unspoken threaded itself between them. It was quiet, steady, and impossible to unravel.

Time, as it turned out, only deepened that thread. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, and somewhere along the way, Chi Cheng became a constant in Suowei’s life, an unshakable presence that slipped effortlessly into all the empty spaces. It showed itself not in grand gestures, but in the kind of attentiveness that felt almost unfair in its precision. Chi Cheng noticed everything. The way Suowei lingered a second longer in front of cosmetic displays, the offhand comments he made about shades and brands, the quiet delight that lit up his face when he felt particularly put together. And then, without making a show of it, Chi Cheng would appear with exactly what he liked, holding out a small tube of lip gloss with a casual, “You mentioned this one, right?” as if he hadn’t committed it to memory the moment Suowei had spoken. He paid the same kind of attention to his habits, too, making sure Suowei never skipped meals, always nudging his favorite snacks toward him, always remembering what he craved before Suowei even said it out loud.

It was overwhelming in the most dangerous way.

Because it wasn’t just kindness. It was consistency. It was being seen, over and over again, until there was no way to dismiss it as coincidence. And for Suowei, who had started out tentative and unsure, that kind of unwavering attention carved itself deep into his chest, softening him, undoing him piece by piece. Every small act felt intentional, personal, like it belonged only to him. And perhaps that was why his feelings had spiraled so far out of control without him realizing, because how was he supposed to guard himself against something that felt so natural? Against someone who made caring look so effortless?

By the time he recognized it for what it was, it had already grown into something impossible to ignore–a crush so painfully obvious to himself that it bordered on humiliating. Big, unmanageable, and stubbornly rooted in every quiet moment they shared. And no matter how much he tried to downplay it, to convince himself that it was just admiration or gratitude, it refused to shrink into anything smaller. If anything, it only grew stronger with each passing day, fed by every thoughtful glance, every remembered detail, every soft, absentminded kind of affection that Chi Cheng offered so freely, completely unaware of the chaos he was leaving behind in Suowei’s heart.

It had started, perhaps foolishly, with something as simple as wanting to belong in their world.

Chi Cheng and Guo Chengyu had always existed in a space that felt larger than life–late evening practices, the echo of sneakers against polished courts, the easy camaraderie of teammates who moved like they shared a single heartbeat. Basketball was their language, their rhythm, the thing that bound them together in a way Suowei could only watch from the sidelines. And maybe that was why he had made the decision so quickly, so impulsively, to join the cheerleading team. If he could not stand beside them on the court, then he would carve out a place where they could still see him, where he could be part of something that mattered to them.

The first time he showed up for practice, there had been nerves curling tightly in his stomach, uncertainty lingering in every step. But that, too, had faded with time, replaced by something brighter, more confident. By the time the season was in full swing, Suowei had grown into it completely.

Game days became something almost sacred.

He would take his time getting ready, seated in front of the mirror with quiet focus as he blended soft shades of blush across his cheeks, gloss catching the light just enough to make his lips shine. There was a careful deliberateness to the way he dressed, the way he chose pieces that flattered him–shorts that accentuated the long lines of his legs, fitted tops that moved with him as he practiced each routine. It wasn’t just about looking good rather it was about feeling seen, about stepping into the gymnasium with his head held just a little higher, confidence settling into his bones like something earned.

“Are you done yet?” Guo Chengyu would inevitably call out, impatience bleeding into his voice as he knocked against Suowei’s door. “The bus is going to leave without us.”

“Then go,” Suowei would shoot back, not even looking away from the mirror as he perfected the last details. “I’m not stepping out until I look good.”

There would be a scoff, a muttered complaint but it never carried any real heat. And more often than not, there would be another voice cutting through it, quieter and steadier.

“Take your time, Wei Wei,” Chi Cheng would say, leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed as his gaze settled on Suowei, not rushed and dismissive, but attentive in a way that made something warm unfurl in Suowei’s chest. “We’re not leaving without you.”

And somehow, that mattered more than it should have.

Because every time Suowei stepped onto the sidelines, every time the music started and the crowd blurred into noise, he knew exactly where his eyes would drift. Knew exactly who he was looking for. And without fail, there would always be a moment, brief and fleeting where Chi Cheng’s gaze found his in return.

It was never anything obvious. Never something anyone else would notice.

But it was enough. It was always enough.

Somewhere between the noise of the crowds and the quiet, fleeting glances they exchanged across the court, a tradition had taken root, so naturally that Suowei hadn’t even realized when it had become something he began to wait for.

It started small. Insignificant, almost.

The first time, Chi Cheng had caught him just before the game began, when the gym buzzed with restless energy and everyone was scrambling into position. Suowei had barely registered his presence before a hand settled lightly at the back of his head, steadying him for just a second.

“Stay still,” Chi Cheng had murmured, voice low enough that it barely carried beyond them.

And then–warmth.

A soft press against his forehead, so brief it could have been imagined, yet lingering long enough to send Suowei’s thoughts scattering in every direction at once.

“For luck,” Chi Cheng had added easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His lips had curved into that familiar, unbothered smile. “My lucky charm.”

Suowei had stood there, stunned into silence, the echo of it burning against his skin as his heart lurched violently in his chest. He hadn’t even managed a proper response, just a flustered, breathless, “W-what was that for?” that came far too late, when Chi Cheng had already turned away.

But the next game, it happened again.

And then the one after that.

What had begun as something casual settled into routine, threading itself into the fabric of every match day until it became expected until Suowei found himself lingering just a little longer before taking his place, unconsciously waiting. And Chi Cheng never failed to show up, always at the last possible moment, always with that same quiet certainty as he leaned in, hand gentle but sure.

“My lucky charm,” he would repeat, softer this time, like it belonged only to the two of them.

If it affected him, he never showed it.

Suowei, on the other hand, felt like he was slowly losing his mind.

“Are you serious right now?” Guo Chengyu’s voice had cut in sharply the first time he’d witnessed it, eyes wide with disbelief as he stared between the two of them. “Did you just–did you just kiss him?!!!!”

“It was on the forehead,” Chi Cheng had replied, unfazed, already reaching for his water bottle. “Relax.”

“Relax?” Guo Chengyu looked seconds away from combusting. “That’s my brother!”

“And?” Chi Cheng had lifted a brow, something almost challenging flickering beneath his calm exterior. “I said it’s for luck.”

“For luck?” Guo Chengyu echoed incredulously, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what he had just seen. “Since when does luck involve kissing people?”

Suowei had wished, in that moment, that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

But whatever argument had followed after that had happened away from him,low voices behind closed doors, tension that hung briefly in the air before dissolving just as quickly. Guo Chengyu had emerged quieter, still faintly disgruntled, but no longer protesting.

And Chi Cheng?

He had continued as if nothing had changed.

The next match, he sought Suowei out like always, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as he tilted his face up just enough. There had been no hesitation, no second-guessing–just that same familiar touch, that same soft press against his forehead.

“My lucky charm.”

By then, Suowei had learned not to question it aloud but that didn’t mean it stopped affecting him. If anything, it only made things worse.He told himself, over and over, that it didn’t mean anything,that it couldn’t. That Chi Cheng was just affectionate by nature, just careless in a way that didn’t cost him anything but took everything from Suowei in return. But the problem was that his body never listened. His heart never adjusted. It reacted anyway,every single time like it was being chosen and singled out, like it meant something. And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all, not that Chi Cheng was unclear, but that he was too gentle to ever be clear at all.

For all the ways Chi Cheng blurred the lines, Suowei still held onto one truth with stubborn certainty, there was no way he would ever be seen as anything more than Guo Chengyu’s younger brother.

It was the only explanation that made sense, the only one that kept him from completely unraveling under the weight of his own feelings. Because yes, Chi Cheng was attentive. Yes, he was indulgent in a way that felt dangerously personal. He let Suowei cling to him without complaint, let him demand hugs at the most inconvenient times, let him lean in too close and linger too long. He gave in with an ease that bordered on unfair, always soft, always accommodating, as if denying Suowei was never even an option.

But that was just who he was, wasn’t it?

He was kind and patient. He was also unfairly gentle in a way that extended beyond boundaries.

Suowei repeated it to himself often enough that it almost felt true.

And yet there were moments that didn’t quite fit into that explanation. Moments that lingered longer than they should have, that pressed at the edges of his carefully constructed reasoning until it began to crack.

Things shifted again when Guo Chengyu started dating Jiang Xiaoshuai.

It had happened quickly, almost startlingly so. One day, Jiang Xiaoshuai was just someone who hovered at the edges of their circle–sharp-tongued, perceptive, and far too observant for Suowei’s comfort ,and the next, he was a constant presence. And somehow, effortlessly, he became Suowei’s closest confidant, slipping past his defenses with an ease that felt almost suspicious.

“You’re really bad at hiding things, you know that?” Jiang Xiaoshuai had told him once, eyeing him with a knowing look that made Suowei’s stomach drop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Suowei had muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Mm,” Jiang Xiaoshuai had hummed, unconvinced. “Sure you don’t.”

But as much as Suowei appreciated having someone in his corner, the shift in the household dynamic left him feeling a little out of place.

It wasn’t anything obvious. Guo Chengyu never treated him differently, and Jiang Xiaoshuai was always warm, always including him in everything without hesitation. But there were moments, the quiet and intimate ones, that made Suowei acutely aware that he was standing on the edges of something that didn’t quite belong to him. Shared glances, hushed conversations, the kind of closeness that made him feel like an unintentional observer rather than a participant.

It gnawed at him more than he liked to admit.

“I think….I should move out.”

The words had slipped out one evening, hesitant but firm enough to hang heavily in the air. He hadn’t expected the immediate reaction.Guo Chengyu going completely still and Jiang Xiaoshuai blinking at him in surprise.

“Move out?” Guo Chengyu repeated, like the concept itself was absurd. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just–” Suowei faltered, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. “You guys should have your space. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Jiang Xiaoshuai cut in, sharper than usual, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Who put that idea in your head?”

“No one,” Suowei said quickly, even though the feeling had been building for a while. “I just thought–”

“Then stop thinking,” Guo Chengyu interrupted, fond exasperation bleeding into his tone. “This is your home too.”

The conversation might have ended there–dismissed, brushed aside like it was nothing but then Chi Cheng spoke.

“You can stay with me.”

It was said so simply and so decisively, that the room fell quiet for a beat.

Suowei turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

“My place is closer to campus,” Chi Cheng continued, as if he hadn’t just upended everything. “And I’m hardly there half the time anyway. It’ll be more convenient for you.”

“That’s not–” Suowei hesitated, caught between confusion and something dangerously close to hope. “Won’t it be weird?”

“For who?” Chi Cheng asked, brows lifting slightly.

“For you?” Suowei said, quieter now.

Chi Cheng held his gaze for a moment,steady yet unreadable in a way that made Suowei’s pulse stutter.

“It won’t be,” he said finally, voice softer but no less certain.

And just like that, the decision was made.

There had been some half-hearted objections, a few lingering concerns, but none of them held up against the quiet insistence in Chi Cheng’s tone. Within days, Suowei found himself standing in a space that felt entirely different from anything he had known before. It was smaller and quieter but somehow more intimate in a way he couldn’t quite put into words.

Sharing a room with Chi Cheng. The thought alone should have been enough to send him spiraling and maybe it did. Because nothing could have prepared him for what came after.

He had gone into it thinking he would have to be painfully and meticulously careful.

Living with his crush was not something people survived unscathed, not when his feelings were already so far gone. Suowei had braced himself for distance, for awkwardness, for the constant strain of holding himself back. He had promised himself he would behave, that he would draw lines where none existed before, that he would not let his already fragile self-control shatter completely under the same roof as Chi Cheng.

He had not accounted for Chi Cheng making that nearly impossible.

Because instead of distance, what he was met with was an intimacy so effortless it felt almost deliberate. The apartment itself was quiet, stripped of the constant noise he had grown used to, and in that quiet, everything between them seemed to magnify. Every shared glance lingered longer. Every casual touch felt heavier. There was no buffer anymore, no one to interrupt the spaces between them and somehow, those spaces never stayed empty for long.

It started with small things.

A hand at his back, guiding him absentmindedly through narrow spaces. Fingers brushing against his wrist when passing something. The way Chi Cheng would sit just close enough that their shoulders touched, like it was second nature. None of it was overt, none of it something Suowei could call out without sounding ridiculous but it added up, piece by piece until he felt constantly aware of him.

And then came the nights.

Fridays, specifically, became something of a ritual. It was never formally discussed, never planned out loud, but it happened with such consistency that it might as well have been. Chi Cheng would come home a little earlier than usual, dropping snacks onto the table with a quiet, “Movie night?” that wasn’t really a question.

Suowei would pretend to consider it, roll his eyes, act unimpressed but he was already settling in before the opening scene even began.

Somehow, without fail, he always ended up in the same position.

It would start innocently enough, seated side by side, a careful inch of space between them that Suowei told himself he would maintain. But movies stretched on, and attention wavered, and at some point, he could never pinpoint exactly when that space would disappear.

“Comfortable?” Chi Cheng would murmur once, voice threaded with something faintly amused.

Suowei had blinked, disoriented, only to realize too late that he was no longer sitting beside him.

He was on him.

More specifically, seated on Chi Cheng’s lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world, back pressed lightly against his chest, one of Chi Cheng’s arms draped loosely around his waist to steady him. The position was far too intimate, far too dangerous and yet, Chi Cheng didn’t move him away. He didn’t even seem fazed.

“I–when did I–” Suowei had started, heat rushing up his neck as he tried to shift, to put distance between them before his heart gave him away.

Chi Cheng’s arm had tightened just slightly, not enough to trap him, but enough to make him pause.

“Watch the movie,Wei Wei” he had said simply, chin dipping just enough that Suowei could feel the ghost of his breath near his temple.

And that was it.

There was no teasing or explanation. Just a quiet acceptance, as if Suowei being this close ans this familiar was something he had already decided on long ago.

It became a pattern after that.

No matter how many times Suowei told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again, he always ended up there, drawn in by something he couldn’t quite resist, settling against Chi Cheng like he belonged. And every time, Chi Cheng would let him. He would adjust just slightly to make him more comfortable, would rest his hand absentmindedly at his waist or along his arm, grounding him in a way that felt both gentle and dangerously intimate.

There were even nights when the movie would fade into the background entirely, forgotten in favor of something softer.

“Cold?” Chi Cheng would ask once, noticing the way Suowei curled into himself.

Before Suowei could answer, a blanket would be draped over them both, Chi Cheng’s hand lingering for just a second longer than necessary as he tucked it around him.

And then, without a word, he would pull him closer.

He would be cuddling with the love of his life–casual, unspoken, and treated like it was nothing out of the ordinary. And for Chi Cheng, maybe it was but for Suowei, it was everything.

Because with every passing day, every quiet moment that felt too close, too intimate to be dismissed as simple kindness, the lines he had drawn for himself blurred a little more until he wasn’t sure where they had been to begin with.

And then, inevitably jealousy found its way in.

It crept up on him in the quietest, ugliest way, coiling tight in his chest before he could even recognize it for what it was.

That day had been ordinary enough. Classes had dragged on longer than usual, and all Suowei could think about was getting back, about the familiar comfort of their Friday routine, about the easy way the evening would unfold. He had even planned it out in his head, already deciding what snacks they should get, already picturing himself curled up beside Chi Cheng, pretending not to care while secretly savoring every second.

So he went looking for him after school, steps light, expectation settling warmly in his chest.

And then he saw it.

Chi Cheng stood just outside the campus gates, one hand loosely holding his bag, the other occupied. A girl stood far too close, fingers curled around his arm as she leaned into him with an easy familiarity that made something sharp twist inside Suowei’s chest.

“Come on,” she was saying, her voice lilting, playful. “Let’s go to the arcade. You always keep declining. ”

Suowei stopped short.

It was ridiculous, the way his entire body seemed to freeze, like he had walked straight into something he was never meant to see. The scene wasn’t even unusual–Chi Cheng was attractive, popular, the kind of person people gravitated toward without hesitation. Of course there would be girls. Of course they would want his attention.

Of course he would say yes.

The thought hit harder than it should have, lodging itself somewhere deep and painful before he could stop it. Because what right did he have to feel like this? What claim did he have over something that had never been his to begin with?

He didn’t stay long enough to find out the answer.

Before Chi Cheng could even notice him, Suowei turned and walked away, quickly at first, and then faster, until it bordered on running. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to stand there and listen to Chi Cheng agree, to watch him leave with someone else like it was nothing.

Because it was nothing.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, the warmth from earlier had long since drained out of him, replaced with something dull and heavy. He dropped his bag carelessly, the quiet of the room pressing in around him in a way that felt unfamiliar, almost suffocating.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, kicking off his shoes with more force than necessary. “Why wouldn’t he go?”

It was stupid, he knew it was stupid. But that didn’t stop the sting, didn’t stop the way his chest tightened at the thought of spending the night alone while Chi Cheng was out–laughing, smiling and giving someone else the attention Suowei had foolishly begun to think was his.

He moved through the motions anyway, half-heartedly setting things up as if the night would go on as usual. The TV flickered to life, the couch waiting, empty. The silence stretched.

He hated it and he hated himself even more for caring this much.

So when the door finally opened, the sound caught him completely off guard.

Suowei stilled, heart lurching in his chest as he turned, not quite sure what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Baby,” Chi Cheng called, voice threaded with mild confusion, like something hadn’t gone according to plan. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

The word hit him first.

Baby.

It wasn’t new.Chi Cheng used it often enough, casually and effortlessly but right now, it felt different. It felt heavier. It was enough to send Suowei’s heart spiraling wildly in his chest as he stared at him, momentarily frozen.

Chi Cheng stepped inside fully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. A plastic bag hung loosely from his hand, and he lifted it slightly, brows furrowing just a fraction as he looked at Suowei.

“I got your favorite snacks for the marathon,” he continued, like that explained everything. Like nothing had changed. “You just left.”

Suowei blinked.Once. Twice.

The image from earlier lingered stubbornly in Suowei’s mind but it softened, faltered, against the one in front of him now. Chi Cheng stood there like he had never been anywhere else to begin with, a familiar plastic bag swinging lightly from his hand, filled with snacks he had picked out with quiet, deliberate care,the kind that always, always seemed to circle back to Suowei.

“You… didn’t go?” Suowei asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it, softer than he meant it to be.

“Go where?” Chi Cheng frowned, genuinely confused for a second until something shifted in his expression, a hint of realization settling in. “The arcade?”

Suowei froze.

He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t meant to say anything.

And yet–

A small, knowing smile tugged at Chi Cheng’s lips, subtle but unmistakable, like he had just caught onto something he wasn’t supposed to know.

“Oh,” he hummed quietly, stepping a little closer, the teasing lilt in his voice gentle rather than sharp. “You went looking for me?”

Suowei’s face burned instantly. “I didn’t–”

“I told her I already had plans,” Chi Cheng cut in, softer now, like he was sparing him from digging himself deeper.

Plans.

The word landed differently this time. It felt warmer and steadier like it had weight.

Chi Cheng tilted his head slightly, watching him in that quiet, attentive way that always made Suowei feel like he was being seen too clearly.

“With you,” he added, his voice gentler now, stripped of teasing but filled with something far more certain. “You’re more important.”

And just like that, the tight knot of jealousy that had been sitting in Suowei’s chest unraveled completely, leaving behind something embarrassingly soft in its place.

He didn’t think. He didn’t give himself time to process the way his emotions flipped so abruptly. He just moved.

He crossed the space between them in a few quick steps and threw himself forward, arms wrapping around Chi Cheng before he could second-guess it. The impact made Chi Cheng let out a quiet huff of surprise, but his arms came up almost immediately, steadying him without hesitation.

“Wei Wei–” Chi Cheng started, but whatever he had been about to say softened into something quieter as he adjusted his hold, one hand settling at Suowei’s back.

Suowei pressed closer without meaning to, burying his face against his shoulder as if grounding himself in the simple fact that he was here.

That he had come back.

That he had chosen this.

Chosen him.

And even if it didn’t mean what Suowei wanted it to mean and even if it never would, it was enough, in that moment, to make his heart feel unbearably full.

By that point, the only thing keeping Suowei from completely losing himself to it all was the fragile outlet he clung to–Jiang Xiaoshuai, his best friend. 

It had become a habit, almost a necessity. Every confusing moment, every soft look that lingered too long, every careless word that meant too much, Suowei poured it all out to him in long, rambling messages or late-night conversations that bordered on desperate. Jiang Xiaoshuai, to his credit, never betrayed him. Not once. Despite being Guo Chengyu’s boyfriend, despite how easily it could have slipped out in passing, he held onto Suowei’s secret like it was something sacred.

“You’re hopeless,” he would often say, voice laced with dry amusement whenever Suowei spiraled too far. “Completely, irreversibly gone.”

“I know,” Suowei would groan, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s the problem.”

“And yet,” Jiang Xiaoshuai would add, softer now, more thoughtful, “you’re still pretending this is one-sided.”

Suowei never had an answer to that.

Because it had to be, didn’t it?

It was safer that way.

But safety had a way of unraveling when Chi Cheng was involved.

That day had been particularly exhausting, the kind that left his limbs heavy and his patience worn thin. Classes had been relentless, and with the basketball finals approaching, cheerleading practice had stretched longer than usual. There had been costume fittings, last-minute adjustments, endless repetitions under bright lights that made his head throb.

By the time he was done, the sky had already deepened into evening.

Chi Cheng had left earlier, something about practice running late on his end and for once, Suowei had trudged home alone, too drained to even think properly. All he wanted was to collapse into bed, maybe complain a little, maybe text Jiang Xiaoshuai and vent until the frustration ebbed away.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside.

Dark, save for the faint glow of a single light left on–something Chi Cheng always did when he knew Suowei would be coming back late. It should have been a small thing, barely noticeable.

But Suowei noticed. He always did.

“Chi Cheng?” he called out softly, though he already suspected the answer.

There was no response.

He slipped off his shoes, moving further in, the exhaustion weighing heavier with each step until something caught his eye.

On the table, placed neatly like it had been waiting for him, sat a small box.

Suowei stilled. For a moment, he just stared at it, something in his chest tightening before he even reached out. His fingers felt strangely unsteady as he lifted the lid, already knowing what he would find inside.

Strawberry shortcake.

His favorite. The one thing he craved without fail on days when everything felt overwhelming, when his thoughts grew too loud and his emotions too tangled to sort through.

And beside it there was a small sticky note, simple and unassuming.

For Wei Wei.

That was all. There was no elaboration or explanation.

Something inside him gave way entirely.

It wasn’t the cake. It wasn’t even the note. It was the fact that Chi Cheng had remembered–had noticed and anticipated a need Suowei hadn’t even voiced aloud. He had come home, seen the absence, and still thought of him. Still left something behind, something so quietly personal it made Suowei’s chest ache.

“Why are you like this…” he whispered under his breath, voice barely there as he sank down onto the edge of the couch, the box still in his hands.

The exhaustion from earlier shifted into something restless and overwhelming, too big to keep contained.

And like always, there was only one way he knew how to deal with it.

His phone was in his hand before he could think twice, fingers already moving, words spilling out faster than he could filter them.

Because if he didn’t get it out–if he didn’t say it somewhere, to someone, he was sure it would consume him whole.

His fingers moved faster than his thoughts, the words spilling out in a rush of unchecked emotion, messy and unfiltered in a way they only ever were with Jiang Xiaoshuai.

it was a freaking long dayyyyy and guess what Chi Cheng bought for me!!!!

strawberry shortcake!!!!!

like why does he have to be so perfect? why does he have to do the sweetest things. I am going to combust one day with all the feelings that I have for him

why do I love him so muchhhh

he really is the love of my life :(

For a brief, fleeting second after he hit send, there was relief, like something heavy had finally been let out.

And then his world tilted.

The contact name at the top of the screen came into focus slowly, almost cruelly, as if his mind was giving him time to realize before it fully sank in.

Not Jiang Xiaoshuai.

Chi Cheng.

Everything inside him went cold.

“No,” Suowei breathed, the word barely audible as his grip on the phone tightened. “No, no, no–”

His heart slammed violently against his ribs, panic rising so fast it left him dizzy. He stared at the screen like he could undo it, like sheer willpower might drag the message back into unsent oblivion.

But it stayed there.

Delivered.

Seen.

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

And then-

A door creaked open.

Suowei’s head snapped up, every muscle in his body going rigid as he turned toward the sound. Time seemed to slow, stretching unbearably thin as Chi Cheng stepped out of his room, hair slightly mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep.

For a moment, he just stood there, looking at him. He did not speak or move. He just stood there looking. 

There was something unfamiliar in his expression,something quieter and more fragile than Suowei had ever seen before.

“Wei Wei…”

His voice was softer than usual, roughened slightly by sleep, but there was something uncertain and almost hesitant beneath it too

Suowei couldn’t breathe.

Chi Cheng took a small step forward, like he wasn’t entirely sure he should.

“…do you love me?”

The question landed between them, delicate and devastating all at once.It was not teasing or light. It was not something that could be brushed off or laughed away.

It was careful. Almost afraid and that made it worse.

Because Suowei had imagined this moment a hundred different ways, confessions tangled in emotion, words spilling out under the weight of everything he had been holding back. But never like this. Never exposed so suddenly, so helplessly, with no time to prepare or a way to shield himself from the aftermath.

His throat tightened painfully, every instinct screaming at him to say something–to deny it, to laugh it off, to fix this before everything fell apart but his body refused to cooperate.

He stood there, frozen in place, heart racing, mind spiraling, as the truth he had guarded so desperately hung bare and fragile between them, irreversible and impossible to take back.

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt suffocating.

It wrapped around Suowei’s throat, slid into his lungs, turned the air heavy and unbreathable. The world seemed to narrow down to that single moment, to the fragile space between him and Chi Cheng, to the question that still lingered like something alive, waiting.

And then the cold set in.

It started at his fingertips, a creeping numbness that spread too quickly, too completely, until it settled deep in his chest. His thoughts, which had been racing just seconds ago, came to an abrupt, jarring halt. There was nothing left but the overwhelming awareness of what he had done and of what he had exposed.

There was no taking it back.

No pretending it had been a joke, no brushing it off like one of his usual dramatics.

This was real and it had reached Chi Cheng.

“Baby, I can’t–”

The words were quiet.Too quiet but they hit harder than anything else could have.

Suowei didn’t let him finish.

“I’m sorry.” The apology came out rushed, breathless, stumbling over itself before Chi Cheng could say anything more. “I didn’t mean to–I mean, I did, but not like this, I wasn’t supposed to–”

His voice shook, panic bleeding through every syllable as he backed away, hands trembling at his sides. He couldn’t look at him,couldn’t bear to see whatever expression might be on Chi Cheng’s face now. Pity? Discomfort? Regret?

He didn’t want to know.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, softer this time, the words cracking under the weight of everything he was trying to hold together. “Just forget it, okay? Please just forget it.”

It was a useless request.They both knew it.

But Suowei clung to it anyway, because the alternative, standing there, waiting for the rest of that sentence, for the inevitable rejection that would follow felt unbearable.For a single, fragile second, he almost stayed. Almost forced himself to stand there and listen—to be brave enough to hear the rest of it, no matter how much it hurt. But fear was louder than courage, and it wrapped around him tighter than anything else ever had.

So he ran.It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t thought out. It was messy, frantic .His body moving before his mind could catch up, feet carrying him toward the door with a desperation that bordered on instinct. He grabbed the handle with shaking hands, barely managing to wrench it open before stepping out into the hallway.

“Suowei–wait.”

Chi Cheng’s voice followed him, sharper now, closer but Suowei didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he knew he would break completely.

The door shut behind him with a hollow sound, and then he was moving again,down the stairs, out of the building, into the night air that hit his face too harshly, too suddenly. His chest heaved, breaths uneven and shallow as he forced himself forward, putting distance between himself and everything he had just destroyed.

Because that’s what it felt like.

Like something had shattered beyond repair.

By the time he reached Guo Chengyu’s apartment, his hands were still trembling.

He didn’t remember the walk there. Didn’t remember how many times he had almost stopped, almost turned back, almost convinced himself to face it like he should have. All he knew was that he couldn’t go back, not yet, maybe not ever.

The door opened after a moment, and Jiang Xiaoshuai was the one standing there.

His expression shifted immediately.

“Suowei?” he said, brows knitting together as he took in the state of him–flushed, shaken, eyes just a little too bright. “What happened?”

Suowei tried to speak. Nothing came out. And somehow, that was answer enough.

Jiang Xiaoshuai didn’t ask anything else after that. He stepped aside immediately, letting Suowei in without another word, his earlier sharpness melting into something quieter and more careful. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing Suowei inside a space that felt just a little safer, a little farther removed from the mess he had left behind.

“What happened?” Guo Chengyu’s voice carried from the living room, laced with confusion as he looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch. His gaze landed on Suowei, and his expression shifted almost instantly. “Why do you look like that?”

Suowei opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The words sat heavy in his throat, tangled and impossible to sort through. How was he supposed to explain this? How was he supposed to put into words something he himself didn’t fully understand anymore?

“I–” he started, but his voice faltered almost immediately.

Jiang Xiaoshuai stepped in before he could force it further.

“He’s had a long day,” he said smoothly, tone leaving no room for argument as he shot Guo Chengyu a look that was both subtle and firm. “Let him breathe first.”

Guo Chengyu frowned slightly, still not entirely convinced, his gaze flickering between the two of them. “That doesn’t really explain why he looks like he just got his heart broken.”

The words hit a little too close.

Suowei flinched, the reaction small but noticeable and that was all Jiang Xiaoshuai needed to see.

“Drop it,” he said quietly, not unkind, but final enough that Guo Chengyu leaned back with a huff, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But someone better explain eventually.”

Suowei couldn’t promise that because even if he wanted to, he didn’t know where to begin.

Jiang Xiaoshuai guided him to his room without another word, shutting the door behind them and effectively cutting off the rest of the world. The moment they were alone, the silence shifted again. It was not suffocating this time, but heavy with unspoken understanding.

Suowei sank down onto the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping as everything he had been holding in began to settle, slow and overwhelming.

“I messed up,” he whispered, voice barely steady.

Jiang Xiaoshuai leaned against the desk, arms crossed loosely, watching him with an expression that was far too knowing.

“You told him,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Suowei let out a weak, humorless laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t even mean to,” he admitted. “I sent a message, thought it was you and then he saw it and he asked me and I just–”

His breath hitched slightly as the memory caught up to him, the weight of it pressing down all over again.

“And?” Jiang Xiaoshuai prompted gently.

Suowei’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves.

“And he said he couldn’t,” he finished, quieter now, like saying it out loud might make it hurt less. It didn’t.

Jiang Xiaoshuai didn’t respond immediately.

He didn’t offer empty reassurances or forced optimism. He just stayed there, steady and present, letting the words settle before stepping forward and sitting beside him.

“That doesn’t sound like a full sentence,” he said after a moment, voice measured.

Suowei shook his head quickly, almost defensively. “It doesn’t matter,” he insisted, even though it clearly did. “I didn’t stay. I didn’t want to hear the rest.”

That part lingered, heavy with implication.

Because whatever came after I can’t… Suowei had chosen not to face it.

And now, he didn’t know if he ever would.

His phone buzzed suddenly in his hand. Once. Then again.

The sound felt too loud in the quiet room, too sharp against his already frayed nerves. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.

Chi Cheng.

Of course it was.

Suowei stared at it anyway, the name lighting up the display over and over again, persistent, insistent in a way that made his chest tighten painfully.

“He’s calling you,” Jiang Xiaoshuai said, not pushing, just stating the obvious.

“I know.”

“Are you going to answer?”

Suowei hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly as the call continued to ring. A part of him wanted to pick up–to hear his voice, to understand and to fix whatever had just broken between them.

But a louder part of him,the part still reeling from those unfinished words, from the way everything had fallen apart so quickly held him back.

“I can’t,” he said finally, the admission quiet but firm.

But the moment the call ended, regret followed almost immediately. It settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, whispering that maybe this was the one moment he shouldn’t have run from. And still he didn’t call back.

The phone buzzed one last time before the call dropped into silence. And somehow, that silence felt worse than anything else.

In the days leading up to the finals, Suowei didn’t go back to the apartment at all. What had started as “just for the night” quietly stretched into something longer, something neither of them addressed. He stayed with Jiang Xiaoshuai, occupying the edge of the bed, the couch, anywhere that wasn’t there. 

His phone remained stubbornly silent on his end–calls unanswered, messages left unopened, even when his chest tightened at the sight of Chi Cheng’s name lighting up the screen. Jiang Xiaoshuai didn’t push, only watched him with that knowing look, offering quiet comfort in the form of late-night snacks and unspoken understanding. But no distraction lasted long enough. Because even away from him, Chi Cheng lingered, in the way Suowei reached for his phone out of habit, in the empty space beside him when he tried to sleep, in the silence that felt far too loud without him. And the longer he stayed away, the harder it became to imagine going back at all.

The day of the finals arrived with a kind of weight Suowei had never felt before.

It pressed down on him from the moment he woke up, settled uneasily in his chest as he got ready, as he moved through the motions he knew so well.He hadn’t seen Chi Cheng in days. Not properly. Not without turning away first. And now, with no more time left to avoid it, the reality of facing him again, of standing in the same space like nothing had changedfelt more terrifying than anything else. Everything was the same–the uniform, the careful brush of blush across his cheeks, the gloss he applied out of habit rather than excitement but it all felt off. It felt muted like something essential was missing.

And it didn’t take much for him to realize what it was.

For the first time since that quiet, accidental tradition had begun, there was no one waiting to press a kiss to his forehead.

No soft murmur of my lucky charm.No steadying presence just before everything started.The absence lingered in a way that felt louder than any crowd ever could.

Suowei told himself it didn’t matter. It was just a habit. Just something small. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things but as he stood on the sidelines, the noise of the gym rising around him, he found his gaze drifting unwilling and searching until it landed on Chi Cheng across the court.

Their eyes didn’t meet or maybe Chi Cheng chose not to let them.Either way, the distance between them felt wider than it had any right to be.

The game began.Cheers erupted, routines were performed, the energy surged and dipped like it always did but Suowei moved through it all like he was slightly out of sync, like he was following steps his body remembered but his heart couldn’t quite keep up with. Every cheer felt a second too late, every smile just a little too forced.

Because in the back of his mind, one thought kept circling, relentless and unwelcome.

They’re going to lose.

It was irrational. He knew that but it didn’t stop the guilt from creeping in.

It didn’t stop him from thinking that maybe, just maybe,he had been more important than he realized. That the small ritual he had clung to had meant something more, had done something.

And now it was gone because of him.

By the time halftime was called, the tension in the gym had grown thick, the score too close for comfort. Suowei barely registered the numbers flashing across the board. His chest felt tight, his thoughts too loud, too tangled.

He needed air. He needed a moment to breathe, to step away from everything that felt like it was closing in on him.

But before he could move, the lights dimmed.

A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd, murmurs rising as the large projector screen flickered to life against the far wall of the gym. At first, it seemed like part of the program, maybe a highlight reel, something to keep the audience engaged during the break.

Suowei barely paid attention.

Not until–

The first image appeared. His breath caught. It was him.

Asleep.

Curled awkwardly on the couch, hair a mess, face pressed into a cushion in a way that was entirely unflattering and entirely familiar. The angle was wrong, too close, too intimate to have been taken by anyone but–

The video shifted. Another clip. This time, it was him whining, voice thick with sleep as he clung stubbornly to someone just out of frame. “Chi Cheng…. don’t go yet……”

Laughter rippled through the gym. It was soft at first. Then louder.

Suowei felt heat flood his face, panic spiking as realization hit him all at once, sharp and overwhelming. His heart pounded erratically as the clips continued–small, fleeting moments he had never known were being captured.

Him dozing off during movie nights, head tipped against Chi Cheng’s shoulder.

Him pouting over something trivial, tugging at Chi Cheng’s sleeve in quiet demand.

Him laughing–bright, unguarded, completely unaware of the way he was being looked at.

Because then the video changed.The focus shifted. And suddenly,it wasn’t just him anymore.

Still images began to appear, one after another, slower now, more deliberate, like each one was meant to be seen, not just watched.

Chi Cheng, standing just a little too close, his gaze resting on Suowei with something soft, something unguarded that had never quite reached the surface before, but had always been there.

Chi Cheng watching him from across the court, expression quieter than Suowei had ever noticed, his focus unwavering even in the middle of everything else.

Chi Cheng looking at him like he mattered. Like he had always mattered.

Like, somewhere along the way, he had quietly become the center of everything without even realizing it.

The noise in the gym faded into the background, muffled and distant as Suowei stared, unblinking, at a version of something he had never allowed himself to see. Moments he had lived through without understanding, now laid bare in a way that made his chest ache.

Because it had been there. All along. He just hadn’t known how to look for it.

The final image lingered for a second longer than the rest.

And then the screen went dark.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. And then the lights came back on.

Suowei’s pulse roared in his ears as he turned slowly, almost afraid of what he might find, afraid that this was all some elaborate mistake, some cruel misinterpretation of something that didn’t exist. But there was no mistaking it.

Chi Cheng stood behind him.

Not across the court. Not at a distance but right there.

Close enough that Suowei could see the way his fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet of sunflowers he held, bright and impossibly vivid against everything else.

For once, just once, Chi Cheng didn’t look composed.

There was something raw in his expression, something unguarded that made Suowei’s breath hitch.

And when their eyes finally met, there was no distance left between them at all.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The noise of the gym rushed back in slowly–whispers, laughter, the faint echo of commentary from somewhere far away but it all felt distant, like it didn’t belong to them. Like the space they stood in had been carved out separately, held together by something fragile and unbearably tense.

Chi Cheng was the first to break it. He took a step forward.Then another.

Each one measured, careful in a way Suowei had never seen before, as if he was approaching something that might shatter if he moved too quickly.

“Wei Wei…” His voice was softer than it had ever been, stripped of its usual ease, carrying something heavier that made Suowei’s chest tighten instinctively.

Up close, the details became clearer.

The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his grip around the sunflowers wasn’t as steady as it looked from afar. The hesitation that lingered just beneath the surface of his composure.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out without preamble, low and earnest, cutting through everything else.

Suowei blinked, caught off guard.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Chi Cheng continued, his gaze unwavering now, like he had finally decided to face this fully. “That night I didn’t finish what I was saying.”

A flicker of that moment passed between them, sharp and unresolved.

Baby, I can’t–

Suowei’s fingers curled slightly at his sides, his heart picking up pace despite himself.

“I wasn’t saying I couldn’t because I don’t feel anything,” Chi Cheng said, quieter now, each word deliberate. “I was saying I couldn’t….. not like that. Not without doing it right.”

The confusion must have shown on Suowei’s face, because Chi Cheng exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of uncertainty.

“After that first time,” he went on, voice dipping slightly, “when I kissed your forehead before the game, Chengyu talked to me.”

At the mention of his brother, something shifted again.

Suowei stilled.

“He made me promise,” Chi Cheng continued, a faint, almost self-conscious huff leaving him, “that I wouldn’t take advantage of you. That I wouldn’t confuse you, or cross any lines unless I was absolutely sure and unless I was serious about it.”

The weight of that settled slowly.

“He wasn’t wrong,” Chi Cheng added after a beat, softer now. “You’re important to him. And to me.”

Suowei’s throat tightened.

“So I tried,” Chi Cheng admitted, the honesty in his voice almost disarming. “I tried to keep things where they were supposed to be. Tried not to push too far, not to make things harder for you.”

A small, almost helpless smile tugged at his lips.

“I didn’t do a very good job.”

It was an understatement and they both knew it.

“But when you sent that message….” He paused, the memory flickering across his expression, something raw surfacing briefly before he steadied himself again. “I didn’t want to answer you like that. Not when I hadn’t even done the bare minimum.”

Suowei’s brows drew together slightly, his voice finally finding its way out, quieter than usual. “Bare minimum?”

Chi Cheng let out a breath, something almost nervous slipping through for the first time.

“I wanted to talk to Chengyu first,” he said simply. “To tell him properly. To make sure I wasn’t breaking the promise I made behind his back.”

His grip on the sunflowers tightened just a fraction before he extended them forward, the bright yellow petals almost blinding against everything else.

“And then I wanted to come to you,” he finished, voice soft but steady now, like he had finally found his footing. “Not half-asleep. Not caught off guard. But like this.”

There was a pause.

A quiet, suspended moment where everything seemed to hold its breath.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Chi Cheng said, eyes searching Suowei’s, open and unguarded in a way that made it impossible to look away. “And I’m sorry I made you think…. that you were alone in this.”

The words settled deep. They landed careful and certain, undoing something that had been twisted painfully inside Suowei’s chest for far too long.

For a moment, Suowei couldn’t move.

Everything he had carried–the doubt, the hurt, the quiet resignation he had forced himself to accept, unraveled all at once, leaving him standing there, heart exposed and trembling in a way that felt almost unreal. The gym, the crowd, the game waiting to resume–none of it seemed to matter anymore. Not when Chi Cheng was standing right in front of him, looking at him like this.

Like he had always been the answer.

“You’re so stupid,” Suowei said finally, his voice coming out softer than intended, trembling at the edges despite the small, watery laugh that followed. “You really let me suffer all this time for…. permission?”

There was no real bite to it.There was only overwhelming, dizzying relief.

Chi Cheng huffed out something that might have been a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was trying to do things properly.”

“You’re an idiot,” Suowei repeated, but this time he stepped forward.

The distance between them disappeared in a heartbeat.

The sunflowers were crushed slightly between them as Suowei collided into his chest, arms wrapping around him tightly, like he was afraid this might still slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on hard enough. For a second, Chi Cheng stilled in surprise but then his arms came around him just as firmly, pulling him closer, grounding him in a way that felt achingly familiar.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Suowei admitted into his shoulder, the words muffled but no less raw.

Chi Cheng’s hold tightened.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he said quietly, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt.

It was simple. And it was everything.

Suowei pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his face like he was trying to memorize it all over again, the softness there, the nervousness he had never noticed before, the way his gaze flickered down briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes.

“Then you better not mess this up,” Suowei murmured, attempting something teasing, even as his voice betrayed him slightly.

Chi Cheng’s lips curved, something fond and undeniably soft settling into his expression.

“I won’t, baby.”

And this time, when he leaned in, there was no hesitation. There was no misunderstanding. There was no distance left between them.

The kiss was gentle at first–almost cautious, like he was giving Suowei time to pull away if he wanted to. But Suowei didn’t. He leaned into it instead, fingers curling into Chi Cheng’s shirt as everything he had held back for so long finally spilled over, soft and certain and real.

Somewhere in the blur of it all, when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, Suowei’s gaze flickered past him,across the court, through the crowd until it caught on a familiar figure. Guo Chengyu stood there, arms loosely crossed, his expression quiet as he took it in, before something in his gaze softened, and he let out a slow breath, giving the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

It wasn’t approval in words but it was enough.

Somewhere in the background, the crowd erupted.

Whistles, cheers, someone shouting something incoherent but it all blurred together into noise, distant and unimportant compared to the steady warmth of Chi Cheng’s hands, the way he held him like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, Suowei let out a quiet laugh–light, disbelieving, and entirely his.

“Guess you don’t need a lucky charm anymore,” he said, eyes glinting faintly despite everything.

Chi Cheng smiled, softer than he ever had before.

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb gently against Suowei’s cheek. “I never did.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Turns out… I was just waiting for you.”

And somehow, that felt like the kind of beginning that would last forever.

__________________________________________

Chi Cheng hadn’t gone into it unprepared.

“Say that again,” Guo Chengyu had said, his tone calm but serious, arms loosely crossed as he leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed steadily on him.

Chi Cheng didn’t look away. “I love him.”

A pause settled between them, quieter this time, more thoughtful than tense.

“You love him,” Guo Chengyu repeated slowly, the words softer now, like he was trying to understand rather than challenge. “My brother.”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation. No room for misunderstanding.

Guo Chengyu let out a slow breath, his hand coming up to rub lightly at the back of his neck, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to Chi Cheng. “Do you understand what you’re saying?” he asked, not harshly, but carefully like he was weighing more than just the words.

“I do.”

There was another pause.

“And you’re serious?” Guo Chengyu pressed, quieter now, something protective settling into his voice. “This isn’t something you’ll regret later?”

“It’s not,” Chi Cheng said, steady and certain. “I’ve never been careless with him.”

That made Guo Chengyu pause because that much was true. He had seen it,over the years, in ways Chi Cheng probably didn’t even realize were visible. The way he always noticed first when Suowei was off. The way he adjusted without being asked, gave without making it seem like a favor. The quiet patience, the softness he didn’t show anyone else.

And suddenly,Suowei showing up at his apartment, shaken and refusing to speak. The silence and the distance. It all clicked into place.

“…You kept your promise,” Guo Chengyu said quietly.

Chi Cheng didn’t deny it.

“I told you I wouldn’t take advantage of him,” he said. “I meant that.”

Guo Chengyu held his gaze, something shifting behind his eyes. It was not gone entirely, but the doubt in them had lessened marginally.

“And this?” he asked gently. “You’re sure this won’t hurt him?”

Chi Cheng took a breath, and for the first time, there was something raw beneath the steadiness.

“I tried to stay away from it,” he admitted quietly. “I tried to keep things where they were supposed to be. But he….” He faltered for a fraction of a second, like even saying it out loud mattered. “He matters too much for me to pretend I don’t feel anything.”

The words settled, heavy but honest.

“If I’m doing this,” Chi Cheng continued, firmer now, “I’m not doing it halfway. I’m not going to confuse him, or make him feel like this is temporary.” His voice softened slightly. “He deserves to feel certain.”

Guo Chengyu watched him in silence . It was because he believed him and it was not just because of what he was saying, but because of everything he had already seen long before this conversation ever happened.

“And if he gets hurt?” he asked finally, quiet but steady, the protectiveness still there,just gentler now.

Chi Cheng didn’t even blink.

“He won’t,” he said.

It wasn’t said with arrogance or even defense. It was devotion entwined with certainty.

Another long pause followed.And then Guo Chengyu exhaled slowly, something easing in his expression, even if the concern never fully left.

“…You’re serious,” he murmured.

“I am.”

A beat passed between them.

“If you hurt him,” Guo Chengyu said, his voice calm but firm, “I won’t take that lightly.”

Chi Cheng nodded once. “You won’t have to.”

Guo Chengyu held his gaze for a moment longer and then, finally, he stepped aside.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud but it was enough because this time it wasn’t just permission. It was trust.