Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This update is actual garbage.

“Ths game is ruined,” I mutter at the screen, watching my character swing his shiny new sword with all the strength of a soggy noodle. The monster doesn’t even flinch before slapping me flat like a bug on a windshield. Dead. Again.

I throw my controller onto the desk with a thunk and flop back in my chair, groaning so dramatically. “Are you guys seeing this? Months of grinding and hours of my beautiful life now gone.”

Chat, naturally, is zero help.

skill issue lmao

cope harder

just uninstall

“Shut UP,” I snap, leaning forward to jab a finger at the webcam as if I can poke each chatter through the screen. “Don’t gaslight me. This is not my fault. This is sabotage. This is—” I gesture wildly at the monitor. “—a crime against humanity!”

The monster respawns as charge back in, button-mashing like a man possessed. Thirty seconds later, I’m face-down on the ground again.

Silence. I stare at the screen. Then, slowly, my hands rise in surrender. “Okay. Clearly someone at the company has it out for me. Personally. Who else would make this decision? Who else would look at this perfect game and say, ‘Yes, let’s make Wu Suo Wei mad today’? I bet I know who. The CEO.”

To be completely honest, I don’t know the CEO, I don’t even know his goddamn name or his face. He probably doesn’t even know me as well. But that doesn’t stop me from getting mad.

I lean toward the camera, lowering my voice like I’m about to leak secrets. “Yeah, you heard me. The FACELESS CEO of this godforsaken company. I can imagine him now. Old. Bald. Ugly. Sitting in his leather chair, counting his money while sipping overpriced wine, laughing at my misery.”

Chat explodes, a wall of skull emojis and crying-laughing faces.

“Don’t laugh!” I press my hands to my chest, affronted. “This is serious. This is a war now!. This man is probably fifty years old, I bet he has never touched a controller in his life, but he sits there barking orders at the actual developers like: ‘Make it shinier! Add more things to buy!’ Meanwhile, the game is collapsing.”

I tip my head back and glare at the ceiling, ranting to the invisible corporate villain hovering somewhere above me. “Listen here, Grandpa. You ruined my fun. You ruined my will to live. I want an apology. Not from some faceless intern typing up damage-control emails. From YOU. Your wrinkly mouth. On camera.”

I lean forward again, eyes narrowing, voice dropping low. “Or else… I will roast you. Every. Single. Day. Until the day I die.”

Chat is now a flood of CEO IS CRYING RN and someone check on the bald man.

And then, because apparently I have zero self-preservation—I blow a kiss at the webcam. “Fix the game, Daddy.”

The second it leaves my lips, I freeze.

Did I really just— “

Oh my god.” I slap a hand over my face, groaning into my palm. “Why am I like this?!”

Chat is no help, of course. They are absolutely feral, spamming hearts and clip it!!! faster than I can even process. I can already see it spreading across the internet: Wu Suo Wei, half-mad, calling some faceless CEO ‘Daddy.’

I sink down in my chair until my head nearly disappears from the webcam frame. “This is my villain origin story.”

But it’s too late. The damage is done. And if I’m being honest, there’s this tiny spark of satisfaction bubbling under my embarrassment. Because yeah, the game is ruined, but at least I’m entertaining while losing my mind.

The rant drags on a little longer, mostly me yelling at my useless character, taking swigs of water between dramatic sighs, and promising to uninstall every five minutes. Finally, I end the stream, cheeks aching from laughing at my own meltdown.

I shuffle around my apartment, stretching, yawning, still muttering under my breath. “Old, bald CEO. Sitting in his tower. Ruining my life.”

By the time I crawl into bed, the irritation is still buzzing under my skin. I pull the blanket up to my chin, snorting to myself one last time. “I swear, if I ever meet him, I’ll say it to his face.”

The thought makes me giggle again, but sleep drags me under before I can think too much about it.

After all—what are the chances I’ll ever actually meet him?

Chapter Text

The first thing I see when I wake up is my phone screen glowing like it wants to burn a hole through my retinas. Notifications stacked on top of each other, little red dots blinking like bombs.

Definitely not a good sign.

I squint, swipe, and nearly choke.

178 new messages.

I opened it and as expected, my streamer friend, Xiao Shuai, has already crucified me. Links, screenshots, laughing emojis—my face is plastered everywhere, eyes wide, mouth open mid-rant. Someone edited devil horns onto my head. Another one even auto-tuned my rant into a love ballad. And the worst? A looping GIF of me blowing that stupid kiss at the camera with the caption: “Fix the game, Daddy”.

I bury my face into my pillow and let out a muffled scream. “Oh my God!”

Of course it doesn’t stop there. I scroll further and see the clip spreading like wildfire. Millions of views, comments piling up. Even people who don’t play the game are laughing about the “CEO roaster streamer.” One person edited stock photos of bald men every time I said “CEO.” Another added dramatic violin music to my “you ruined my will to live” line.

I know I should feel embarrassed. But honestly? A part of me is… proud.

At least I’m funny while I’m losing my mind.

Right?

Then I see it.

An email. Stamped with the company’s shiny official logo.

My stomach flips.

I sit up, hair sticking up everywhere, and open it. The text is so dry I can practically feel my eyes shrivelling as I read.

Subject: URGENT: Clarification Regarding Recent Remarks on Stream.

Dear Mr. Wu,

While we respect your position as a content creator, your recent statements regarding our CEO have caused unnecessary misunderstanding. Please issue a correction to your audience, clarifying that the CEO does not make decisions regarding game updates. Failure to do so may result in legal action.

I blink. Read it again. Snort.

“Legal action? Because I called their invisible boss bald?”

My laugh bounces off the walls of my tiny apartment, sharp and ugly. “Oh, they’re MAD mad.”

Another email dings in while I’m still laughing. This one is even worse—“kindly suggesting” I delete the stream clip for the sake of “corporate harmony.”

I throw myself onto the couch like a man in despair. “Delete it? Babe, the internet already tattooed it on their foreheads. That clip is gonna outlive me.”

My phone buzzes again, messages piling in, fans tagging me, friends sending screenshots of me trending. My face is everywhere. My ridiculous threats to the imaginary bald CEO are everywhere.

And instead of lying low, like a sensible adult, all I can think is: I should double down.

The thought thrills me. Reckless, dangerous, career-suicidal—but thrilling.

I grab my water bottle, chug half of it, and stalk back to my desk like I’m marching into battle. The webcam light clicks on. The chatroom fills instantly, anticipation spilling out in the flood of messages.

“Alright,” I say, folding my arms, “So apparently I hurt the feelings of a certain CEO last night.” I sigh dramatically. “Poor baby. Hope his bald head isn’t sunburned from all this heat.”

The scrolling comments blur in the corner of my vision, flying faster than I can read, but I don’t need to. I can hear the laughter already, feel it egging me on.

“They want me to issue a correction,” I continue, pitching my voice higher like I’m mocking an old man. “‘Dear gamers, let me fucking correct myself. Actually the CEO does nothing, he just sits around being rich and letting everyone else fix his mistakes.’”

I slap my hand over my mouth, eyes wide, pretending to gasp. “Oops. Not supposed to say that part out loud, huh?”

I lean closer to the camera, letting my grin spread slowly and wickedly. “You know what I want? I want him to say something. Himself. Not through his little PR goblins. Not through carefully-worded corporate emails. If he’s innocent, let him show his face. Let him talk to me.”

I pause, tilting my head, softening my voice just enough to make it sting. “Otherwise? I’ll keep assuming he’s a coward who hides behind his shiny desk and his money. Probably doesn’t even know how to plug in a controller.”

My pulse races. This is too much. I know it’s too much. But my mouth runs faster than my brain when I’m on fire like this.

I smile sweetly, blowing another kiss at the webcam. “Your move, Daddy. Come apologize. I’ll be waiting.”

With a decisive click, the stream ends. My heart is hammering, adrenaline fizzing through my veins.

Silence. Just the sound of my breathing in the too-quiet apartment.

I lean back, covering my face with my hands, half laughing, half groaning. “Oh, Wu Suo Wei, you idiot. What have you done?”

The answer is obvious: I’ve just picked a fight with the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world.

And something deep in my gut tells me… he’s going to answer.

Well, the answer arrives the next morning.

Going viral is dangerous. Not because of the haters, not because of lawsuits, but because of how good it feels.

I’m lying on my couch, blanket over my legs, scrolling through memes of my own stupid face, grinning like an idiot. The clip has officially gone nuclear. I’m everywhere—Twitter edits, TikTok parodies, fanart that makes me look like a Disney villain with devil horns.

And then there’s the worst one. The clip of me blowing a kiss at the camera while calling the faceless CEO “Daddy”. People are spamming it in my mentions, my chat, even my donation alerts. I want to melt into the floor from secondhand embarrassment.

The phone buzzes. Shuai, of course.

Shuai: you’re trending again. congrats.

Me: obviously. i’m a star.

Shuai: …you literally called a CEO daddy on stream.

Me: and? maybe he liked it.

Shuai: 💀💀💀 you’re insane.

I cackle, rolling onto my stomach. “You just wish you had my charisma,” I mutter, typing back with smug little flourishes.

And then—ping. A new email.

I sit up so fast the blanket falls to the floor. My heart kicks like it’s trying to escape.

Subject: Invitation to Discuss Matters with The CEO.

Dear Mr. Wu,

Our CEO would like to meet with you in person to clarify the misunderstanding and resolve this matter directly. Please arrive at our headquarters tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.

My eyes widen. “No way. No way, no way, no way.”

I screenshot it and send it to Shuai.

Me: bro. help.

Shuai: HAHAHAHAHA

Me: THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

Shuai: no it’s hilarious. you said “say it to my face.” guess what. he listened.

I toss my phone onto the couch and bury my head in the pillow. “I’m dead. I’m so dead. They’re gonna drag me into some corporate dungeon and feed me to lawyers.”

But the next morning, somehow, I’m standing outside their headquarters.

The building is absurd—glass walls, polished stone, fountains out front that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. My sneakers squeak against the marble as I step inside, clutching my phone like a talisman.

The receptionist smiles like her face is carved from plastic. “Mr. Wu? The CEO is expecting you. Top floor.”

Of course. The top floor. Because intimidation is apparently part of the business model. The elevator ride is the longest thirty seconds of my life. I adjust my hoodie, tug at my sleeves, consider bolting out before the doors open.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls, pale and wide-eyed. My hair is sticking up like I wrestled a tornado, my hoodie has a coffee stain I suddenly can’t stop seeing, and my sneakers squeak every time I shift my weight. I look less like a streamer and more like someone about to beg for some coins.

My palms are slick, my throat dry. What if he actually is bald? What if he’s not bald, but worse—scary? What if he drags me into some secret conference room with twenty lawyers waiting to eat me alive?

The soft ding of the elevator nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

Too late to run.

And then I see him.

The Faceless CEO.

Chi Cheng.

Not bald. Not old. Not wrinkly.

Tall. Impossibly tall. Broad shoulders under a suit so sharp it could cut glass. His hair is thick, dark, and perfect. His jawline looks like it was carved by an angry god. He’s standing near the windows, the city skyline behind him, like some kind of painting called The Untouchable Billionaire.

I freeze in the doorway.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, before my brain catches up. “You’re not bald.”

The words echo in the pristine silence.

His head turns slowly, eyes locking on mine. They’re dark, steady, and way too sharp. His expression doesn’t change, but one eyebrow lifts the tiniest bit.

“Should I be?”

My face burns. “N-no! I just—uh—I mean—I thought—” My words tangle into a nervous laugh that sounds like I'm about to die. “Uhm.. hi?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown either. Just… studies me, head tilted slightly, like he’s dissecting a bug under glass. Then he gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

The word is calm, but it makes me plop down instantly. My knees knock together under the table.

He takes his time walking over, each step deliberate, then sits opposite me with perfect posture. Everything about him radiates control. Power. And a little bit of menace.

“You said,” he began, voice smooth and low, “that I should apologize to you.”

My mouth goes dry. “I… might have said that.”

“And that I was bald.”

“In my defense,” I stammer, gripping the edge of the chair, “it was a metaphor.”

His lips twitch. The tiniest ghost of a smile. Did I imagine it?

“I don’t play games,” he says evenly, “but I do own the company. So your accusations weren’t completely wrong.” His gaze sharpens. “What bothers me is your demand that I… say it to your face.”

My brain short-circuits.

He’s quoting me. Word for word.

“Well.” I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’re here now. So… say something?”

Another pause. His eyes sweep over me, from my messy hoodie to my tapping foot, before settling back on my face.

Finally, he leans back in his chair, gaze steady.

“Very well, Wu Suowei. I’ll say it to your face.” My heart lurches.

Chapter Text

My heart is thudding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

“Very well, Wu Suowei,” Chi Cheng says smoothly, his voice a low rumble that feels too big for the office. “I’ll say it to your face.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. My brain scrambles to imagine what he’s about to unleash. Is he going to demand an apology? Sue me? Call security and have me thrown out like a stray cat?

Finally, he leans forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk, hands folded together. His gaze pins me in place.

“You are reckless.”

Ouch. Straight to the jugular.

“You speak without thinking. You thrive on attention, no matter the consequences. You take pleasure in provocation. His eyes narrow slightly. “And you believe hiding behind a camera protects you from accountability.”

He’s not yelling, not even raising his voice, but somehow it feels worse. His calm cuts sharper than any rant.

I force a laugh, trying to sound unfazed. “Wow. Did you rehearse that in the mirror? Very CEO of you.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “I don’t rehearse. I observe.”

I sink back in my chair, crossing my arms in defense. “Look, it’s not that deep. I was just ranting. My viewers like it when I get dramatic. It’s called content, maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Content that now has tens of millions of views.”

I wince. Okay, fair point.

“And content,” he continues, “that paints me as an incompetent fool. Old, bald, ugly—what were your words?”

“Metaphor!” I blurt, raising my hands. “It was a metaphor. I don’t actually think you’re bald.” My eyes flick up before I can stop myself. His hair is thick, dark, annoyingly perfect. Definitely not bald.

His mouth curves—just barely. “Good to know.”

Something flips in my stomach. It's not fair! He’s supposed to be terrifying, not… smugly attractive.

“I don’t care if people think I’m ugly,” he says finally. “But I do care about my company’s reputation. And you’ve damaged it.”

The weight of his words lands heavy. My bravado wavers, but only for a second. I sit up straighter, forcing a smile. “So what, you dragged me all the way here just to scold me? You could’ve sent another one of your PR people.”

This time, I swear his eyes glint with amusement, even though his voice stays calm. “I wanted to see if you’re as bold in person as you are online.”

“And?” I ask, unable to stop myself. His gaze lingers on me, slow, deliberate.

“You are not.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?!”

“You stammer. You fidget.” His eyes flick to my tapping foot, then back to my face.

“You can’t hold eye contact for more than three seconds.”

“I can too!” I snap, immediately locking eyes with him to prove it. Big mistake. His stare is intense, sharp and unreadable, and the longer it holds mine the hotter my cheeks feel. I last maybe five seconds before looking away, muttering, “Okay, fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m not bold.”

“It means,” he says softly, “you rely on a screen to protect you.”

I bristle, leaning forward. “Maybe. But it also means I’m funny enough to get away with it.”

This time, the corner of his mouth definitely twitches upward. The tiniest crack in his perfect mask.

“Funny,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word.

“Exactly,” I say, seizing on it like a lifeline. “People like me. I make them laugh. I make your stupid game relevant. You should be thanking me, honestly.” His brow arches.

“You insult me, and then demand gratitude.”

“I mean…” I shrug, trying to look casual while my pulse hammers. “It’s working, isn’t it? Look at the numbers. Everyone’s talking about your company now.”

He studies me again, silent for a long moment. The kind of silence that makes me squirm in my chair.

Then he says, “You’re shameless.”

I grin, flashing teeth. “Takes one to know one.”

And there it is. The smallest crack of a smile, fleeting but real.

Victory. Sort of.

But before I can bask in it, his tone sharpens again. “This isn’t a game, Wu Suowei. You will not continue slandering me publicly. If you have a grievance, you bring it to me directly.”

The words hit me like a challenge.

“Directly? Like… meetings like this?”

“Yes.” His eyes lock on mine, steady and unblinking. “If you want to provoke me, do it to my face. Not behind a screen.”

The air between us feels charged, heavy. My throat goes dry.

I know I should be terrified. I should apologize, grovel, back down.

Instead, I lean in, grin tugging at my lips. “Careful what you wish for, CEO. I might just take you up on that.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hope you do.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Oh no.

This man is dangerous.

And I think I like it.

I never thought I’d become the kind of person who has a routine with a CEO, but here we are. Every morning this week, I’ve dragged myself out of bed, thrown on a hoodie, and walked into a glass tower so shiny it could fry ants with sunlight.

The guards at the lobby know me now, which you’d think would make things easier. Nope. They still make me empty my pockets, wave that stupid wand around like I’m concealing a bazooka, and scowl at my keychain shaped like a fish.

By the time I get to the top floor, I’m already irritated enough to perform a one-man protest.

But then the doors open, and there he is. Chi Cheng. Behind his massive desk, posture so perfect it looks painful, pen moving across some document like he’s solving world hunger. He doesn’t look up right away, which drives me insane. Like, hello? I’m here to brighten your soulless day? Pay attention!

Finally, without even glancing up, “Wu Suowei. Sit.”

I guess we're on a name basis now.

The way he commands makes me want to sit and flip the chair out the window at the same time. I usually just sit. His chairs look like they cost more than my monthly rent.

So this is my life now: I rant, he listens. Or at least, he looks like he’s listening. At first I thought he was tuning me out, plotting hostile takeovers in his head. But then—things started happening.

Small things. Balance fixes. Drop rates adjusted. Monsters that actually flinch again when you hit them.

And every time I bring it up, he says nothing. Just tilts his head, eyes glinting, smug enough to make me want to hurl his Montblanc pen across the room.

“You did it, didn’t you?” I accused once, waving my phone at him, update notes glowing. “You’re implementing my suggestions.”

He’d only looked at me with that infuriatingly calm face and said, “Coincidence.”

Sure. And I’m the Pope.

But here’s the thing: I can see him thawing. Just a little. Tiny cracks in the marble statue. Like the other day when I said his office smelled like “if money and intimidation had a baby,” and I swear, I swear, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, pointing at him. “Was that—was that almost a smile? Did I unlock a secret achievement? Do I get a prize?”

He arched a brow. “If I were smiling, you would know.”

“Liar. That was at least a half-smirk. Quarter-smirk, minimum.”

“Pity,” he said dryly, going back to his paperwork.

I nearly climbed across the desk to throttle him.

But even with the game changes and his slow, reluctant smirks, something keeps bothering me.

I don’t get it.

That’s the thought that’s been gnawing at me all week as I trudge into the Bald Palace every morning like I’ve accidentally signed a contract with the devil.

Because here’s the thing: daily sessions? Why?

It’s not like I have groundbreaking complaints about the game every twenty-four hours. Balance doesn’t magically collapse overnight. Bugs don’t respawn at dawn like Pokémon. Half the time, my only real update is “still laggy, still sucks, fix it.”

But every morning, without fail, I’m ushered up to the top floor. Straight into the CEO’s office. Not a conference room. Not a team meeting. Just me and him. Always just me and him. Which… suspicious, right? Why would a CEO waste his time on one loud-mouthed streamer?

Sometimes he asks about the game. Most of the time, though, he just lets me rant. About anything.

So naturally, I test it.

One day I go off about how my upstairs neighbor insists on practicing the trumpet at 3 a.m. Another day, I ask him point-blank if he thinks pineapple belongs on pizza. 

He said no, which almost ruined the fragile truce we’ve built.

And the wildest part? He listens. Like, actually listens. If I circle back to something hours later, he remembers. Word for word.

It’s unnerving. And kind of flattering. And maybe—just maybe—dangerous.

The rest of the time, he doesn’t seem to care what I do.

“Stay,” he says in that maddeningly smooth voice, like he’s training a dog. Then he goes back to working while I… well, I exist.

I’ve played games in his office. Practiced stupid TikTok dances in front of the wall-length windows. Once, I put on music and started belting power ballads until I realized the glass might actually not be soundproof.

He didn’t throw me out. He didn’t even flinch. Just signed papers, occasionally glancing at me. And—maybe I imagined it—but once, that glance lingered too long. Long enough to make my throat go dry before he looked away.

And food? Don’t even get me started. 

I order takeout like I was starving my whole life. Noodles, fried chicken, bubble tea. Delivery guys probably think I’m running a secret mukbang empire from the CEO’s office. And every single time, Chi Cheng just signs the receipt without blinking.

Like—hello? That’s at least three boba a day on the company dime. I’m single handedly bankrupting him with tapioca pearls.

So what’s his reason? Why insist on keeping me here?

I don’t know.

But I do know that every day, the air between us feels a little less frozen. And every time I catch him watching me with that sharp, unreadable interest, I get the sinking suspicion that I’m the one being studied.

Meanwhile, my fans are going feral.

Because I may have bragged. Just a little. 

Okay, maybe a lot.

“So, uh,” I told my stream, trying to act casual, “turns out Mr. Bald Boss Man actually invited me to, you know, consult on updates. Guess I’m the voice of the people now. You’re welcome.”

They lost it. Memes, hashtags, edits. And then this happened:

GameWire Daily – Breaking News
September X, 20XX

Streamer Wu Suowei Allegedly Advising GameCorp CEO on Major Updates

In an unexpected turn of events, viral streamer Wu Suowei—known for his sharp critiques and comedic rants—appears to have the ear of GameCorp’s elusive CEO. Following his explosive livestream last week, players have noted sweeping improvements in the game, prompting speculation that Wu is directly influencing development decisions.

“Streamer Influences Major Game Update” trended overnight, with fans dubbing him the “voice of the gaming community.”

GameCorp has neither confirmed nor denied Wu’s role in the changes, but online chatter suggests a new kind of collaboration between corporations and content creators. Meanwhile, Wu Suowei himself has fueled the frenzy, joking on-stream: ‘Guess I’m your new Bald Boss.’

Whether a PR stunt or genuine partnership, one thing is certain: the internet can’t get enough of the unlikely pairing of a snarky streamer and a faceless billionaire.

The company loves it. I can tell. Chi Cheng hasn’t told me to shut up about it, which is basically the same as approval, right?

The only downside is fewer streams. I can’t do my usual daily grind when I’m stuck in the Bald Palace every morning. Fans are confused, suspicious, whispering conspiracies about me and the faceless CEO.

Which… okay, maybe not entirely wrong. But still.

And then it happens.

One morning, Chi Cheng gets dragged into some Big Important Meeting, leaving me alone in his office. Which is a bad idea, by the way. His office is way too tempting.

I spin in his massive swivel chair. I lean back so far I almost flip over. I pretend to stamp Important CEO Papers with my fist.

And then, like the brilliant idiot I am, I set up a stream.

“Chat,” I whisper dramatically, adjusting the webcam. “Welcome to Bald Boss HQ. Behold—” I spin in the chair again, nearly toppling. “The Throne of Corporate Evil.”

Chat explodes.

omg is he actually in the ceo’s office???
LMAOOO power move
steal his stapler

I cackle, rifling through the desk (carefully, okay, I’m not suicidal). “What do CEOs even keep in here? Secrets? Cigars? Gold bars?” I pull open a drawer and gasp. “Pens. So many pens. He could stab me seventeen different ways with these.”

Chat is eating it up. My donation alerts are going wild. I start mock-signing things: “Approved, denied, approved. Congratulations, you’re all fired.”

I’m thirty minutes in, so caught up in the chaos that I don’t notice the office door opening.

Until I hear the familiar footsteps.

My blood freezes. Slowly, mechanically, I look up.

And there he is.

Chi Cheng, already halfway across the office, walking straight toward me. His eyes flick to the screen for a fraction of a second, giving him a look of curiosity, before shifting his eyes back to me.

In an instant, the webcam catches him. Not fully. Just a blur, half a face, but enough to send the internet into meltdown.

I panic. Slam the keyboard. The stream cuts.

But it’s too late. The clip exists. I can already imagine the headlines: CEO Soft-Reveal?! Who’s the Mystery Man in Wu Suowei’s Stream?

My face is on fire as I spin the chair around, stammering, “I—I was just—uh—”

Chi Cheng doesn’t yell. Doesn’t frown. Just keeps coming closer, steps steady, gaze locked on me like I’m the only idiot in the world.

I freeze, heart doing double-time in my chest. He’s too close. Too close that I can smell his cologne—minty, with the faintest edge of smoke, sharp enough to make my knees consider filing a complaint.

My brain short-circuits. Instinctively and stupidly, my eyes flutter shut like I’m bracing for a kiss—or death. Either works.

But instead of lips, there’s only the weight of a hand. Firm. Steady. Right on my shoulder.

I crack one eye open. He’s watching me, expression unreadable. And suddenly my ears are ringing with my own thoughts: Did he notice? Oh my god, he noticed. Abort. Un-shut your eyes, idiot. No, too late, now you look like you wanted it—

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice smooth as ice water. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I—” My throat makes a strangled noise. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t expecting—”

His brow lifts. “Expecting what, exactly?”

Oh, I fucking wanna die. Bury me. Launch me into the sun. Anything but this.

I wrench my eyes open all the way and snap, too fast, too loud: “Expecting you to—uh—say something! Obviously! What else would I think?”

His lips twitch. Just barely. A ghost of a smirk that makes me want to throw myself out the nearest window.

Finally, he says, voice maddeningly calm, “If you insist on making a spectacle of me, at least don’t do it from my chair.”

I choke. “Oh my god. Kill me now.”

And that’s how I, Wu Suowei, became the man responsible for half the internet thirsting over a blurry clip of a possibly-hot CEO.

Kill me. Twice.

Chapter Text

I didn’t go to the Bald Palace today.

For the first time in a week, I didn’t drag my sorry ass into Chi Cheng’s office to start another round of “Streamer vs. CEO: Who Will Break First.”

Instead, I stayed in bed. Blankets up to my chin. Phone balanced on my chest. Eyes bloodshot from doomscrolling.

And before you say it—yes, I was bed-rotting. Full depressive mode. Don’t even come for me.

Because the internet? The internet is cooked.

My notifications are a war crime. Fans have slowed down the blurry clip from my last stream, frame by frame, like everyone is a damn detective. Circles drawn around the hint of a jawline. Threads titled: “Blurry CEO is secretly hot?” Edits of me and Chi Cheng with captions like Corporate Sugar Daddy arc unlocked.

Fanart. Already. Really? 

And don’t get me started on the shipping comments.

I swear something’s going on between them. I just can’t prove it… yet
Streamer x Boss, enemies to lovers speedrun.
The CEO's face reveal is something, but the panic on Suowei’s face is something else!

Of course there’s also a TikTok edit of Chi Cheng’s blurry face set to thirst-trap music that now has millions of views.

I scroll, and my soul leaves my body.

“Oh my god. I’m doomed,” I whisper to no one.

I try deleting posts mentioning me. Flagging videos. Reporting edits. But the internet? The internet never forgets.

By the time I’ve spiralled into imagining my own funeral (headline: Streamer Found Six Feet Under After Accidentally Unmasking Billionaire CEO), my phone rings.

It’s Shuai.

I answer, voice hoarse. “Bro, I’m dying.”

“Correction,” Shuai says, wheezing with laughter, “you’re being reborn. As the multimillionaire CEO’s desk puppet.”

As if me reading online isn't enough, he starts reading the memes out loud. Out loud. With voices.

“‘Wu Suowei’s baby arc is real. I think him calling the CEO 'Daddy' is not a joke anymore’ HAHAHA.”

“‘Petition to lock Wu Suowei back in the Bald Palace until the ship sails.’”

“‘Forget Bald Boss—this is Blurry Boss now.’”

I bury my face in my pillow. “I’m going to be sued. Blacklisted. Executed. He’s gonna kill me with his bare, perfectly manicured veiny hands.”

“Or,” Shuai says between cackles, “you’re about to be in the biggest ship since the Titanic.”

“Which also sank,” I snap.

“Details.”

I hang up on him. Immediately.

By the time I finally drag myself out of bed, it’s already dark outside. My brain is fried, my stomach is empty, and my notifications are somehow worse.

And then because the universe has it out for me, I get summoned. Back. To. The. Bald. Palace.

My death warrant has arrived.

Caller ID: (Not) Bald CEO

I nearly threw my phone across the room.

If I don’t answer, maybe he’ll think I died.

But because I don’t want him to think I’m a coward, I answered.

“HELLO, respected, handsome, definitely not bald Boss Chi, sir, please forgive my sins!”

“…You didn’t come.”

“Where? My funeral? Please don’t kill me! I didn’t do it on purpose, okay?”

“Come here. Tomorrow. My office.”

I winced. “Can’t we reschedule? Like… never?”

He doesn’t laugh at all. “Don’t make me call again,” then the line drops.

Silence.

I stare at my phone like it just betrayed me.

“Yep. That’s it. This is how I will die, dragged by the Grim Reaper in a haute couture.”

Walking into Chi Cheng’s office feels like stepping into an execution chamber.

Except… he isn’t angry.

He’s calm. Too calm. Sitting at his desk, perfectly pressed suit, expression unreadable. Like he didn’t just accidentally soft-launch his face to the entire internet.

I hover by the door, hands behind my back, sweaty palms clenching. 

“Uh… so… hi. I’m sorry?”

His face hardens, his eyes darkening in a way that makes my knees tremble.

“Hey… Are you really mad? I said I’m sorry.”

In his usual calm but commanding tone, “Sit.”

As much as I want to bolt, I don’t want to make him even angrier. I actually love my life!

I sat in front of his desk, looking down at my lap while fidgeting with my fingers. 

“So? What now?” I asked, voice undeniably soft as if I’m back to being a child getting scolded by my Mom. 

“You left without notice,” he says evenly.

I blink. Lifting my eyes to his face. “Huh?”

“You. Left.”

“I don’t get it...That’s what you’re mad about? Not the fact that your face—your literal million-dollar mystery face is trending under #BlurryBoss?”

His gaze sharpens. “You don’t walk out of arguments halfway.”

I gape. That’s what this is about? Me walking out? My escape?

Before I can explode about misplaced priorities, the door opens. The PR team swarms in like sharks in suits.

They launch straight in: damage control, narrative control, blah blah synergy. Their grand solution?

“A joint appearance. Stream. Q&A. Something lighthearted. Wu Suowei and CEO Chi Cheng together. Lean into the chaos. Control the story before it controls us.”

I choke. “Joint… appearance?! With HIM?! Are you people insane?!”

“It benefits both sides,” Chi Cheng says, calm as ever.

I almost got a whiplash from how fast I whip around to look at him. Eyes so wide I probably have question marks around my head.

“I agreed.”

“You WHAT?!”

He looks utterly unbothered. Like this isn’t the first time his company’s PR suggested throwing him into the gladiator pit with a loudmouth streamer.

And that’s what stuns me. Years—years—of being faceless, untouchable, mysterious. And now? He’s just shrugging?

Why?

Mystery unresolved. My sanity: circling the drain.

After the PR team leaves, I pounce.

“You can’t just—just agree to this! You’re Mr. Faceless CEO! You built your entire empire on anonymity!”

“If my identity is undone, then it is,” he replies, flipping a page in his file. “I don’t care. The company thrives regardless.”

I slam my palms on his desk. “You can’t just say that like you’re not—like—you’re not—!”

“Not what?” His eyes finally meet mine, cool and sharp.

“Not about to ruin my life!”

Our bickering sharpens, the air between us pulling tight, like a rubber band about to snap. It’s not quite fighting. Not quite flirting. Something messy, something worse.

And then—

“Am I interrupting?”

Enter: a man, tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile. Walks in like he owns the place.

I freeze.

He strolls over, clapping Chi Cheng on the shoulder, then turning to me. “You must be Wu Suowei. Heard a lot about you.”

I blink. “You have? And who are you?”

“Oh I’m Guo Chengyu,” he grins, putting a hand on Chi Cheng’s shoulder. “I’m this man’s best friend."

“He actually has a friend?” I snorted.

He laughed and circled towards me, “Fortunately, he has me to tolerate his bad attitude.”

Guo Chengyu eventually leaned closer to show me something on his phone. His cologne hits me first—spicy, warm. Then his shoulder brushes mine as he points at a meme. “Look at this one. Funniest thing I’ve seen all week.”

I laugh. Actually laugh. The first time all day.

And that’s when I feel it—Chi Cheng’s aura dropping about ten degrees. The room chills.

Is it tension? I don’t know, It’s cold but I feel the heat of his eyes toward me.

I don’t dare look.

It ends the way it usually does: me storming out.

This time, I don’t even give Chi Cheng the satisfaction of a dramatic sign-off. I just go.

Straight to my apartment, straight back to bed, straight on the phone with Shuai.

“They’re using me for PR! And now I’m apparently that Bald CEO's personal streamer!”

“Congrats, you’re basically his arm candy now.”

“I’d rather die.”

“You confuse me Da Wei, why won’t you agree?”

“...why should I? I won’t let them use me for a publicity stunt!”

“Use you? I think it will also benefit you. Your stream will probably reach its peak viewership, it will help you gain more popularity! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

That shuts me up. I don’t know how to answer.

I don’t want to be used and I don’t want to use him either.

Shuai must have noticed the shift in my energy so he suggested we talk about something else.

“Yeah, let’s not talk about Chi Cheng or his company.”

But somewhere in the conversation, I let it slip.

“Actually, there’s this guy. Guo Chengyu. Tall, rich, friendly. Opposite of Bald Boss. Kind of the same, though.”

Shuai perks up instantly. “Rich?”

“That’s all you heard?”

“Is he hot?”

I groan. Mistake. Big mistake.

And yet.

I think I want to do it.

That night, after hours of pacing, after replaying every meme and every glare in my head, I do the unthinkable.

I don’t know what got into me, but I call Chi Cheng.

“Fine,” I snap the second he picks up. “I’ll do your stupid stream. But on one condition.”

“Hmm?”

Even his hum sounds unfairly good. Wait, what?

“We do it in my apartment. My room. My turf.”

Silence.

I feel my cheeks heat up. “The stream! I meant we do the stream at my place,” I clarify quickly.

He chuckles. CHI. CHENG. FUCKING. CHUCKLED.

He sounds so close, like he’s whispering and chuckling directly in my ear. I practically have goosebumps all over.

Then his voice, smooth as glass.

“Agreed.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

My stomach drops. My brain short-circuits.

What did I just sign up for?

Chapter Text

My apartment has never looked like a crime scene before, but this morning it does.

There’s an empty ramen cup on the windowsill like it crawled there to die, socks in three different shades of despair, and a suspicious puddle near my desk that I don’t have the courage to investigate. And yet—today of all days—the Bald Boss himself is stepping foot in here.

Me. Wu Suowei. The idiot who once streamed from bed surrounded by pizza boxes as decor. Hosting the CEO of GameCorp.

Fuck my life.

I’m crawling across the floor with a garbage bag clenched between my teeth, sweeping things into it like a raccoon trying to erase evidence of its own crimes. Every few minutes, I yell at myself: “Why didn’t you start this yesterday, you pig?” Then immediately trip over another pair of pants.

The worst part? I don’t even own adult cleaning supplies. My mop is a towel taped to a stick. My “air freshener” is me spraying the only bottle of perfume I own around the house.

And still, when the doorbell finally rings, my apartment looks less like a frat dungeon and more like… a bachelor pad with minor issues.

I wipe sweat off my forehead, take a deep breath, and open the door.

And promptly forget how to breathe.

Because Chi Cheng, legendary faceless CEO, corporate grim reaper—is not wearing his usual armor of pressed suits. No. 

He’s in a white button-up shirt, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, two buttons undone like he’s in some cologne commercial. His rolex gleams under the hallway light, his hair is not in his usual style but still perfectly messy, and he still looks… expensive. Effortlessly handsome and expensive.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there in an anime Tshirt with toothpaste on the collar.

“Are you going to let me in,” he says, “or should I conduct the livestream in the hallway?”

“You—” I squeak, pointing at him. “You’re… casual.”

“Should I have worn a tie?” 

I mumble, “No, no tie. God forbid your neck gets strangled by something other than my hand.”

He just raises an eyebrow like I’m talking nonsense.

I step aside so fast I nearly dislocate a hip. “Right, yes, come in, welcome to my humble shack—palace—whatever.”

My tiny apartment suddenly shrinks to the size of a shoebox. The aura. The height. The mint-and-smoke scent that hits me as he passes. I swear my PlayStation bows in respect.

He surveys the room with a glance so quick it feels like he catalogued every stain on my carpet. His gaze lands on the desk with my dual monitors, mic, and cat-ear headphones. “So this is where you rant and scream at video games.”

I clutch my headphones protectively. “It’s called content creation, thank you very much.”

He sets a hand down on my gaming chair like he owns it. “Let’s get started.”

And just like that, we’re live.

The chat floods in immediately:

[daddysimp]: awww he's not really bald?
[0kaeri]: omg omg omg he’s REAL
[pineappleOnPizza]: wu clean ur room bro 💀
[CEOtruthers]: is that… BUTTONS UNDONE????

I shove my chair closer to the camera, blocking as much of him as possible. “Alright, alright, everyone calm down. It’s just a casual collab stream. Nothing to see here.”

Behind me, Chi Cheng sits with the composure of a man chairing a board meeting. He adjusts his mic like it’s a contract he’s about to sign.

“Introduce yourself,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

“You’ve already introduced me enough online,” he says, voice smooth and carrying. “But for the record: Chi Cheng, CEO of GameCorp.”

The chat detonates.

[thirsty4pixels]: THE VOICE. THE VOICE.
[saltedfish97]: bro sounds like he could buy AND sell me
[not_a_robot]: bald boss but make it sexy???
[plsStepOnMe]: undo a 3rd button coward

I slap the desk. “Chat! Behave yourselves! This is still a professional stream.”

Chi Cheng tilts his head, amused. “Professional?”

I ignore him and fire up the co-op game we agreed to play. The screen loads, avatars appear, and within minutes it’s clear: the man is terrifyingly good. Efficient. Calm. He plays like he’s conducting a business meeting—every move precise, every decision profit-maximized.

Meanwhile, I’m screaming.

“WAIT—LEFT—THEY’RE FLANKING LEFT—”

“Don’t panic,” he says evenly, shooting three enemies with unholy accuracy.

“I’M NOT PANICKING,” I shriek, running into a wall.

The chat wheezes.

[keyboardsmash]: lmaooooo wu is deadweight
[ceo_simp69]: carry me daddy chi 🙏
[luvboykissers]: what episode will they kiss?
[pineappleOnPizza]: i ship them i don’t care

Half an hour in, we’re surprisingly… in sync. I yell, he calculates. I flail, he steadies. It’s frustratingly balanced, like we’re puzzle pieces that should not fit but somehow do.

And then something happens.

We both lean toward the mic at the same time, arguing about strategy. Our faces draw close. The camera angle betrays us—suddenly, on stream, it looks like we’re about to kiss.

I turned away feeling my cheeks heat up while the chat goes feral.

[uwu_killer]: OMFG NOT ON LIVE!! GET A ROOM
[nosebleed.exe]: LIPSSSSSSSSSS
[plsStepOnMe]: clip!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

I jolt back so hard my chair rolls into the wall. “NOPE. NO. WE ARE NOT—DON’T YOU DARE—”

Chi Cheng just looks at the chat, one brow slightly arched, like he’s letting them dig their own grave. Then, calmly: “Focus on the game.”

And the way he says it—low, even, commanding—sends a shiver down my spine that I will never admit out loud.

“Alright, uh—that’s it for today’s stream, thank you for—” My words dissolve as the chat absolutely detonates.

[dag0at]: HE WAS THIS CLOSE 🤏
[ziyuloveu]: NO!!! DON’T END PLEASE!!!!
[aurafarm]: 🚨🚨 almost-kiss compilation dropping in 10                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       
[hearttxn]: CEO x WSW CONFIRMED

I gape at the screen, choking. “What—no, no, no. Nobody saw anything. Nothing happened! Stop typing like that, mods ban them!”

Chi Cheng is still sitting beside me, calm as a damn glacier, while I’m melting down live. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, and somehow that makes everything worse.

“Okay chat, this ends now. We’ve been live for hours already, so this is goodbye! Thank you for watching—hey Boss CEO, come here, say bye.”

He doesn’t mutter a word, just looks at the webcam and waves his hand once.

My finger smashes the “end stream” button like it’s an emergency eject lever. The screen goes black. Blessed silence. I flop back against my seat, wheezing.

Of course, Chi Cheng doesn’t even look fazed.

I don’t even realize he’s ordered food until the doorbell rings. I blink, dazed, as he gets up, pays without asking, and returns with bags of takeout.

“Wait—you just—? I didn’t even say I was hungry.”

“You were.” He sets the food down, simple as that.

We end up eating on my cramped little sofa, containers spread out on the coffee table. My knees brush against his every time I move, and every time I jerk back like I’ve been electrocuted. He doesn’t move away.

Great. Now I’m hyperaware of everything: my messy chopstick grip, the squeaky sound my cheap couch makes when we shift, even the stupid fact that my legs aren’t long enough so my toes barely graze the floor. Real smooth, Wu Suowei.

The banter softens. He asks small, curious questions—about streaming, about games. And I answer, quieter than usual.

“Do you always read chat that fast?” he asks, leaning back against my couch like he’s got all the time in the world. His shirt catches the low light—two buttons undone, a little too casual for someone who’s supposed to be terrifying.

I snort. “What, jealous? Want me to read your emails out loud too? I’ll give it a dramatic flair.”

One brow lifts. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my inbox.”

“Please, I survived a comment section flame war at sixteen. Same battlefield, different weapons.”

That earns me the tiniest curve of his lips. Not a smile, exactly. More like… amusement that slipped past his usual poker face.

He takes a sip of water, sets the glass down. “Why do you do it? Stream, I mean.”

The question lands heavier than I expect. No mocking tone, no angle. Just genuine.

I fiddle with my chopsticks. “Because… it’s mine. Y’know? My world. No bosses, no deadlines—just me and chat. I say something dumb, they roast me, we laugh, end of day. Feels… free.”

His gaze lingers, steady enough to make my throat dry. “And you don’t mind thousands of people watching your every move?”

I laugh, softer this time. “Strangers are easier. Strangers don’t… stick around.”

For a second, it’s quiet except for the faint hum of my PC. He studies me like he’s memorizing an answer.

Then—“What was your first stream?”

I blink. “You’re seriously asking?”

“Yes.”

I groan, covering my face with both hands. “Okay, but you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“I don’t laugh easily.”

“That’s a lie, you literally smirk at everything I say.”

“Answer, Wu Suowei.”

Fine. Deep breath. “It was me playing League. My webcam was too close, and my mom barged in behind me holding up my dirty boxers. The viewers weren’t that many but they clipped it. Went viral. I almost quit then and there.”

“And you didn’t,” he says simply.

“Guess not.” I peek through my fingers. “Chat still calls me Boxer Boy sometimes. It’s traumatic.”

He leans in, just a little. Voice low. “I think it’s fitting.”

“What—Boxer Boy?!”

“Persistent.”

My chest does this dumb, traitorous thud-thud, and suddenly the pineapple pizza argument feels like a hundred years ago.

After dinner, I start grabbing containers just to have something to do, but he takes them gently out of my hands.

“Sit.”

One word. Calm, steady. And like always, I obey, sinking back onto the couch. My heart is doing cardio in my chest. This feels too much like—like a date. And I can’t afford to think of it like that.

So I scoot all the way to the armrest, putting space between us. Distance. Safe.

Except apparently Chi Cheng doesn’t believe in safety. He shifts closer. Our knees touch again. My eyes go wide.

And then—holy hell—he braces one hand on the armrest beside me, caging me in with his body. He’s so close I can count his lashes.

My brain blue-screens. I try to slide down the sofa to escape, but he leans in further, closing the gap, until I can’t move without brushing against him.

I freeze. My eyes slam shut on instinct. This is it. The part where he will devour me.

Instead, I feel the softest breath against my ear. His voice drops low, calm, and devastating.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “we’ll do this at my place. Hm?”

Every nerve in my body combusts. I’m boiling alive, I want to disappear, I want—god help me—I want exactly whatever he’s offering.

“...Okay.” The word slips out, barely a whisper.

He chuckles. His thumb grazes the edge of my ear, and I nearly leap out of my skin.

“Your ears are red.”

I tilt my head, catching his dark eyes—so dark I swear I can almost see my reflection in them. And then, for reasons I’ll never understand, I start leaning.

Ring. 

The sound shatters the bubble we created. My brain short-circuits, my body freezes. He checks his phone, face unreadable, then stands, walks to the door, efficient, all business again.

At the doorway, he pauses. His gaze flicks back to me, still slumped and paralyzed on the couch.

“The stream,” he says evenly. “Let’s do it at my place next time. Goodnight, Suowei.”

And then he’s gone.

The moment the door shuts, I collapse sideways into the cushions like a ragdoll. 

“What. The. Hell. Just. Happened.”

Did he mean the stream? Just the stream? Then why whisper it in my ear like that? Why touch me like—like that?

And why, oh why, did I agree so fast?

I bury my face in my hands. “Fuck. I’m doomed.”

Chapter Text

I should’ve known the second I stepped into Chi Cheng’s apartment that I was in danger.

Not the normal kind of danger, like tripping over wires or choking on hotpot soup. No. This was the type of danger where every shiny surface screamed clean freak serial killer vibes. Marble floors. Black leather couch. Shelves that weren’t cluttered with Funko Pops or ramen cups like mine, but had actual art pieces on them. 

And the man himself, 190cm of black-button-up with two undone at the collar. He looked like he’d just walked out of a commercial for expensive whiskey.

The thing is—he’s not even dressed like Corporate Ice Prince today. No suit, no tie, not even his terrifying wristwatch. Just casual. Which on him translates to: more dangerous than the full three-piece armor. I swear the man could wear a potato sack and still make it look luxury.

Meanwhile, me? Neon hoodie from that one gamer event, shorts, sneakers that still squeak when I walk. Basically a lost child.

I should’ve left. I should’ve faked a stomach ache. But no, I was already inside.

Chi Cheng being his normal self didn’t even greet me properly. Just: “Shoes off.”

I kick them off so fast I nearly trip on my own feet. Perfect start. I’m going to die here.

So now I’m barefoot, hoodie slightly sweaty because my back is sticking to it, and Chi Cheng is leaning over his sleek gaming setup like it’s a throne. He gestures at the second chair—simple command voice, like he owns not only the apartment but gravity too. 

“Sit.” 

I flop down in the gamer chair he’s apparently bought just for this, hugging my knees together, pretending I’m not internally screaming. “Nice place. Very… minimalistic. Very… museum of don’t touch anything.”

His mouth twitches, maybe at the corner. “Sit properly.”

…Already with the commands. I shuffle upright like a schoolboy getting scolded. Chat isn’t even live yet and somehow I’m performing.

Setting up the stream in his apartment was like setting up a pet goldfish tank in an aquarium designed for sharks. My dinky mic and cat ear headphones look sad against his polished desk setup.

I’m doing all the work because I’m the streamer, after all. And he’s just the pretty face ruining my blood pressure. But because he’s apparently a gentleman, tall and his arms are, like, a mile long, he leans over me to help adjust the mic stand. Long fingers brush past my ear.

My ear. My sensitive, not-ready-for-this ear.

My brain: don’t react, don’t react, don’t—

My hands immediately knock together over my ears.

“Too close?” he asks, straight-faced.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

“Nope. Perfect. Fine. Totally normal.”

I sound like a liar caught mid-crime.

Then we go live.

The red dot pops up. Chat instantly floods in like a swarm of gremlins who’ve smelled blood in the water.

“Welcome, my suffering chat,” I announce, throwing my arms wide. “Today’s episode of Why Is My Life Like This features none other than—drumroll, please—the Boss of Gamecorp himself!”

“Say hi,” I hiss under my breath.

Chi Cheng tilts his head toward the camera, eyes calm, voice deep. “Good evening.”

The chat combusts.

[CHAT]

GOOD EVENING SIR YES SIR
why is this hotter than it should be?? 
my mom just came into my room and I panicked like I was watching something NSFW

Meanwhile, I try to keep my streamer smile plastered on because what the fuck was that voice?

[CHAT]

wsw looks like he’s babysitting a sugar daddy                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      is this Chi Cheng’s house?? are we trespassing rn?

I cut them off before they can get too feral. “First of all, I am not babysitting anyone. Second, it’s this man’s second stream only, so behave.”

“Behave,” he repeats, voice like it’s carved from granite. The mic picks up his low tone and chat collectively combusts.

[CHAT]

daddy voice?? HELLO??
who let him sound like THAT on a GAMING stream

And as if that’s not enough, Chi Cheng shifts beside me in the guest chair, calm as if he isn’t trespassing into my territory. He leans forward slightly, and our knees brush. My brain short-circuits like someone poured soda into my motherboard.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Anyway,” I bark, slamming my mouse around like a weapon. “We’re just going to play a few rounds of Mystic Clash. Boss here has never touched it, so I’ll be carrying—”

Chi Cheng interrupts smoothly, “I’ve watched your streams. I think I can manage.”

He says it with zero bravado, zero smugness. Just calm, factual murder.

[CHAT]

HE WATCHES THE STREAMS??
boyfriend behavior 🫡
wsw you’re DONE

I try to brush it off. “Ha-ha, very funny. Just keep up, old man.”

The match starts. I’m fully prepared to drag him through, but then he picks up the controls like he’s been studying manuals in his free time. Which, knowing him, he probably has. His character moves sharp, efficient. Within two minutes, he’s carrying ME.

“Wait—wait—what the hell, how did you—”

“I watched your tutorial VODs,” he says, eyes glued to the screen. Casual. Like it’s the weather.

I want to throw myself into traffic.

The match ends. Victory. Him on top of the leaderboard. Me floundering in fourth.

He looks at me, serene. “Not too difficult.”

I slap the desk dramatically. “Okay, first of all, hacks. Second, you’re banned from my stream. Third, hacks.”

His knee brushes mine under the desk. Just a brush. Probably nothing. My entire bloodstream turns into dial-up internet noises.

Don’t react. Don’t—

I flinch half a centimeter. He notices. Of course he notices.

“Too close?” he asks again, that same flat face from earlier.

I bare my teeth in a smile. “Nope. Totally fine. Love having my personal space obliterated on camera.”

New game loads in. My hands are actually shaking. Why am I shaking? I’m the seasoned streamer here!

And then Chi Cheng—this criminal with a handsome face—immediately starts playing like some kind of prodigy. Smooth clicks, precise moves. He leans forward, calm as if he’s giving a quarterly report, while I’m flailing like a man hit with twelve dodgeballs.

“You said you’d carry,” he murmurs, eyes still on screen.

I choke. “I AM carrying. In spirit. Emotionally. Entertainment value.”

Then it happens again: he leans in, reaches past me to adjust the mic angle, brushing my ear again. I stiffen like a corpse.

“You should keep your mic closer,” he murmurs, adjusting the mic. “It doesn’t pick up well if you lean back.”

I touch my ears defensively. They are hot. Traitors.

My knees knock together. Stop it. Stop existing like this.

Chat goes rabid.

[CHAT] 

LOOK AT HIS EARS THEY’RE RED
is this allowed on twitch???

I mash the keyboard. “ANYWAY. MOVING ON.”

“Relax,” he says, like I’m not visibly combusting. His hand even brushes the edge of my chair while he steadies his mouse. Too casual. Too natural.

Relax?? In this economy??

The game timer ticks down. My palms are already sweaty, which is insane because I haven’t even done anything yet.

Chi Cheng leans slightly toward my side of the desk to check my screen. His arm brushes mine. Not a bump. Not a quick pass. A lingering graze, like he forgot what “personal boundaries” even mean.

My brain short-circuits. Error 404: Wu.exe stopped working.

“Do you always… sit like this when you stream?” His voice is calm, but I swear it’s an attack.

I glance down. Oh. I’ve pulled my legs up again, knees tucked close to my chest, chair half-turned. Cozy gremlin posture. On stream. In front of him.

I croak, “Yeah, it’s… uh… ergonomics.”

He hums. “Ergonomics. Interesting.”

I hate how he says words like he’s filing them away for later.

The game countdown hits zero. We spawn in. I’m still trying to unclench my entire skeleton.

“Cover left,” I bark, pointing at the screen.

He obeys instantly. Precise clicks. His knee bumps mine again, but this time—doesn’t move. Just stays there, steady weight, like he anchored himself against me.

I’m gripping my mouse like it’s a lifeline. “Stop—stop leaning into my side!”

“I’m not leaning,” he says, deadly calm, while his avatar nails a headshot.

“Yes you are!”

“You’re imagining things.”

I’m so distracted yelling at him that my own character dies on screen. Loudly.

“SEE?!” I slam the desk. “This is sabotage. You’re distracting me on purpose!”

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I told you to relax.”

“You told me to—?! Do you know what kind of nerve damage you’re causing me right now?!”

[CHAT]

this is literally foreplay wtf
someone get wu a paper bag to breathe into
ceo has the AUDACITY to play innocent 😳

Chi Cheng doesn’t even blink. Just leans closer—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes mine this time. My ear heats instantly. I feel it. Red. I know it’s red.

And he chooses now to adjust the mic again, fingers grazing just under the shell of my ear.

My knees knock together so hard they thud the desk.

I squeak. Actually squeak.

[CHAT]

LMAOOOO DID HE JUST SQUEAK
omg his ears went red again LOOK
chi cheng stop you’re killing him 💀

“Ears sensitive?” CC asks, voice low, like it’s a genuine question.

I slam my headphones tighter against my head. “Nope. Not sensitive at all. Ears of steel. I can hear explosions and still nap through them.”

He nods slightly, like he’s studying me. Which is unfair. Which is ILLEGAL.

Meanwhile, I’m floundering in-game, my chat is crying with laughter, and the man next to me is a stone statue of calm.

“Didn’t you say last time you’d be carrying me?”

“I lied. It’s called marketing.”

[CHAT]

CEO: calm. Streamer: chaos. Yin-yang duo
SMIRK ALERT 🚨
they flirting again i fear

I slam my keyboard like my life depends on it. CC, meanwhile, barely moves his wrist and somehow gets headshots like breathing. I hate him.

“Left, left!” I yell, panicking.

“I see,” he says smoothly, already shooting.

Of course he sees. Of course he hits. My avatar dies anyway.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU COVER ME?” I screech.

“You ran into the open,” CC says. He doesn’t even look at me. Just calmly looting.

I’m about to roast him back when it happens.

His hand drops under the desk.

Not by accident. Not a slip. He just—puts it there. On my knee. Firm. Like that’s his space now.

Every brain cell I own flees the premises.

I freeze. Whole body locked, eyes glued to the screen like if I blink, he’ll notice my soul leaving my body.

My brain: this is fine.

My knee: HELP ME.

My entire bloodstream: FIRE ALARM.

I choke out, “Wh—what are you doing?!”

“Keeping you steady,” he replies calmly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance over. Just keeps carrying our team while casually claiming my leg like it’s his personal mousepad.

My entire leg is vibrating like a phone on silent mode.

“Steady?! This is illegal assistance! I can’t play like this!”

“Seems to be working.” Another headshot. Another tap of his thumb, right against the tense line of my thigh.

I make a strangled noise. My chat goes ballistic.

[CHAT]

WHY WSW BLUSHINGGGGG
is this PG-13?? mods??
why tf is he moaning 😂

I slam my knees tighter, but his hand doesn’t move. He just adjusts his aim, clicks, headshot, all while pressing down just enough that I can’t forget it.

“Y-you’re heavy-handed,” I blurt, cheeks heating.

CC finally tilts his head, giving me the faintest side glance. “Distracting?”

I choke on air.

I laugh way too loud, fake, chaotic. “Distracting? Who, me? No, no, you’re the distraction, you’re distracting, I’m not—” I die again in-game.

FUCK.

I lean away so hard I nearly tip my chair. “Nope. No. We’re not doing—” I mute the mic for a second. "Don't TOUCH my legs while we’re live!”

He finally glances at me. Just for a second. Cool, unreadable. Like he heard me but didn’t actually register “don’t.”

Then turns back to the screen. Hand still on my knee.

I’m gonna die here.

[CHAT]

marriage contract when
petition for joint channel
i came for gaming stayed for romcom

Chapter Text

Three weeks later, I burst into Shuai’s apartment like a man on the run.

“HE DID IT AGAIN.”

Shuai, halfway through a bowl of noodles, didn’t even flinch. “What is it this time?”

“I HAVE BEEN VIOLATED,” I declare, collapsing dramatically onto his couch.

He doesn’t even blink. “Chi Cheng breathe near you again?”

I jab a finger at him, hair wild, hoodie sliding off one shoulder like I’d sprinted the whole way here. “Don’t you dare downplay this. First, it was the knee incident. Then—the whispers. Shuai. The whispers.”

I pitch my voice into a silky baritone, leaning way too close to my own shoulder. “‘Your mic’s tilted.’” I shiver, clutching myself. “Except instead of fixing the mic, he’s right in my ear, practically breathing like some suspicious NPC. Do you know what happens when a man whispers directly into another man’s ear?!”

“You… hear them?” Shuai says, deadpan.

“NO. YOU SHORT-CIRCUIT. You combust. Your blood becomes soup stock.” I stomp across the room. “And once—once—he missed, Shuai. His lips—” I fling both hands near my ear, nearly knocking over his lamp— “brushed my ear. My EAR! Do you know what that does to a man on live camera?!”

Shuai chokes on a noodle. “I don’t know, enlighten me.”

“I SAW MY ANCESTORS,” I bark. “I thought I had tinnitus, but no, that was my soul leaving my body. Chat clipped it in 4K! I can never escape!”

I don’t even give him time to recover before launching into the next tragedy. “And then last week, he had the audacity to grab my waist. My waist, Shuai! To ‘steady me,’ he said. STEADY ME. As if I was about to topple over like an old filing cabinet. I was standing perfectly still!” I slap his desk for emphasis. “That’s not steadying. That’s… that’s…”

“Handsy?” Shuai suggests.

“YES. Unsolicited stabilizing. And then—” I whirl dramatically, pointing at the ceiling. “AND THEN he had the gall to smile about it. Like he knew. Like he was farming my embarrassment for content.”

Shuai just sits there sipping broth like he bought front-row tickets. “Bro, I think you’re being seduced.”

I clap both hands over my ears. “Don’t SAY that word in this house!”

By the time I’m pacing his room like a general plotting a coup, Shuai looks thoroughly entertained.
“Okay. So next stream, you’re coming with me.”

He blinks. “Why am I suffering for your unresolved sexual—”

“DEFENSIVE STRATEGY!” I clap my hands. “You’ll sit between us. Human firewall. He can’t reach me if you’re there.”

Shuai leans back, grinning. “You want me to third-wheel your collab just so I can play bodyguard? Bro. That’s not a plan, that’s… co-dependency.”

“Shut up. It’s genius.”

“What if he leans over me to touch you anyway?”

I freeze. “…Then you—uh—you body block harder.”

The look Shuai gives me is pure pity. “Blind leading the blind. We’re two goldfish plotting against a shark.”

“More like two gigachads plotting against a villain boss,” I correct automatically. Then wince. “Okay, no, that sounds worse. Forget I said that.”

Shuai pinches the bridge of his nose and disappears into his bedroom.

He comes back dragging the saddest excuse for a whiteboard I’ve ever seen. One wheel is missing, the marker tray is hanging on by a single screw, and there’s a suspicious stain shaped exactly like Australia in the corner.

“This,” he declares, slamming it against the wall like he’s unveiling a masterpiece, “is our battlefield.”

I rub my temples. “Our battlefield smells like mildew.”

He ignores me, uncaps a half-dried marker, and in huge, wobbly letters writes:

OPERATION: ANTI-CHI CHENG .

I almost cry. It’s beautiful.

Shuai starts sketching little stick figures—one with a wonky crown labeled “GOBLIN (Chi Cheng),” another with wild hair labeled “HERO (Dawei).” Between us he draws a third stickman: him. Except his version has massive Popeye arms and a shield bigger than his whole body.

“You’re giving yourself way too much muscle definition,” I mutter.

“I don’t control the truth,” he says gravely.

We get to work. And by “work,” I mean Shuai scribbles increasingly insane diagrams while I shout things like ‘draw his stupid jawline sharper!’ and ‘no, the chair was THIS close to mine!’ Every time I demonstrate, Shuai redraws the stick figures practically on top of each other until even the board looks flustered.

By the end, the board is chaos: arrows everywhere, captions like ‘BLOCK THE KNEE GRAB’ and ‘EAR PROXIMITY = ILLEGAL’. In one corner Shuai’s drawn me curled into fetal position with “RIP” above my head.

“Our strategy is simple,” Shuai announces, tapping the board like a general briefing his troops. “I sit between you and the Goblin. Any time he leans, I lean harder. If he tries knee contact, I expand my knee radius. Human shield. Unbreakable.”

He pounds his chest like a gorilla.

I nod solemnly. “And if he whispers in my ear again?”

Shuai thinks, then sketches a stick-figure megaphone blasting “STOP” directly at CEO Goblin’s face.

Genius.

I collapse onto his couch, laughing until I can’t breathe. It’s the dumbest plan in history, and somehow, it’s the only thing keeping me from imploding.

Operation: Anti-CC is officially underway.

Three weeks. Three weeks of psychological warfare. Three weeks of “accidental” knee presses, “coincidental” waist grabs, “oops my face is near your ear.”

And today? Today I end it.

I drag Shuai to the side of the hallway like we’re about to raid a dungeon, not step into Chi Cheng’s pristine CEO palace.

“Listen to me,” I hiss, grabbing his shoulders. “Once we go in there, it’s war. You are my shield. My firewall. My—” I pause for effect. “My meat wall.”

Shuai nods so hard I’m worried his head’s gonna unscrew. “I swear it,” he says, deadly serious. “I’ll block him, I’ll bite him, I’ll take a bullet to the knee if I have to.”

“Yes. That’s what I need to hear,” I mutter, pacing like a general. “No matter what tricks he pulls—ear whispers, sudden hand-on-knee assaults—you hold the line. You are the last bastion. You are—”

“My everything?” Shuai offers dreamily.

I slap him across the chest. “Focus, damn it! This is life or death! And if I fall, my life is yours. Protect me.”

And for a moment—just a moment—I believe it. Shuai’s standing tall, eyes blazing with determination. A true comrade-in-arms. We even fist-bump, then press our foreheads together like knights exchanging vows. “We go in together,” he breathes, “we leave together.”

I’m almost crying. “Bro…”

We knock. The door swings open.

Chengyu is standing there. Hair tousled, plain hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, smile like he owns the air around him.

Shuai makes a noise. A very small, very pitiful meow.

“Oh,” he says, blinking up at Chengyu like a kicked puppy that just found its forever home. “Hi.”

I choke. “HI?? Shuai—what happened to meat wall??”

But Shuai’s already smoothing his hair, giggling, practically purring as Chengyu says, “Come in.” His eyes do the sparkle emoji thing. He’s gone. My sworn brother. My shield. My last defense. Vanished.

And me?

Left abandoned on the battlefield, watching my only ally trot inside like an e-kitten sniffing fresh tuna.

Behind them, Chi Cheng leans casually on the doorframe. He doesn’t say a word, just raises one perfect eyebrow at me like, Was this your plan?

I hate it here.

We swore an oath, Shuai and I. We did the whole warrior-poet thing: fist bump, foreheads touching, the solemn promise that he’d be my firewall, my meat shield, my human barricade. We made war plans on a whiteboard like we were plotting to conquer a small country. He swore on instant noodles. I believed him with the kind of stupid earnestness only I have.

And now? Now he’s clutching Chengyu’s arm like he’s his new best friend and apparently our oath expired the moment Chengyu smiled. He’s leaning in, whispering, getting that babygirl glow in his eyes that I have seen only once or maybe twice before.

I’m sprawled on Chi Cheng’s immaculate couch — hoodie up like a tiny, betrayed hermit crab — watching the slow, humiliating collapse of my plan. 

Shuai’s hand rests on Chengyu’s forearm; he’s doing that thing with his thumb where he nudges the back of his palm and makes this ridiculous little contented sigh. It’s cinematic. It’s criminal. It’s personally offensive.

“Hey, Suowei,” Shuai says, all bright and dumb, as if I’m not the one who marched him into this madness like a giddy general. “Chengyu says he can also join the stream.”

Three weeks. Three. Weeks.

I try to crawl out of my own hoodie like a dramatic ghost. “You promised,” I remind him, voice cracking like a second-hand microphone. “You promised to be my human firewall. My literal wall.” I pantomime a brick wall. “My—my… bannister of honor.”

He snaps his fingers at me with the casual cruelty of someone who forgot he’d joined an army. “I am—” he says, then catches himself, eyes glazing over again at Chengyu’s smile. “—being supportive,” he amends weakly.

My brain is a boiling kettle. Betrayal writes bad poetry, but I’ll try: for years I have been the one to roast the faceless CEO into viral ash, to grin and swear and make him look ridiculous on camera. I fed him to the internet like a willing accomplice. I stuck my neck out and then some—every stream, every joke—all for what? To be abandoned on the threshold of his living room while my sworn brother drools on someone else’s sweaters?

I glance right.

Chi Cheng is there, as always, crafted from danger and smooth cologne. He’s leaning back against his kitchen counter, one hand hovering idly near a cigarette, and his face is a lesson in art and perfection. He is watching Shuai and Chengyu with that faintly amused, faintly predatory look he gets when he reads a table of quarterly earnings and finds a surprising footnote. He’s not moving. He doesn’t need to. He has the luxury of being calm in a hurricane of my feelings.

I look to my left: Shuai, babygirl in near-worship.

To my right: Chi Cheng, the quiet volcano.

And in the middle of my sulk, right between a crisis of friendship and my slow, dramatic meltdown — something ridiculous slides into my head and plants itself like a tick: if Shuai can run off and flirt with Chengyu at the doorstep, why am I still playing defense? Why am I trying to erect a wall when I could be the earthquake?

A grin, ugly and immediate, crawls across my face. It’s the same grin I get when I decide to cheese the final boss by exploiting a glitch. It’s small and terrible and exactly what the internet paid me to do.

Maybe stopping him isn’t the answer. Maybe the only way to set boundaries with a man who eats your personal space for breakfast is to take the space. Literally.

I sit up, hoodie falling backward, eyes locking from Shuai’s moonlit cheeks to Chi Cheng’s placid profile and back again. All my dramatic energy that went into vows and whiteboards and sticky notes funnels into one deliciously reckless plan.

If Shuai can flirt with Chengyu, then why can’t I make Chi Cheng the one who’s flustered?

The thought is criminal and beautiful. A single perfect revenge idea. Not humiliating, exactly — just destabilizing. Playful. Dangerous. Public enough to sting; private enough to savor.

I picture it: casual, theatrical. The kind of move a streamer would do for maximal chaos and minimum remorse. I imagine Shuai’s jaw dropping, Chengyu’s amused smile, and Chi Cheng’s expression curdling from unreadable to—oh god—off-balance.

My mouth waters like I’m about to eat a very spicy noodle. I lift my chin and whisper, conspiratorially, to no one and everyone: “Okay. New plan.”

Shuai, still halfway into his Chengyu-adoration, finally notices my grin and walks toward me. “What—what did you do?” he asks, hopeful, sleeves worrying like a puppy.

I lean forward, plot tickling the inside of my ribs. “You focus on Chengyu,” I say. “Stay cute, be loud, be babygirl I don’t care. But I have a new plan, when I give the signal—” I make a ridiculous snapping gesture “—I go in. No walls. No shields. Full offense.”

Shuai blinks slowly, processing. Then he lights up with the exact same gleeful stupidity he always has when I propose dumb crimes. “Ooh, you’re abandoning Operation: Anti-Chi Cheng?” he squeals. 

I smirk looking at my victim. “Yes, it’s time for: OPERATION: COUNTERATTACK”

“Ooohh, I want popcorn.”

I love him. For a full beat, I do. He’s a traitor and he still gets popcorn.

Chi Cheng’s eyes flick to me. The faintest crease of curiosity—maybe amusement—touches his brow. He lifts his cigarette and watches, just watching, like the whole room is a board game and he has been handed a new tile.

I swallow hard, because now that the idea exists it has to be used. There’s no going back to being the victim. There’s only the glorious, slightly psychotic option of becoming the instigator.

“Give me two minutes,” I say, voice tight with things that might be courage or might be overconfidence. “When I say go—just… watch.”

Shuai salutes like a drama student. “Consider me a lighthouse. I will shine.”

My chest tightens with adrenaline and something else — giddy, criminal thrill. Operation: Counterattack is born on the betrayal battlefield, drafted in the small moments between a stolen smile and a cigarette curl.

Chi Cheng watches the scene, that inscrutable mask in place, and for the first time since this whole mess started, I catch the tiniest hitch of something. A small, almost imperceptible—no, not a mistake—an alteration. Maybe curiosity. Maybe interest. Maybe annoyance. Maybe he’s deciding, quietly, whether he likes being the one watched.

Good. Let him decide. Let him consider.

Because tonight, my dear CEO, the chair in your office won’t be the only place I sit on.

I grin at Shuai, who’s already making a dramatic “I am your distraction” face, and then look across the room at Chi Cheng and then down at my own hands, which are already shaking a little with the delicious wrongness of what I’m about to do.

“Ready?” I whisper.

Shuai puffs out his cheeks, prims his ears like a cat, and squeaks, “Ready.”

I stand up, and for the first time in weeks I feel like I’m taking back the script.

Chapter Text

“Ready?” I whisper.

Shuai doesn’t just give me a thumbs-up. No, he gives me the thumbs-up — the kind that says I’m about to risk it all and possibly sell my soul in the process. Then, like a moth seeing the world’s biggest porchlight, he sidles right up to Chengyu.

And then… oh my god. Contact. Arm-to-shoulder contact. I swear Shuai’s pupils dilate like a cat seeing wet food. His whole face goes soft-focus, babygirl filter on max, exactly like the way he does when he sees a 'potential target'. 

I watch them like my life depends on it.

Shuai goes in for the kill.

“Heyyy, Chengyu,” he croons, voice all high-sugar, “that jacket is so good. Like… designer good. Wait—don’t tell me, it's a limited drop, right?”

Chengyu chuckles, smooth like a rich guy audiobook. “Vintage. Milan.”

Shuai gasps like he’s about to faint. “Milan?! Oh my god. Of course. Teach me how to dress like a billionaire, please. Do you just wake up like this? Or is it, like, a skincare thing?—because your skin is actually glowing right now.”

I dig my nails into my knees. Focus. He’s supposed to be distracting, not auditioning for the role of “Second Wife.”

But Shuai is gone. He’s spiraling.

“Wow, that watch! Is that… Rolex? No, wait—Patek? Can I touch it? Do you have a car too? Bet it’s a Maserati. No, no—you give Range Rover vibes. Or like… a really sleek black sedan with windows so tinted no one can see what we do inside it.”

Chengyu actually laughs. The man laughs. Shuai beams like he just unlocked a secret achievement: win the billionaire’s heir.

And me? I’m crouched behind the couch, watching my best friend turn into a live-action thirst trap, while my whole plan teeters on the edge of clownery.

Five minutes later, Shuai isn’t distracting Chengyu anymore. He’s orbiting him. He’s asking about his childhood, his pets, his favorite pasta sauce. Chengyu’s answering like he’s Google Translate for “expensive boyfriend.” Sometimes he even throws questions back, which makes Shuai giggle like a middle-schooler with a crush on his math tutor.

This is no longer Operation: Counterattack. This is Operation: Shuai Gets A Sugar Daddy.

Shuai glances over his shoulder at me, face screaming: sorry-not-sorry, he’s so pretty though. I want to strangle him. Or kiss his forehead. Or both.

“Okay,” I mouth, trying to pull him back on script. “Signal in thirty.”

He nods, but then immediately leans in closer to Chengyu, whispering something that makes Chengyu’s eyes crinkle. I clap my hands under my breath like a stage mom at a disastrous recital. Focus, idiot.

Of course, Chengyu looks over at me. Because why wouldn’t he? He’s been cataloguing me all night like I’m a suspicious mushroom in his garden. His eyes flicker, unreadable.

“You look… resolved,” he says, like he’s reviewing a PowerPoint.

Resolved? Bro, I look like a hoodie gremlin whose life choices are sponsored by bad decisions. Still, I force out a very professional, “Just my game face.”

That’s code for: I’m absolutely losing it, but at least I’ll look dramatic while I do.

Meanwhile Shuai, who apparently forgot what “distraction” means, suddenly gasps and goes, “Hey, Chengyu, wanna get pork buns? There’s this place, best in the city, I swear. We should go right now. Like, right now.”

Chengyu blinks. “Now?”

“Yes!” Shuai squeals. Squeals. “We can make it back before your meeting, promise. I’ll even run.”

He looks at me for permission like a child asking to adopt a stray cat. I—like the fool I am—nod. And that’s all it takes.

Shuai grabs Chengyu’s sleeve like a barnacle on a luxury yacht. “Come on, come on, quick snack, let’s go. I’ll even be your humble taste-test slave.”

Chengyu pauses, clearly amused, then nods and actually offers his arm like this is some Regency drama. And Shuai? Shuai takes it. Like he’s just been crowned Miss Universe.

My stomach drops.

The plan is working.

The plan is also burning down in real time.

They leave together, Shuai chattering about his streamer origin story, Chengyu laughing like a man being courted by chaos. The door shuts behind them.

And just like that—silence.

The apartment feels huge and wrong and echoing. Smells faintly of lemon cleaner and betrayal.

I am alone. Alone with Chi Cheng.

He’s still at the counter, cigarette between his fingers like a weapon. Watching me with that calm, unreadable look that says, your move, kid.

My palms are slick. My heart is screaming. This was supposed to be about boundaries. About respect. About not being handled like a croissant.

Instead, here I am, standing in the eye of the storm, realizing the script is mine to write.

Chi Cheng tilts his head, voice flat as a knife: “You ready?”

It’s not a question. It’s a test. 

I swallow, knees trembling with all the ghost touches that have haunted me for weeks.

Two minutes. A lifetime.

And when he says, “Sit,” I do.

But not where he expected me to.

I don’t take the chair in front of his desk. I don’t perch like a normal person. No, I drop sideways onto his lap, legs hooked over the side, hoodie falling askew like I’ve just decided his very expensive trousers are a beanbag chair.

And that’s the exact moment my brain explodes.

Holy. Hell. I’m sitting on him. I’m literally—oh my god—his lap. My ass. On his thighs. This is not a drill. Abort—

But I can’t abort, because aborting would mean standing up, and standing up would mean admitting I didn’t think this through, and if I admit that, I lose. So I lock my knees and pretend like I’m casual, like this was always the masterstroke.

Chi Cheng goes rigid beneath me, muscles coiled like a spring. His chest doesn’t rise right away, like he’s paused his own breathing just to handle the shock of me here. Then, slow—so slow I feel it drag through my ribs—he inhales. Heavy. Rough. The sound rakes against my ear, his breath searing my side.

“Get off,” he says.

It should sound sharp, commanding, the kind of word that cuts through air and leaves me scrambling. Instead, it’s unsteady—rough at the edges, strained. Like it costs him something to even say it. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

Because here’s the thing: his hand moves—yes, it moves to my waist, like he’s going to push me off. Fingers skim the hem of my hoodie, cool through cotton, and every nerve in my body lights up like faulty Christmas lights.

Except he doesn’t push. His palm settles. Presses. Holds.

And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s confused too—like his brain issued an order his hand didn’t follow. His brows crease almost imperceptibly, as if he’s trying to solve the riddle of why he’s steadying me instead of shoving me away.

Victory rings in my head like an off-key trumpet. He says get off, but his hands say otherwise. Victory, thy name is Suowei.

I hum like a spoiled cat, pretending it’s nothing, and slide off his lap with grace but I keep lingering in front of him.

He exhales, long, like maybe the universe is safe again.

“I said get off Wu Suo—”

Before he can finish his command, I pivot, spin, and land square on his lap again—this time facing him.

The air short-circuits.

Our thighs touching, my knees bracketing his waist. The desk behind him disappears; there’s only him, all sharp lines and stillness.

And suddenly, he’s right there. His face. That face I’ve only ever stolen glances at from across rooms, now filling my vision like it’s all that exists.

Up close,  the sharp lines blur into something overwhelming—the way his lashes cast shadows under the desk lamp, the clean angles of his cheekbones, the stubborn set of his jaw that makes him look like he was carved to intimidate. But it’s not intimidating when I’m this close. It’s unbearable.

There’s the mole on his nose—tiny, unfair, distracting. My gaze snags there before drifting lower, to his mouth. His lips press tight, pale at the edges, like he’s holding himself together by force. Like if he lets go, the whole façade will crack.

“…Suowei.” His voice dips, my name pulled into something raw.

I swallow. “What? You said sit.”

His eyes narrow, dark and unblinking. They look bottomless up close, a shade of black that pulls me straight into gravity. And then—his hand. His grip tightens at my hip. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just holding.

I try to defuse with humor because I’m weak: I wriggle in his lap, testing the limits. “Wow. Really comfy chair. Top-tier ergonomics.”

His jaw tics, his breath shifts sharp, and when he says “Stop moving,” it sounds like an order he barely has the strength to give.

I grin, reckless. “Why? Flustered?”

He looks at me straight in the eye, and for a second I got scared that he’ll stand up and throw me outside.

But that’s not what happens. 

His breath leaves him rough, half growl, half groan. And before my brain can wrap itself around a single thought, his mouth is on mine.

Firm. Deliberate. Like he’s been planning this longer than I have.

For a second my whole body blanks. His lips are on mine—Chi Cheng’s lips—and my brain turns to white noise. Then instinct surges, frantic, and I’m kissing him back. Too hard, too messy, nothing like his precision. I can’t match him—I can only chase.

His mouth is heat and ruin, softer than it looks but moving with a control that unravels me. When his teeth graze my lower lip, my gasp slips straight into him. He tastes sharp—mint from gum, smoke from the cigarette. Bitter-sweet, addictive. It’s a taste I should hate. Instead, I want more. Another drag. Another hit. Him.

That’s when his hand moves. Not just holding anymore. It slides, slow and inevitable, under the hem of my hoodie. Skin against skin. My back arches like I’ve been plugged into an outlet. His palm drags upward, the heat of it scorching, tracing the dip of my spine. Fingers spread, mapping bone and muscle like he’s memorizing me.

The hoodie slips further off one shoulder, fabric slack.

I don’t know when my hands started fumbling at his shirt buttons—maybe the second his tongue brushed mine, maybe the second his palm scorched my back—but suddenly I’m tugging, clumsy, reckless, desperate for more.

And then he stops.

Not the kiss—he breaks it just enough to breathe, but his mouth is still hovering, still a threat—but his hands shift, firm on my sides, halting my frantic pulling.

For one flashing second, humiliation spikes—I think he’s rejecting me. But then he grips the hem of my hoodie, and in one clean, deliberate motion, he drags it upward.

I gasp, startled, arms lifting instinctively. The fabric peels away, slow against my skin, until it’s over my head and gone. My hair sticks in static. My chest feels raw and exposed—bare in his lap, nowhere to hide.

The cold air hits like a slap, goosebumps racing over every inch of me. My stomach knots tight, instinct screaming to curl in on myself, cover up. But before I can, his hands are there—firm, unhesitating. Sliding over my ribs, across my chest, down my back. Hot palms staking claim, heat against cold, fire over ice.

And suddenly I’m not shivering from the air anymore—I’m shivering because he’s touching me like this is allowed. Like he’s meant to. Like my bare skin belongs under his hands.

I’m still in his lap—straddling him, pressed to him, rocking without meaning to. The friction sends a jolt through me, my thighs tightening around his hips. The realization that I’m basically dry-humping the man I was supposed to be pranking nearly kills me.

For half a breath, he just looks. Staring at my bare skin like he can’t quite believe I let him take the hoodie off. My lungs seize, waiting, suspended. 

“Chi Cheng—” I manage, or maybe I just breathe his name.

He doesn’t answer. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier this time, teeth catching, tongue pushing past my defenses. I melt into him, every nerve ending turned inside out.

His hands roam everywhere, possessive, mapping bare skin like it belongs to him. Fingers splay over my spine, tracing upward until I arch, then slide down to grip my waist, dragging me closer. The chill of the room barely registers now; all I feel is the furnace of his touch.

Our mouths keep crashing like waves in the ocean.

This isn’t a kiss. This is collapse, implosion, freefall. His tongue presses against mine, demanding, tangling, drawing out sounds I didn’t even know I could make. My head tips back helplessly, jaw slack, because he’s not just kissing me—he’s taking me. Tasting me. Mint and smoke flood my mouth, sharp and addictive. I want to spit it out, I want to drown in it. I want another drag, another hit, another everything.

I forget who he is. Forget the name, the suit, the office, the smug smirks that drive me insane. Right now he’s just heat and teeth and the taste of nicotine-sweet mint against my tongue. I’m lost, drunk, stupid with it.

My hands scrabble at his shirt. Buttons. I need them undone. Need him undone. But every time I manage one, his tongue strokes mine and I lose focus, my fingers faltering, useless. I can’t count, can’t keep track, can’t keep anything except his mouth and his heat and the way he makes my body beg.

I want his chest bare under my palms, but my body won’t obey.

So I bite him. Accidentally.

His lip catches between my teeth, sharper than I mean.

Chi Cheng pulls back instantly. Not angry—his eyes are hooded, lips wet, breath coming hard—but gone.

The loss slams through me like a drop from a height.

My breath snags in my throat, panic and shame clawing up—until I hear the sound that spills from me. “No—don’t stop—” Pathetic. Broken. Begging.

I’m still leaning forward, chasing his mouth like I’m starving. Brows pinched, lips parted, trembling with want. I must look ridiculous—pouting like a child denied candy. But I don’t care. I can’t. Not when every inch of me screams that I need his mouth back on mine.

My whole body hums with want, and the empty inch between us feels devastating.

He studies me, and I know what he sees—my flushed face, my trembling and bitten mouth, the sulk twisting my expression into something small and needy.

And then he chuckles. Low, quiet, dangerous. The sound vibrates between us, more felt than heard, and it makes my chest cave. He’s amused. At me. At this pathetic pout I’m making. And somehow, it doesn’t humiliate—it coils tighter, pulls me closer.

Before I can whine again and continue sulking, his lips claim mine again. Softer this time, deliberate. Not devouring but coaxing, pulling the sound out of my throat instead of swallowing it. The change in pace leaves me dizzy, unraveling.

Then his hand finds mine. Guides it. Press it to his chest, warm under fabric. His fingers close over mine, steady, leading. And together, we work at his buttons. Slow. Me fumbling, him in control. Every slip of fabric undone feels like permission, every brush of his knuckles against mine a shock that makes me clutch harder.

It’s unravelling. He’s letting me undress him, but on his terms. My head is swimming, my body grinding down on him like it has no shame. And I don’t. Not anymore.

Because this kiss—these hands—this moment—

It’s not just flustering him.

It’s undoing me.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever get put back together.

Chapter Text

The kiss doesn’t end—it deepens. His mouth parts against mine, deliberate, pulling me closer until my lips are raw and trembling. His tongue slides against mine, slow, commanding, coaxing a sound from my throat I don’t even recognize. It’s not a kiss; it’s a claim. He tastes of smoke and mint, sharp and addicting, a contradiction that feels like him—cold veneer, heat beneath.

My hands fumble for him, searching, needing. My fingers slip past the fabric he’s left undone, brushing the bare skin of his chest. The contrast wrecks me—warm, solid, smooth muscle that flexes under my touch. I spread my palm flat, pressing, needing to feel more, and it makes the kiss spiral deeper.

And his hand—God, his hand. It slides over my skin again, fingers skating over my bare back, rougher than the fabric but unbearably steady. He isn’t groping, he isn’t rushing. He’s just there, caressing, anchoring me with every stroke like he’s mapping me, memorizing me. Each brush of his fingertips makes me shiver, goosebumps chasing up my spine even as the rest of me burns.

I can’t breathe. I don’t want to. My body is shamelessly moving against him, grinding down like I’m starving for contact. My thoughts scatter to ash. All I know is the taste of him, the heat of his hand on my skin, the solidity of his chest under my palm.

But even fire has limits. Breath runs out, our gasps breaking through the kiss in ragged bursts. His chest heaves against mine, every inhale dragging over my skin, every exhale hot against my lips. Slowly, reluctantly, our mouths part. Not willingly—just because our bodies demand it.

A thin string of spit stretches between us, catching the light, before breaking. I blink through the haze, dazed, my lips swollen, my lungs straining. My hand is still splayed against his chest, and I feel it—his heartbeat. Strong. Too fast.

His eyes meet mine. Dark, sharp, unreadable. His lips are wet, his jaw tight, his gaze steady enough to pin me to the spot. He looks like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

I’m the opposite. My face burns, my pulse skitters out of control, and the weight of his stare makes me want to collapse. A laugh slips out—weak, breathless, nervous. Before I can stop myself, I duck my head and bury my face against his neck. His skin is hot under my cheek, his pulse steady but loud, thrumming against my lips. I press closer, hiding like a fool, because I don’t know what to do with the mess I’ve just become.

For a moment, it felt so peaceful, he let me stay there—my face pressed to the crook of his neck, my breath shaky against his skin. His hand is still on my bare back, not moving now, just resting there. Heavy. Warm. Like he’s holding me in place.

Then he exhales. A long, measured breath that rakes across the top of my head. Not a sigh of contentment—no. It sounds heavier. Like he’s forcing something back down, building walls brick by brick while I cling to him.

His hand shifts. The warmth at my back turns into a steady pressure, guiding me—not shoving, but firm. He eases me off his lap, peeling me away piece by piece. My body resists, greedy for his heat, but he doesn’t falter. His touch is gentle, careful even, but there’s no room for argument.

“...I’ll let someone take you home,” he says at last, voice low, controlled.

“Hmmm— Huh?” The sound slips out of me before I can stop it, dazed, blinking at him like I didn’t hear right. I’m still leaning forward a little, hand hovering uselessly in the air, as if my body thinks I can just reach for him again.

But before I can, he catches it—my wrist in his hand. Not rough, not dismissive. Just… steady. He holds it still for a moment, like he’s taming the impulse out of me, then lowers it carefully to my side, placing it there like setting down something fragile.

“Let’s reschedule the stream,” he adds, quieter this time, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I have to do something.”

That’s when it hits me. The haze burns away, slow but sharp, leaving me bare in the silence. So that’s it.

My mouth opens, then shuts. A dozen words crowd my throat—What just happened? Did I do something wrong? Do you regret this?—but none make it past my lips.

I force a crooked laugh instead, rubbing the back of my neck like an idiot. “Right. Sure. Whatever.”

He doesn’t answer. Just finishes the last button, straightens his cuffs, stands. Back to untouchable. Back to being composed.

And me? I’m left shirtless and shivering in the middle of his living room, chest still buzzing where I touched him, lips swollen and aching, heart thudding like I ran a marathon.

The silence stretches. He doesn’t look at me again.

I tug my hoodie back on, fumbling with the sleeves, trying to cover the chill crawling over me. My brain wants to spiral, but I force it down—shove the confusion into a corner and slap a smirk over my face, because that’s what I do.

Still, one thought gnaws at me, unshakable, even as I head for the door:

What the hell just happened?

That night, I don’t sleep.

I toss. I turn. I flip my pillow to the cold side three times. None of it helps, because every time I try to sleep, I’m back there again.

I close my eyes, but my brain refuses to shut up. It replays every frame of that kiss like some sick highlight reel, looping in slow motion until I want to scream.

His mouth on mine—hot, wet, claiming. The drag of his teeth against my lip. The sound he made, low in his chest, when I pulled at his shirt.

Every detail sparks against me, static under my skin.

I roll over. Flip my pillow. Kick the blanket off. Pull it back on. Nothing helps.

Because under all the shame, the heat won’t leave me.

His hand—big, steady—splayed on my bare back, pressing me down like he owned me. The feel of his chest under my palm, hard and warm, shifting with every sharp breath.

It makes my stomach twist, my throat close. 

And that’s when I feel it.

The ache. The slow, shameful tightening in my shorts.

“Nope,” I mutter into the dark, yanking the blanket up to my chin like it’ll smother the problem. “Not happening. We are not doing this. We are a man of restraint. We have dignity. We—”

My body doesn’t listen. The ache builds anyway, low and insistent.

Because of course my cock doesn’t care about dignity. It twitches at the thought of him chuckling low in his throat, at the heat of his hands trapping mine while I fumbled with his buttons.

I squeeze my thighs together like an idiot, try to think of literally anything else—taxes, grocery lists, the smell of disgusting socks—but then I remember the way his lips were wet and shining when he pulled back.

I groan and squeeze my thighs even tighter. Pretend I’m not hard. Pretend I’m not remembering the way he chuckled into my mouth when I pouted. Pretend I’m not imagining that same mouth sliding lower.

I last about ten seconds.

“Goddamn it,” I hiss, shoving a hand into my sweats. My cock leaps like it’s been waiting all night.

The first touch rips a sound out of me—half gasp, half groan. “Ah—fuck—” I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified. It doesn’t stop the heat from blooming under my skin.

I stroke slow, then faster, every drag pulling another image from my brain. His hand guiding mine across his chest. The press of his thigh between mine. The weight of his breath in my ear.

It’s not me doing this—it’s him.

It’s always him.

“Chi Cheng,” I moan, muffled into the pillow, shame prickling hot across my face. My hips buck helplessly into my fist.

The sound of his name in my voice makes me shudder harder, pathetic and needy. My body jerks, legs trembling, like I’m begging him to pin me down again.

I bite the pillow to keep quiet, but I can’t stop the noises, the more I touch—sharp whines break free, louder than I mean. Every stroke makes me chase it harder, faster, until my whole body locks, strung tight on the edge.

I imagine it's him. Every squeeze is his hand. Every stroke is his mouth dragging over mine. Every gasp that slips out of me feels like something he pulled from my throat on purpose.

It hits me sharp, almost violent—spilling across my stomach, hot and sticky. My toes curl, my voice cracking into another moan of his name as I come, fist pumping through the aftershocks until I collapse, shaking.

For one blissful second, I float.

Then the shame punches me square in the gut.

I’m panting, sweaty, cock softening in my sticky hand, and all I can think is: what the fuck did I just do.

“Oh my god,” I groan, flopping onto my back and covering my face with both hands. My palm is damp and disgusting. “Ugh—EW. Who jerks off over a rejection?!”

I peel my hand off my face, grimacing at myself like I just smeared sin all over my cheeks.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A rejection. He kissed me like I was air and then dumped me like trash. Pushed me off, buttoned his shirt, sent me home.

The memory makes my stomach twist. My dick’s still softening in my hand and I already want to cut it off for betraying me.

“Wu Suowei,” I mutter to myself, rolling over and yanking the blanket over my head. “You’re disgusting. Pathetic. A fucking loser.”

Sleep comes in fragments. Each dream is worse than the last. His mouth. His hands. His voice. And every time, I wake with the echo of him in my chest and the bed feels colder.

Chi Cheng doesn’t call.

Not that night, not the next morning, not even the day after.

At first I tell myself he’s busy. Big scary boss schedules and all that. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he thinks I’ll text him first.

The first day, I check my phone every hour. Then every half hour. Then I start glaring at it like I can make it buzz.

It doesn’t.

So I sulk.

But I still check my phone every twenty minutes. When it doesn’t buzz, I check if it’s still working by texting myself from my tablet. It is. 

I sulk harder. Aggressively. Piles of chip bags and candy wrappers grow on my coffee table like modern art. My fridge is empty except for expired yogurt. My curtains stay drawn because sunlight feels like an insult.

The next day, I tell myself I’ll focus on other things.

I end up reorganizing my pantry. I alphabetize the instant noodles. Label the shelves. Sit on the floor crunching raw packs like chips until the salt burns my tongue. Still doesn’t erase the taste of him.

I try distractions. A movie marathon (accidentally picked one with a kiss scene that ruined me). I even downloaded a fitness app, did three push-ups, and immediately deleted it.

I try getting fresh air. Walk to the corner store. See the wall of cigarette packs behind the counter and freeze like a deer in headlights. I buy six bags of chips, shuffle home, eat them all in one sitting. My stomach aches, but it’s quieter than my head.

My apartment sinks into chaos. Wrappers pile up on the coffee table. Half-empty soda cans fizz out on the counter. One night at three a.m. I step on a pretzel crumb and nearly cry.

Nothing works. He’s still there — in my head, under my skin, pressed to my mouth.

Streaming should help. Usually it does. 

So I go live, try to force the old energy—big smiles, dumb jokes—but my rhythm’s gone. My timing’s off. Without him, the banter’s flat. I overcompensate, talk too loud, eat too much on camera. The chat knows. They always know.

[chat]: lmao suowei ur vibe is off today

[chat]: WHERE’S CC???

[chat]: no but fr is chi cheng okay why he ghosting

That last one stabs deep.

“Mods,” I snap, chip crumbs flying from my shirt, “ban that guy. No—ban everyone who says his name. I don’t care if it’s a typo. I don’t care if it’s pig latin. BAN.”

I point at the guilty message like it insulted my ancestors. My mods, traitors that they are, spam laughing emotes instead of obeying.

My jaw tightens. “Fine. Don’t ban them. But don’t think I won’t remember this betrayal when the revolution comes.”

The chat spams more laughing emojis, and I realize how petty I sound. I stuff another handful of chips into my mouth just to shut myself up.

Even streaming alone feels different now. Too quiet. No Chi Cheng leaning into frame with his cigarette, no smooth baritone cutting through my nonsense. Just me, rambling to fill the space, trying not to notice how much colder it feels without him.

What’s happening to me?

I end the stream early, slam the laptop shut, and collapse sideways on the couch. Surrounded by snack debris, I look like the tragic trash prince of my own kingdom.

I shouldn’t care about him this much.

And still—tonight before I close my eyes—I check my phone. And still—it doesn’t buzz.

Not once.

I scowl at the silent phone. I swear I won’t let him off the hook that easily. If he calls, I’m going to pretend I don’t care. I’ll be petulant. I’ll be dramatic. I’ll make him grovel for the next stream like he’s applying for a job. I will not fall apart at a single ring.

I tell myself I’m done waiting. That even if he doesn’t call, fine, whatever, I didn’t need him anyway. I rehearse exactly how furious I’ll be if he dares to ring me back: stern voice, pointed questions, a decade of emotional labor quoted verbatim. I practice saying, “Do you know what day it is? Do you know how long I stared at my ceiling? You will explain yourself,” in my best threatening streamer tone. I feel heroic. Indignant. Very mature.

My thumb is still hovering over the dark screen when it finally lights up.

Caller ID: (Not) Bald CEO

I nearly drop the phone. A dozen petty speeches evaporate like mist. For a full second I consider sending it straight to voicemail—be brave, Suowei, be icy—then I remember how badly my knees went to jelly the last time his voice threaded through my headphones. I steel myself, bite down on a fierce “I will scold you,” and swipe.

Except my thumb fumbles. I accidentally press the decline button.

“No—no—no!” I blurt before I remember anyone can’t hear me. “YOU FUCKING IDIOT.” I stare at the black screen like it offended me personally. I’ve been waiting for this for a week. A whole week. Do I call him back? God, I can’t call him back. I’ll look desperate. But if I don’t call—what if he thinks I’m flippant? What if he thinks I don’t care? I thumb at the call log like it’s a puzzle I can rearrange. Panic coils in my chest, fast and ridiculous and hot.

The phone rings again.

I inhale. Exhale. Count to three like someone taught me how to stop a seizure. This is not a drill. This is the moment I planned my vengeful speeches for. Be firm. Be furious. Don’t melt.

I answer.

“...Hello?” His voice is softer than I expected. Not sharp, not businesslike. Careful. Like he’s feeling out the word in his mouth.

My throat closes. “You—” I start, big and booming, ready to scold, but it collapses the instant he says my name.

“Suowei.”

God. I grip the phone tighter. Why does he say it like that? Stop shaking. Don’t melt. Don’t melt.

“Y-yeah?” My voice cracks like I’m fourteen again. Brilliant. Puberty 2.0. I clear my throat. “What, uh—what do you want?” Smooth. Very smooth. Definitely intimidating.

There’s a pause. I almost think the line cut out—then I hear it: the faint drag of breath, like he’s inhaling smoke. But there’s no click of a lighter. No exhale. Just silence stretching too long, like he’s arguing with himself.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, steady, but not cold. “Tomorrow. Come by. We’ll… stream.”

“Stream,” I repeat, like an idiot echo machine.

“Mm.” Another pause. I swear I hear him breathe in, like he’s buying time. “At my place. Same time.”

I blink at the ceiling, heart hammering. Don’t sound desperate, don’t sound desperate. “You’re—you’re calling me for that? To, uh… set it up?”

“...Yes.” The word comes slower than usual. Almost like he’s second-guessing it. But no flourish. No apology. No explanation. Just the word, flat and simple.

I had sworn I would scold him. I had a list. I had consequences. I had dignity.

I want to bite his head off, tell him how he ghosted me for a week, but my stupid traitor voice squeaks instead: “Okay.” Too soft. Too fast. Idiot. Pathetic.

For a moment, nothing. I picture him leaning back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, because when he speaks again his voice is quieter, rougher at the edges: “I’ll have someone get you and take you home uh after.”

Something in me stutters. My brain screams, Why does that sound weirdly tender?! Stop blushing. Do NOT blush at logistics. Out loud, I manage a mumble: “Good.” Too quiet, and I don’t even know what I mean—good you actually care, good you thought about me, good I missed you like hell.

There’s the faintest sound on the line—like a soft exhale, almost a laugh, but cut off before it can form. Then just silence. He hangs up.

The stream is set for tomorrow at his place. I stare at the blank screen for a long, ridiculous minute, feeling a grin split my face into two. All my  practiced fury and righteous speeches dissolve into a single, humiliating truth: I am absolutely excited.

Then I whoop out loud like an idiot, throw a cushion at the wall, and immediately start planning how I’ll outfit myself to be equal parts chaotic and irresistible.

Chapter Text

The door opens before I can knock again, and there he is—Chi Cheng, looking like sin and spreadsheets had a baby. Dark shirt, cuffs rolled, cigarette already perched between his fingers like he was born holding it. His face is unreadable, as always, and it hits me how much I missed that blank, terrifyingly handsome wall of an expression.

I beam at him. “Hi!”

He blinks at me. No smile. Just the faintest twitch of his brow, like my enthusiasm is an unsolvable equation.

“Come in.”

Inside feels the same as last time—cold, sleek, expensive. But tonight it feels different because I’m buzzing. I missed this. I missed him.

We set up for stream. He moves with his usual precision: cords aligned, camera adjusted, headset checked. I pretend to help but mostly fidget around his space, hovering closer than necessary. He doesn’t tell me to back off, so I take that as permission.

By the time we go live, chat is already swarming.

[chat]: HE’S BACKKKKKK

[chat]: STREAM DUO WE MISSED U

[chat]: chengwei nation rise

I lean dramatically toward the mic. “Nation, your president has returned! Apologies for the delay—I was busy plotting world domination.”

Chi Cheng exhales smoke, silent as ever, but I swear his lips twitch.

And just like that, it feels normal again. Too normal.

I wedge myself onto the edge of his chair, shoulder pressed against his arm. “Scoot,” I whisper.

“You have your own chair.” His tone is dry, even.

“Yes, but this one has you in it.” I grin, shifting closer. Our knees bump. He doesn’t move away.

Then, because I am a chaotic genius, I drape my bare legs across his lap. Yep. Shorts, bare legs, fully casual like I own the place. It’s intimate but not technically illegal; it’s also exactly the level of nonsense that makes the chat combust.

[chat]: HES IN HIS LAP ALREADY NANI THE FUCK

[chat]: ceo looks so tense lmaooo

[chat]: pls blink twice if ur held hostage

I’m practically a living meme, grinning into the camera while my toes wiggle against his thigh. I can feel the cheap electric thrill of doing something minorly scandalous and getting away with it. It’s perfect.

I don’t even notice his tension. I’m too busy being thrilled that he isn’t pushing me off. His focus stays on the screen, but his hand hesitates on the mouse every time my shoulder nudges his. His ears are turning faintly pink, though I chalk it up to the heat of the monitors.

I babble to fill the silence, throwing jokes at chat, snatching snacks from the table. Halfway through, I steal a chip from his bowl and pop it into my mouth.

He pauses mid-click. His jaw tightens.

I laugh with my mouth full. “What, you gonna fight me for it?”

His gaze flickers to me for one sharp second—then back to the screen. He doesn’t say anything, but his next drag of the cigarette looks a little too forceful.

Chat notices before I do.

[chat]: did u SEE that look???

[chat]: sir boutta combust istg

[chat]: bro is ovulating live on stream 💀💀

I sprawl sideways in my chair, head tilting until it almost rests on his shoulder. Almost. “Comfort,” I declare to the stream. “Streaming is a dangerous sport. I require moral support.”

Chi Cheng shifts slightly, like he’s about to shrug me off, but then he doesn’t. His posture goes rigid instead, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

 [chat]: CEO IS MALFUNCTIONING

 [chat]: suowei STOP TAUNTING HIM YOU MENACE

 [chat]: we stan down bad kingssss

For the first time I don’t care what the chat says. I just keep talking nonsense. 

My brain’s too noisy with he’s here, I’m here, this feels good to notice anything strange. To me, it just feels like the rhythm we had before. Banter, silence, his steady presence anchoring my chaos. I don’t see the way his knuckles whiten briefly around the mouse, or how he clears his throat twice but says nothing.

It’s only later—when I watch the VOD—that I’ll notice. But right now, in the moment, all I feel is warm.

The chat explodes with hearts and ship names and a million screen-grab requests. I flop back, still half-on him, and laugh like a maniac. I brush my arm across his chest while stretching, because touching is the only language I have that actually says how much I’ve missed him.

He stiffens. I don’t think much of it.

Instead, I grin at him, wide and stupid. “See? We’re a perfect team. Admit it.”

He exhales a long plume of smoke, eyes unreadable. “…You talk too much.”

But his voice is quieter than usual. Softer.

And I, being me, miss the crack in his armor entirely.

The stream ends with a flourish, the chat exploding in emojis and inside jokes, but I barely notice. My grin doesn’t fade even as the camera light clicks off. Because he’s still here. Right next to me.

And before he can get up, I pounce.

I spin in the chair, swing one leg over his lap, and plop down like I own the place. My arms hook around the back of his neck, chin resting brazenly on his shoulder.

“Chair upgrade,” I announce, smug as hell. “From boring CEO chair to Chi Cheng Deluxe. Extra cushioning. Warmth included.”

He freezes. The human embodiment of a buffering wheel. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them.

I wriggle, nuzzling against his collarbone like a satisfied cat. “Mm. Perfect. You’re stuck now. Can’t eject me. Contract signed.”

Still no reaction. Just a deep inhale, a visible shift in his chest, then an exhale through his nose—long, controlled, frayed at the edges.

I laugh, loud and careless, and squeeze his shoulders. “What’s wrong? You look like you swallowed a cigarette stick.”

Finally, finally, his hands move. They reach for mine. His fingers curl around my wrists. He lowers my hands from his neck, sets them gently on my own knees.

“Suowei.” His voice is low, too careful. “Wait. Let’s talk.”

The words bounce right off me. “We are talking. I’m talking. About how your lap is clearly my rightful throne. It’s destiny, Chi Cheng. Don’t fight fate.”

But he doesn’t let go. His hands linger around my wrists a second too long, like he’s afraid if he releases me, I’ll float away—or worse, cling tighter.

He meets my eyes, serious now. “I called you here because I need to tell you something.”

Something in his tone cuts through the haze. My grin falters.

“This…” His eyes flicker down—at my legs draped over him, at my hands curled into the fabric of his shirt. He swallows, looks back up. “…will be the last time.”

The last time.

Two words, heavy as a guillotine.

My brain stutters. “The last time what?”

His jaw tightens. “The last time we stream. The last time—” He hesitates. “…this happens.”

For a second, I can’t breathe. Then I’m moving. 

I jerked upright like the chair burned me, like he burned me. My chest hollows out, rage and disbelief rushing in to fill the void.

“That’s it?” My voice cracks high, ugly. “That’s it?! You’re just—you’re done with me? Just like that?!”

“Suowei—”

“No!” It bursts out sharp, ragged, desperate. “Unbelievable. You—you really were just using me, weren’t you? A convenient PR stunt, a little mascot to boost your numbers—”

His brows knit. He shakes his head once, fast. “That’s not—”

“You kiss me—” My throat burns. “You kiss me like—like you mean it, you let me—let me sit here, you make me think—” My voice spikes higher. “And now what? Just toss me aside because contract’s over?!”

“Listen—”

“I can’t believe it.” The words tumble out jagged, unstoppable. “I fell for it. For you. I’m so fucking stupid. You—you demon. Smoke-flavored, heartless, corporate demon! Who even does that?!”

His mouth opens again, then shuts. His eyes flash with something—guilt? frustration? panic? I don’t care.

“Was it fun?” My chest heaves, fists clenching. “Watching me—me fall for it? For you? Was it entertaining? A little game to pass the time while you sit up here in your fucking glass tower?”

“Suowei.” His voice is firmer now, almost pleading. His hand lifts, hovers at my waist. His fingers tremble, just for a second, before he steadies them.

I don’t notice. Or I don’t let myself. Because if I see it—if I let myself believe he’s not as cold as he sounds—I’ll break.

My words hitch. “Did you even want it? Or was it all just—” My lip wobbles. Shit. A hiccup splits through, sharp and humiliating. My throat locks up, and suddenly I can’t swallow it back.

His face changes instantly. Panic flickers there, raw and unguarded. He rises halfway from the chair, hand shooting forward to catch mine. “Wait—”

But I stumble back, tear-blind, shaking my head. “Don’t touch me.”

“Suowei—” He takes a step, his hand grasping for my wrist. I catch the tremor in his fingers, but my chest is already caving in.

I wrench free. “No! You don’t get to—” My voice shatters. I choke, hiccup, furious at myself, furious at him. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then just—just decide I’m disposable!”

I bolt. My feet hit the floor too hard, heart slamming. He’s behind me—his voice sharp with urgency, footsteps closing in.

“Wu Suowei!”

The elevator dings. Salvation. I lunge inside, slam the button.

He calls again, closer. The doors slide shut in agonizing slow motion.

And I make the mistake of looking back.

There he is. Striding fast, chest rising hard, eyes locked on me like he can drag me back with sheer will. The cigarette is forgotten, his cuffs half-rolled, the mask of composure cracked open.

Our gazes catch, hold.

And then—traitor. My body betrays me. One tear slips free, hot and shameful against my cheek.

His eyes widen. His hand jerks forward, too late.

The doors close.

And the last thing I see is him, staring back at me, the walls between us solidifying with every floor I descend.

Chapter Text

By the time I reach the beach, my lungs are burning, my sneakers full of sand, and my hand clutched around a cheap beer can like it’s my lifeline. Don’t even remember buying it, just that the cashier gave me a weird look when I dumped loose coins on the counter. Doesn’t matter. My feet know where they’re going.

The beach is empty this time of night, just the tide dragging itself back and forth, endless, patient. My sneakers sink into the sand, too heavy, so I kick them off and let the grains bite cold into my socks. Hoodie zipped all the way up, hood tight around my face, I trudge until the city lights fade behind me and it’s just me, the waves, and the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

I drop onto the sand gracelessly, the beer cracking open with a hiss that echoes too loud. One sip and my face scrunches. God, it’s bitter. My tolerance is a joke, so after two gulps my head is my cheeks are already heating up.

I tip the can toward the ocean like a toast. “Pathetic. Who falls this fast?” My voice comes out raw, half swallowed by the wind. “Who catches feelings this hard?”

The waves don’t answer. Bastards.

I laugh, sharp and hollow, and chuck a pebble into the surf. It plinks weakly, swallowed whole.

“‘Enough,’ he says.” I throw a pebble. It makes the weakest plop in history. “Enough, like it’s a damn video game. Like—like that kiss didn’t set me on fire.”

I tip the can back again, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. My brain replays it on loop, cruel bastard that it is: the hoodie sliding off my shoulders, his hand on my spine, the way he kissed me like—like I mattered. Like he was starving.

And then tonight—cold voice, clipped words, hands pushing mine away. “This will be the last time.”

I groan, rolling sideways into the sand. “Maybe I read the room wrong. Maybe I was just… convenient. Disposable. 

Disposable. The word tastes worse than the beer.

I flop backward into the sand, hoodie hood pulling tighter over my face. 

“Congrats, Wu Suowei,” I mutter up at the sky. “First crush in forever and you picked a goddamn iceberg.”

The stars overhead blur and multiply. I blink fast. No way. No crying.

My eyes sting. I scrub at them fast, refusing. “Nope. Not happening. Not crying over him.”

But then — traitor. One hot tear slips free, carving a line down my cheek.

I sit up violently, pointing at the ocean like it’s the guilty party. “Fine!  One. Just one! That’s all you get, Chi Cheng.”

But the second I say it—game over. The dam breaks. Another tear slides down. Then another. And suddenly I’m full-on sobbing. Ugly hiccupping sobs that shake my whole body.

“Goddamn it—” I choke, wiping my face with sandy sleeves, which just makes it worse. “Stop—stop leaking, you idiot—”

But it won’t stop. My chest heaves, breath hitching like I’m twelve again, crying over a lost pet or a broken toy. Except this time it’s worse. Because it’s him. Because it’s me.

I throw the empty can into the sand, shouting hoarsely, “Take it! Take my dignity too while you’re at it!”

I watch as the waves keep crashing, steady as a heartbeat. The wind lashes my hair into my face, sticks damp against my mouth. I taste salt — ocean or tears, who knows.

I collapse backward into the sand again, arms flung wide like a tragic drunk starfish. My throat burns, my nose is stuffy, and the tears won’t quit.

“Who even does this?” I croak up at the sky. “Who gets rejected and then—then cries on a beach like some… some tragic drama lead?!”

I hiccup. The hiccup turns into a wail. The wail dissolves into laughter halfway through, cracked and bitter.

“Wu Suowei, you absolute idiot.” My voice breaks again, softer this time. “But god… this is the first time it’s ever felt like this.”

The words spill out softer and softer, like they’re not even meant for me, like I’m confessing to the sea.

I close my eyes. His face is there immediately. Blank, stoic, terrifyingly handsome. His lips red and swollen after that kiss. His hand trembling when he reached for me tonight. Did I imagine that? Probably. My drunk brain lies.

The tears come again, quieter now. Slipping down, cooling into the sand. I don’t fight them anymore. I just let them go.

The tide creeps closer, cold foam licking at my socks, but I don’t move. My limbs feel heavy, my chest hollow. The beer can rolls out of my slack grip and the wind steals the last fizzing hiss.

I laugh again — soft, shaky, vulnerable. Then the sound dies, swallowed whole by the night.

At some point, I doze. The surf is my lullaby, the wind my blanket.

When I wake, it’s still dark, but the horizon glows faint, a promise of morning. My body feels like sand itself—grainy, heavy, impossible to move. My head pounds, my throat’s raw, my face crusted with salt.

I sit up slowly, head pounding. The ocean’s still there, endless, steady. My chest isn’t.

That tired, bitter clarity settles in my bones like lead. No grand meltdown, no screaming. Just this dull certainty:

“That’s it,” I mutter hoarsely to the horizon. “I’m done.”

I passed out again with that thought in my head.

When I come to again, the sun’s already clawing its way over the horizon, too bright, too smug. My skull feels like it’s splitting and the sand has somehow crawled into every fold of my hoodie. Perfect. Even the universe wants me miserable.

Sand everywhere. In my hoodie. In my hair. In my mouth. My sneakers are MIA, possibly sacrificed to the gods of the tide. I groan and roll over, immediately regret it when my stomach lurches.

“Ughhh… this is what heartbreak tastes like.”

The seagulls, insensitive bastards, scream overhead like they’re laughing.

It takes me a full fifteen minutes to crawl upright and another five to fish my phone out of my hoodie pocket. Battery at 12%. Perfect. Just enough to make a poor life choice.

I squint at the screen. Notifications explode—missed calls, unread messages. Most from him. A few from Shuai.

For one reckless second, my thumb hovers over Chi Cheng’s name. Then I slam the phone down into the sand like it burned me. Nope. Not doing that.

Instead, I jab Shuai’s contact and put it on speaker, cradling the phone against my chest as I flop back dramatically.

It rings twice.

Then: “Ohhh, look who finally remembered he owns a phone! Mr. Celebrity! Mr. Lap Warmer! Took you long enough, bitch.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Shuai…”

“You think you can just parade your bare legs on stream like some two-bit camgirl and I wouldn’t notice? Babe, the way you draped yourself on him—my god. I had to fan myself. You were practically—”

“Stop.” My voice comes out flat.

He pauses. Then snorts. “What, embarrassed now? Please. The internet is never going to let you live that down. The memes are already out there. You’re a household lap.”

“I said, stop.”

There’s something in my tone, even I can hear it. Too raw. Too empty.

Shuai quiets. “…Okay. What’s going on?”

I stare at the ocean, eyes gritty. “I’m done.”

“With what? Drama? Streaming? Wearing pants? Because, honey, that ship—”

“With him.” My throat works, dry and scratchy. “I’m done with Chi Cheng.”

Silence. Dead air. I can almost hear Shuai’s brain screeching to a halt.

Finally: “…You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be. You just spent an entire stream climbing him like a tree, and now—what, you woke up and decided celibacy? No. I don’t buy it. Tell me you’re trolling.”

I close my eyes. The memory of last night flickers behind them like a cruel montage: his hands pulling mine down, his voice low—This will be the last time.

My chest tightens. “He ended it. Said it will be the last time. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

A sharp inhale from Shuai’s end. Then he laughs, forced. “Please. He’s Chi Cheng. His idea of flirting is not calling security. You can’t just—”

“No, Shuai. I’m serious.” I sit up, clutching the phone tighter. My voice cracks, but I push through. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep… humiliating myself. Waiting for him to feel something he clearly doesn’t.”

The silence this time is heavier. When Shuai speaks again, his tone is different. Softer. “…You really mean it.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” A pause. “So you cried, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“On the beach? With alcohol? Ugh. Classic. You’re like a sad music video in flip-flops.”

I groan. “Why did I even call you?”

“Because you love me. And because I’m right. You’re martyring yourself, Wei. Again. You always do this—you decide something dramatic and irreversible, and then wallow like the tragic heroine you were clearly born to be.”

My laugh is hollow. “Martyring myself? No. I’m saving myself. From him. From—this.”

“‘This,’ he says, like you weren’t just two days ago making googly eyes while dangling your legs across his lap like some budget mermaid.”

My throat burns. “That’s over.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re just… what? Never talking to him again? Cutting him off like bad Wi-Fi?”

“Yes.”

Shuai whistles low. “Wow. You’re actually serious. I thought I’d have to pry you off his leg with a crowbar.”

Something inside me wavers at the mental image, but I steady my voice. “I mean it. I’m done. No more streams. No more calls. No more…” My voice dips to a whisper. “…No more hoping.”

There’s a long pause. Shuai doesn’t fill it with jokes this time. Finally, he says, “You know I’ll back you. Whatever you decide. Even if you’re being dramatic as hell.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. But it doesn’t matter. I can tell you’re… wrecked. And if you need space, if you need to cut him off? Fine. Do it. Just… don’t lie to yourself, okay? Don’t pretend you don’t still—”

“Don’t.” My voice comes out sharp. Desperate. “Don’t say it.”

The ache in my chest is too raw, too close to bursting again. If he says it out loud, I’ll unravel.

Shuai exhales slowly. “…Fine. Not saying it. But hear me, Wei: running away isn’t always healing. Sometimes it’s just running.”

“Then let me run.” The words scrape out of me, sharp and desperate. “Just this once. Please.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “Okay.”

That tiny word settles heavier than the tide. I tilt my head back, stare at the pale sky, and realize my chest feels both lighter and emptier—like I just signed something I can’t take back.

Shuai clears his throat. “So what now? You gonna squat on the beach forever, grow barnacles, become a cryptid?”

I laugh, weak but real. “Maybe. Better than going home.”

“Fine. Go be a beach goblin. Just text me so I know you didn’t drown. And Wei?”

“…Yeah?”

“Don’t block him drunk. You’ll regret it. Trust me. Do it sober, with spite in your heart. Much cleaner that way.”

I snort. “You’re insane.”

“Takes one to know one. Now charge your phone, idiot. And brush your teeth. I can smell your hangover through the speaker.”

He hangs up before I can answer.

I’m left alone again, the waves whispering, the ache in my chest stubborn as ever. But the decision sits there too, sharp and certain.

I’m done.

And for once, the waves sound so calm, like they agree, like they believe me.

The first day, ignoring him feels… powerful.

My phone buzzes nonstop, screen lighting up every five minutes with his name. I throw it face-down on the nightstand of my cheap little beachside motel, pull the blanket over my head, and grin bitterly to myself. Look at me. Wu Suowei: master of self-control.

By noon, I cave just enough to scroll through the notifications.

[IGNORE]: Where are you.

[IGNORE]: Call me.

[IGNORE]: Suowei.

Short. Blunt. Like him. Nothing flowery. Nothing that even remotely sounds like regret.

I toss the phone across the bed and mutter, “Yeah, keep it up, demon. You’re blocked from my heart, if not my contact list.”

hen I bury my face in the pillow and pretend the hollow in my chest is victory.

The second day, it’s harder.

The sea wind wakes me, salty and sharp through the thin motel curtains. I wander the beach barefoot, sipping a sad excuse for coffee from a paper cup. His persistence is insane—calls, messages, even one missed video call. 

My phone rattles against my pocket, vibrating like a wasp.

I pull it out. Missed calls. A new text.

[IGNORE]: Answer me.

I picture him in his office, immaculate as always, chain-smoking and clicking redial like a man possessed.

The image almost makes me smile. Almost. Then the ache hits again—right behind the ribs, where it always hides—and I laugh too loud, too bitter.

“Relax, Wu Suowei,” I mutter to myself, “he’s not blowing up your phone because he misses you. He’s just worried you’ll tank his stock price if you implode on camera.”

The coffee tastes like burnt water. I dump it in the sand.

That evening, another notification—this one not from him but from a corporate email address with his company logo in the header.

Subject: Follow-up on Stream Collaboration

Dear Wu Suowei, 

We would like to schedule a meeting with you and CEO Chi Cheng to discuss the next stage of our partnership and content rollout strategy. Please confirm your availability at your earliest convenience.

I bark out a laugh. Sharp, humorless.

“Next stage, huh? Yeah. Fuck your rollout strategy.” I swipe delete, even though my hands are trembling.

The third day, I stop pretending it’s easy.

My body goes through the motions—wake up, wander to the water, buy chips from the corner shop—but my mind… my mind won’t shut up.

I miss the silence he filled with smoke. The weight of him sitting too still beside me. The way his fingers hesitated on the lighter before every cigarette, like he was deciding something.

I miss the stupid little things: how his shirts always smelled faintly of mint and tobacco. How he cleared his throat twice before speaking. How his hand, once, just once, lingered at the small of my back like he didn’t mean to let go.

I hate myself for remembering.

The calls are spaced out now, less frantic. A rhythm: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, one at night. Always short messages. Never paragraphs. Never explanations.

And still, when the phone buzzes, I grab for it like it’s oxygen.

 [IGNORE]: Let me talk to you.

 [IGNORE]: Answer me.

 [IGNORE]: Please.

That last one wrecks me. Please. He’s never said please to me before.

I stare at the word until the screen goes dark. Then I throw the phone into my bag and stomp down the shoreline barefoot, like distance could drown out the echo of it.

“Don’t fall for it,” I lecture myself, kicking up sand. “Don’t you dare. This is just strategy. He’s a CEO, everything’s a negotiation. Don’t. Don’t—”

But my chest doesn’t listen. It clenches, tighter and tighter, like it’s begging for him.

A wave rushes up and soaks the cuff of my sweatpants. I hiss and scramble back, cursing. Figures. Even the ocean’s against me.

Day three blurs into four. The sea stays steady, the calls keep coming, but me—I’m unraveling. By the fourth night, I’m done pretending.

Not completely. Not the way he wants. But I’m drunk again.

The beer’s cheap, lukewarm, fizzing in my stomach, but it does its job—quieting the screaming in my head. The tide rushes up the sand and crashes back, endless and steady. Unlike me.

I sit cross-legged with the phone in my palm, staring at his name. My reflection in the black screen looks pathetic: red-eyed, wind-tangled hair, hoodie pulled tight like armor.

I whisper to myself, “Just one call. Just to say it. Then it’s done.”

My thumb hovers. My pulse is so loud it drowns out the waves.

When I finally press call, my pulse kicks so hard it hurts.

It rings once. Twice. He picks up immediately.

“Suowei.” His voice, rough, urgent. Like he hasn’t spoken all day and saved it just for me.

I swallow hard. My throat aches. “Don’t call me again.”

There’s silence. Heavy, waiting.

I push on, words spilling in a flat, broken rhythm. “Don’t look for me. Don’t send your assistants, don’t spam my phone. I don’t want you in my life.”

I hear him inhale sharply on the other end, like he’s about to speak.

I don’t let him.

Click.

Call ended.

I drop the phone in the sand like it burned me, chest heaving. My ears ring with the sound of the waves and that silence—that single second before the line cut, when he didn’t even get a word in.

For a while, I just sit there, hugging my knees, staring out at the black ocean. My breath fogs in the night air. My heart won’t slow down.

Then I laugh. Weak, cracked. “That’s it. Done. You hear me, Chi Cheng? I’m done.”

But even as the words leave me, I know I’m lying. Because the truth is carved deep: I miss him. God help me, I miss him so much it hurts to breathe.

Chapter Text

The lock sticks like always, a stubborn little twist before the deadbolt clicks. I shoulder the door open, stumble into my apartment, and immediately regret it.

The smell hits first: stale instant noodles, unwashed laundry, and the faint tang of dust. Home sweet hellhole.

I dump my duffel bag on the floor, kick the door shut, and just stand there for a second. Everything looks exactly the same as I left it—messy desk piled with energy drink cans, sagging couch with a half-dead throw pillow, the monitor glow blinking faintly in sleep mode. But the air feels heavier. Colder. Like the place knows I’m coming back as a loser.

My shoulders sag. “Well. Congratulations, Wu Suowei. You ran away to the beach to cry like a rejected K-drama heroine, and all you got was a sunburn and sand in your ass.”

I kick off my sneakers, peel off my hoodie, and flop face-first onto the couch. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t look. I know whose name is lighting it up, and I’ve already decided.

I dig it out, thumb hovering. Notifications stack: missed calls, unread messages. All him.

For one reckless second, my chest leaps. He’s still trying. He hasn’t given up.

Then I scowl, hit block on every app, and toss the phone onto the floor like it bit me.

“There. Done. Over. Finito. Dead and buried.”

The silence after is… crushing. It’s like ripping out your own oxygen tube. The kind of silence that makes you want to check, just once more, just to be sure.

I roll onto my back, groan, cover my face with both hands. Don’t. Don’t do it. You blocked him for a reason.

Two seconds later I’m squinting through my fingers at the dark phone screen, waiting for a miracle notification to slip through the cracks. Nothing. Just my wallpaper staring back at me: a dumb meme Shuai sent me last year.

I groan louder, like maybe I can crush the longing out of my chest. “Great plan, genius. Block him and then sit around waiting for him to Houdini through the firewall. Pathetic.”

The fridge hums from the kitchen. My stomach growls. My cupboards are stocked exclusively with expired ramen packets and off-brand chips. I should go grocery shopping, but my body feels glued to the couch.

Instead, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion swamp me. Maybe if I sleep long enough, I’ll wake up in a different timeline.

The doorbell rings.

I jerk upright, heart hammering. For one wild second I think it’s him—Chi Cheng, tall and terrifying in my doorway, dragging me back by force. My pulse rockets so hard my throat aches.

I stumble to the door, yank it open.

It’s not him.

It’s a delivery guy in a neon jacket, holding a grease-stained paper bag in one hand and a cup carrier in the other. The smell hits me instantly—fried chicken, hot and crispy, and something sweet—milk tea with pearls.

“Wu Suowei?” the guy asks, glancing at his receipt.

I blink at him. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

“Delivery.” He thrusts the bag toward me.

“I didn’t order this.”

“Already paid,” he says, bored. “Name on the order: Mr. Chi Cheng.”

The world tilts. My grip on the doorframe tightens.

I croak, “What?”

“Mr. Chi Cheng,” the guy repeats, like he’s saying duh. “Said it’s for you.”

My pulse explodes in my ears. My eyes go so wide I feel like a cartoon.

Of course he’d find a way around the block. Of course he’d invade even this space. He can’t text me, so he feeds me instead.

I snatch the bag from the guy, shove it back into his hands. “Tell him I don’t want it. He can choke on it.”

The delivery man stares at me. “Uh. It’s already—”

“Tell him to stop! I don’t need his pity food!”

I slam the door so hard the frame rattles. My breath saws out of me in angry bursts.

The smell lingers, fried and sweet and unfair. My stomach growls so loud it echoes.

I press my forehead to the door, whispering to myself like a lunatic. “No. No. Don’t. Don’t even think about it. Be strong. You’re an independent man. You don’t need—”

My stomach interrupts with another roar.

I curse, whirl, yank the door open again. The delivery guy is still standing there, looking bewildered.

“I’ll take it,” I snap, snatching the bag and drinks. “But tell the bastard I threw it out.”

The guy blinks. “…Okay?”

“Tell him!” I point a finger like I’m casting a spell. “Word for word: ‘He threw it out.’ Got it?”

“Uh. Sure.”

I slam the door again, lock it, and slide down to the floor clutching the bag like contraband.

The smell makes my eyes roll back. I rip it open, shove a piece of chicken into my mouth, and nearly moan. It’s still hot, perfectly seasoned, the kind of food that tastes like love if you squint.

“Goddammit.” Grease slicks my fingers. “Why does it have to be so good?”

I slurp the milk tea next, pearls chewy and sweet, and groan dramatically against the door. “I hate you, Chi Cheng. I hate you so much. …Fuck, this is delicious.”

At the bottom of the bag, I find it: a folded slip of paper, neat handwriting in bold strokes.

Sorry.

Just that. One word. No signature. He didn’t need to.

My chest squeezes. I clutch the note like it’s dangerous, like it’ll explode. My brain screams at me to rip it up, burn it, flush it down the toilet.

Instead, I tuck it into the drawer of my desk, hiding it under old receipts.

“Not because I care,” I mutter to the empty room. “Because evidence. Yeah. Evidence for when I sue him for harassment.”

My stomach growls again. I shove more chicken into my mouth.

And just like that, I’m crying and chewing at the same time. Grease and tears and saltwater mixing until I can’t tell which is which.

I laugh bitterly, the sound wet and broken. “Congratulations, Wu Suowei. First heartbreak in forever and you’re eating it out of a paper bag like a raccoon.”

The fried chicken should’ve been a one-off. A weird, petty move from a CEO who didn’t know how to take rejection. A last hurrah before he finally left me alone.

That’s what I told myself as I licked grease off my fingers, hid the note under a pile of tax forms, and vowed to “definitely, absolutely, swear on my life” never to touch anything with his name attached again.

And then the doorbell rang.

The next day.

At nine in the morning.

I shuffled to the door in my boxers, hair sticking up like a tragic porcupine, and squinted at another delivery guy holding a brown paper bag and a tray of soy milk.

“Wu Suowei?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.

He checked the receipt. “Says here it’s for you. Paid for by—”

I groaned so loud he flinched. “Don’t say it.”

He said it anyway. “—Mr. Chi Cheng.”

I considered slamming the door in his face again. Really, I did. But the smell wafting up was unmistakable: warm scallion pancakes, flaky and golden. My absolute weakness.

I snatched the bag, grumbled, “Tell him I threw it in the trash,” and shut the door.

Inside, I devoured two pancakes in under three minutes, guilt gnawing at me with every bite. At the bottom of the bag: another note, folded neat.

Breakfast.

That was it. One word. Sharp as ever. But my heart still twisted like a pretzel.

I stuffed the note in the same drawer as the first, slammed it shut, and shouted at the ceiling, “STOP FEEDING ME, YOU CORPORATE DEMON!”

The ceiling didn’t answer. My stomach did, happily digesting.

By the end of the week, it was a routine.

No matter what time of day, no matter what excuse I made, the doorbell always rang.

The third delivery is flowers.

I’ve just woken from an afternoon nap, hair sticking up, mouth dry, head pounding. I shuffle to the door in mismatched socks and open it to a man holding the biggest bouquet I’ve ever seen.

Roses. Ice blue roses. Dozens of them.

“Delivery for Wu Suowei.”

I blink. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with those? I don’t even own a vase.”

The guy looks bored. “They came with this.” He hands me a small envelope.

My chest tightens as I rip it open.

I don’t know how to write apologies. But I want you to have something alive in your apartment, something that doesn’t leave when it gets difficult. 

My throat closes. I shove the flowers back at him. “Tell him I’m allergic. Tell him they died on arrival. Tell him I burned them, I don’t care.”

The delivery guy just shrugs and leaves the bouquet in my arms anyway.

I stomp inside, dump the roses into an old ramen pot, and glare at them from across the room.

The petals are stupidly soft. They smell like patience.

I mutter, “Dumbest apology ever,” and bury my nose in them anyway.

The fourth delivery comes when I’m streaming.

Chat is popping off, I’m halfway through ranting about a gacha pull when the doorbell interrupts me.

“Hold up, Nation,” I say, muting the mic and jogging to the door.

This time it’s boba. Two giant cups of brown sugar milk tea with my favorite toppings.

The delivery guy recites like a robot: “From Mr. Chi Cheng. Paid in full.”

I nearly slam the door in his face. Instead, I grab the drinks and hiss, “Tell him I said I hope he chokes on a tapioca pearl.”

I storm back to my desk, plop the drinks down, unmute, and groan.

Chat explodes:

[chat]: IS THAT BOBA??
[chat]: suowei u treat yourself king!!
[chat]: wait is that two?? who’s the second for 👀👀👀

I grab one cup and stab the straw in. “It’s called indulgence. Self-love. Don’t read into it.”

The first sip is heaven. Sweet, chewy, comforting.

I sigh, loud and dramatic. “Fine, ONE POINT to the ice demon. But he’s still losing overall.”

Chat spams laughing emojis. They have no idea.

By the fifth delivery, I stop pretending.

It’s ramen from my favorite shop. Then dumplings. Then a box of mochi with another note tucked under the lid.

I know you’ll say no. I know you’ll curse me. But don’t starve yourself

I slam the lid shut, heart racing. “He doesn’t get to take care of me anymore,” I whisper.

But I still eat every dumpling.

And I keep the note.

It becomes a routine.

Every other day, something shows up at my door. Sometimes it’s food, sometimes it’s flowers, once it was a stack of sketchbooks and markers because he remembered me doodling absentmindedly during a stream.

Each one comes with a note. Short, clipped, painfully him.

I wish I could explain.
Do you miss me?
I’m sorry. More than you know.
Please let me try again.

I keep telling the delivery guys to pass along my insults. “Tell him I said shove it. Tell him I said he’s wasting his money. Tell him he can’t buy me.”

But at night, when the apartment is too quiet, I dig the notes out of the drawer where I’ve been hoarding them. I read them until the words blur.

I hate him.

I miss him.

Both feel true.

“Sup, bitch,” Shuai greets cheerfully. “How’s it feel being spoiled rotten by Mr. Iceberg?”

I nearly choke. “What?”

“Oh please. You think I don’t know? He won’t stop blowing up my phone. ‘How’s Suowei? Is he eating? Is he safe? Did he sleep?’ Bro, I’m this close to blocking him.”

I sit up, tofu forgotten. “He’s—he’s what?”

“Annoying the shit out of me,” Shuai says, unfazed. “Man’s supposed to be some scary CEO, but apparently he’s decided I’m his personal Wu Suowei update hotline. Do you know how many times he’s asked me if you’ve blocked him? Like, bro, if you don’t know, then obviously yes!”

My jaw drops. My ears ring.

All the petty satisfaction I’ve been clinging to curdles into fury.

“He’s bothering you?” I hiss.

“Constantly. I can’t even scroll in peace without seeing his name pop up. Honestly, Wei, if you don’t want him, you better train him, because right now he’s a stray cat scratching at my door.”

I slam my chopsticks down. “Un-fucking-believable. He doesn’t get it. He never gets it.”

“Uh-oh,” Shuai says lightly. “Is this the part where you spiral? Should I grab popcorn?”

But I’m already on my feet, pacing the tiny apartment. My chest feels too tight, my throat raw.

“He thinks he can just… what? Throw food at me, send flowers, bug you, like that fixes everything? Like I’m some pet project?”

“Babe—”

“No!” My voice cracks. “He doesn’t get to break me and then chase me like this. He doesn’t get to act like he cares now. He doesn’t—”

My phone buzzes with another notification. Another delivery alert.

I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Oh, perfect timing. What is it this time, a cake shaped like an apology? A fruit basket of regret?”

I stomp toward the door, phone still pressed to my ear. “If it’s him again, I swear I’ll—”

I yank the door open.

And freeze.

Because it’s not a delivery guy this time.

It’s Shuai.

Smirking, phone to his own ear, waving. “Surprise, bitch. You miss me?”

I gape at him, half furious, half relieved, chest still heaving from my rant.

Shuai pushes past me into the apartment like he owns the place, glancing at the ramen pot full of roses and the pile of empty takeout boxes.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Looks like heartbreak diet’s treating you pretty good.”

I slam the door shut, pulse still racing. “Shut up, Shuai.”

But my hands are trembling. Because if Shuai’s right—if Chi Cheng really is clawing at every door just to reach me—then maybe this isn’t just persistence.

Maybe it’s desperation.

And that thought terrifies me more than anything.

I should’ve cancelled. I should’ve hit “delay” and stayed buried under my blanket fort of fried chicken bones and empty boba cups. But no, I went live. Like an idiot.

Maybe I just have to pretend everything’s fine until it becomes true.

The little red light blinks on. My face pops up in the corner of the screen. I paste on my streamer smile, the one that feels like it’s stapled to my cheeks.

“Yo, nation!” I shout, maybe too loud. “Your president returns, barely alive but still thriving. Clap for me, peasants.”

Chat explodes, emojis and inside jokes and spam. For a few blessed seconds, it feels almost normal. I crack a joke about being hungover, toss out some rants about the game, pretend everything’s fine.

But then the comments start.

[chat]: WHERE’S CEO
[chat]: no cc AGAIN today??
[chat]: DUO STREAM WHEN
[chat]: did u guys fight?? 👀👀👀

I laugh it off at first, real casual. “Haha, yeah, Chi Cheng’s too busy smoking entire factories to stream with me. Don’t worry about it.”

But chat doesn’t let go. They never let go.

[chat]: we miss himmm
[chat]: bro stop gatekeeping CC
[chat]: maybe they broke up lol
[chat]: nation demands answers

My jaw tightens. I die in-game, and chat floods with laughing emotes. It grates.

I try again. “Guys, seriously. It’s just me tonight. Let’s focus on the game, yeah? Forget the other guy.”

They don’t. The questions keep pouring, like a wave I can’t outswim. Every other message is his name. His name, his name, his name, hammering into my skull until I can’t read anything else.

Something in me cracks.

“STOP!” It rips out of me, louder than I meant, voice raw and sharp. My own ears ring. Chat freezes for half a beat, then floods harder.

I glare at the screen, chest heaving. “Stop asking about him! He’s not here. He won’t be here. We won’t be streaming together anymore. Don’t expect collabs. Don’t expect anything. Maybe I’ll—” My voice stumbles, then spikes louder. “I’ll find another partner.”

The silence after feels like freefall. Then chat detonates.

[chat]: THEY FOUGHT THEY DEFINITELY FOUGHT
[chat]: cap cap cap he’s lying right??
[chat]: new duo??? WE ONLY WANT CHENGWEI!!!!

It’s chaos. A blur of question marks, betrayal emojis, screaming in all caps. The kind of chat storm you can’t stop once it starts.

I can’t look at it anymore. I slam the stream off mid-sentence, leaving them with nothing but static.

Silence.

My room is suddenly too quiet, the glow from my monitors searing against my burning face. My chest heaves like I just ran a marathon. My hands tremble in my lap.

I stare at my dark reflection on the blanked-out screen. My throat burns. My pulse is still a hammer in my ears.

For a long time, I don’t move. Then, slowly, I lean back, press the heels of my hands over my eyes. My laugh comes out cracked, bitter.

“I hope you watched that, Chi Cheng,” I whisper into the dark. My voice sounds smaller than I want it to. “Fuck you. You don’t own me.”

The words fall flat in the empty room.

I drop my hands. Sit there in the silence, with nothing but the faint hum of the PC fans and the wreckage I just unleashed.

Chapter Text

The knock comes just as I’m scrolling through delivery apps.

My thumb hovers over fried noodles when the bell rings again, sharp and insistent.

For the past week, my life has been a blur of petty victories and bitter losses. Blocking him on everything? Victory. Checking my phone every hour anyway? Loss. Telling the delivery guys to tell him to fuck off? Victory. Eating the fried chicken and bubble tea five minutes later? Loss.

So when the bell rings again, I drag myself to the door expecting more bribes. Maybe cheesecake this time. Maybe lobster, who knows—Chi Cheng probably could get Michelin-starred delivery if he wanted.

I drag myself off the couch, wearing mismatched socks, hoodie hanging half-zipped. My hair is greasy, unwashed. I haven’t bothered with anything beyond streaming and sulking. I probably look feral. Good. Whoever he hired this time deserves to see what loving Chi Cheng does to a man. I want this delivery guy to take one look at me and tell his boss, “Wow, he’s a wreck. Maybe stop tormenting him.”

I yank the door open. “Tell your boss I said—”

And choke.

Because it’s not some delivery guy.

It’s him.

Chi Cheng stands in my doorway.

For a heartbeat, the world stops. My mouth goes dry. My pulse stutters.

For a second, the whole world tilts. My breath leaves me in a rush, like someone punched me straight in the ribs. My first instinct is that I must be hallucinating. My brain, fried from heartbreak and lack of sleep, has conjured him up like some sick punishment.

But no. He’s real. Too real.

He’s standing in my doorway like some absurd fever dream. His arms are full—too full. A brown paper bag dangling from one wrist, a cardboard tray of bubble tea clutched in his fingers, and a bouquet of ice blue roses pressed awkwardly against his chest.

Not just any roses. Not the basic red cliché. Ice blue—rare, impossible, the kind that have to be dyed or imported, the kind you don’t stumble across at the corner flower shop.

And they’re beautiful. Unreal. Like frost captured in petals. Like him.

For one dizzy second, all I can think is: he remembered. Because I once babbled about them on stream, late at night, offhand, while scrolling some flower shop ad: “Ice blue roses, god, look at them. That’s my vibe—tragic, overpriced, and destined to wilt fast.”

I never thought he’d been listening.

Now here he is, holding them like they’re the only thing he has to offer.

And it makes me furious—because I still care.

But for the first time since I’ve known him, he doesn’t look put together. He looks… wrong. Not his usual immaculate self. His hair is mussed, like he ran his hand through it too many times on the way here. His shirt is wrinkled at the sleeves. There are shadows under his eyes, the kind that don’t come from one bad night’s sleep but from a week of carrying something heavy. And across his jaw, catching the dim hallway light, is the shadow of stubble. Not deliberate, not styled—just… forgotten. Like he rolled out of some sleepless night and came straight here.

And the way he’s looking at me—

God.

It’s not his usual unreadable mask. Not the calm, terrifying poker face that drove me insane. It’s… raw. There’s something cracked in his gaze, something pleading. His mouth opens, closes, like he rehearsed this a hundred times and still can’t get the words out.

I hate how my heart lurches.

I hate how my knees go weak.

I hate how much I missed him.

For a second, we just stare at each other.

Silence. Thick. The only sound is the faint of heavy breathing.

“Suowei.” His voice is low, rough, like gravel scraped over glass.

Two syllables. My name. But my chest caves in. I want to fold. I want to crawl into those arms and scream at him and hold on and never let go.

Instead, I bare my teeth. Armor. Always armor. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts the bags like they’re heavier than they look. “I—brought dinner.”

Dinner.

Dinner?

A wild, ugly laugh bursts out of me. “Dinner? That’s your big plan? You think you can just show up with food like—like some delivery driver and magically everything’s fine?”

He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. The bouquet shakes, ever so slightly.

Something in me almost cracks. Almost.

“You can’t buy me, Chi Cheng,” I spit. My voice is too loud, too sharp, but I can’t stop. “You can’t just throw fried chicken and flowers at me and think that makes up for—” My throat burns, words tangling. “—for making me feel like I was nothing. Like I was just convenient.”

“Suowei—”

“No!” I cut him off, words tumbling out faster than I can stop them. “Don’t you dare say my name like that. Like—like you care. You don’t. You never did. I was just a pawn, right? A prop for your PR. A—what was it—‘last stream’ souvenir.”

His eyes tighten. He shifts forward half a step, like he wants to reach for me. But his arms are full, weighed down by all the offerings he thought would save him.

Pathetic, a voice in my head hisses. He looks pathetic. And god help me, I want to hug him for it.

I slam that thought down. Hard.

“Stop this Chi Cheng,” I spit. My chest heaves. “You can’t just throw money at me and make me forget that you broke me. That you made me feel like I was nothing.”

Finally, finally, something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens, eyes glisten, mouth twitching like he’s holding back a thousand words.

“I never—” he starts, voice raw.

But I can’t. If I let him talk, I’ll cave. I’ll shatter .And I can’t. Not now. Not when I’m still bleeding.

So I slam the door. Hard.

The sound echoes like a gunshot. My hands stay pressed to the wood, trembling. My whole body shakes. On the other side, silence. Then a thud—soft. Something sliding down.

I squeeze my eyes shut. He left the bags. Of course he did.

Then I hear a faint sound, a whisper, a plea, “I just hope you listen.”

I close my eyes and will myself not to run after him.

For ten minutes, I pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t—”

But I do.

I crack the door. The hallway’s empty, but the offerings are still there: bag, drinks, flowers. I drag them inside, cursing under my breath, telling myself it’s just so the neighbors don’t gossip.

I dump everything on the counter. My eyes snag on the envelope tucked into the roses. White paper, my name written in his handwriting.

My fingers hover. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

But I do.

My hands shake as I open it.

The letter inside is short, messy, like he wrote it in a hurry:

I don’t know how to do this.
But I can’t stop trying.
Please eat.
Please don’t hate me.

My vision blurs. A laugh-sob rips out of me, harsh and cracked. I crumple the letter and throw it across the room. It lands near the couch, pathetically soft.

I collapse onto the floor.

And then—I break.

The sobs hit like a storm. Ugly, choking, loud. My chest heaves, my face burns, snot and tears everywhere. I curl on the floor, knees to chest, clutching at myself like I can hold in the hurt.

It doesn’t stop.

Hours pass. I know because the light shifts. Afternoon fades to evening, evening to night. The city hums outside my window, cars and sirens and laughter, all of it muffled.

Inside, it’s just me. Me and the echo of his face at my door, the tremble in his hands, the crack in his voice.

I cry until my throat is raw, until my eyes puff so badly I can barely open them. Every memory hits me like a wave:

His hand steadying mine under the desk during our first stream.
The ghost of a smile when I made chat laugh.
Me on his lap, my bare legs draped over him, his body stiff, my heart stupidly full.
The kiss. God, the kiss. His lips hard, desperate, setting me on fire.

I press my face into my hands and sob harder.

Hours later, silence. Only hiccups. Only the faint rustle of paper when I realize I’ve crawled to the couch and clutched the crumpled letter against my chest.

I stare at the ceiling. My chest still hurts, but it’s quieter now. Hollow.

“I hate you, Chi Cheng,” I whisper hoarsely into the dark. “You don’t get to do this to me anymore.”

But even as I say it, I know I’ll never forget the way he looked at me at the door—like he was the one drowning, and I was the only thing keeping him afloat.

And that knowledge wrecks me all over again.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only been twenty minutes since I collapsed on the bed. My hoodie still smells faintly like fried chicken and cigarette smoke — his smoke, because of course it clings to me like everything else he touches.

I roll over and grope for my phone on the nightstand, fingers trembling like they don’t belong to me. My chest feels hollow but hot at the same time, like someone scooped me out and filled me with live coals—and it makes me want to scream.

I do scream, actually. Into my pillow. Pathetic, muffled, guttural. My throat burns after a few minutes, and I roll onto my back, sweaty and exhausted, staring at the hairline crack in my ceiling.

If I stay like this, I’ll rot. If I keep quiet, he’ll keep showing up. He’ll keep… trying.

I can’t keep going like this. Waiting. Bleeding. Hoping he’ll disappear and yet flinching every time I think of him standing at my door with flowers and shadows under his eyes.

No. If I’m going to be pathetic, I at least want to be pathetic on my own terms.

My thumb swipes up the screen. New post. Cursor blinking.

I should draft it carefully. Think about the wording. But my hands are already moving, typing with reckless speed:

My first attempt looks childish:

          I don’t want to stream with Chi Cheng anymore.

Delete.

Second attempt is too raw:

          Stop asking about him. It’s over.

Delete.

I sit there, staring at the blank screen until something shifts inside me. A harder voice. A louder one. If I can’t stop people from speculating, maybe I can drown them in something official-sounding.

The words start typing themselves:

ANNOUNCEMENT:

 Effective immediately, I will be opening applications for a new streaming partner.

For those interested, please submit via the following link: fakelink.wsw/partnerform

Please note: collaborations with my previous partner will not continue going forward. Thank you for your understanding and continued support.

I read it over once. It looks cold. Formal. Like the kind of thing a company would put out when they’re replacing a brand ambassador. Not a clown streamer who just torched the only person he’s ever—

No. I don’t let myself finish the thought.

I hit post.

The dopamine hit of the little blue notification bubble is instant. Then another. Then a flood so thick my screen freezes.

Within five minutes, #WuSuoweiStatement is trending. Screenshots of my post are everywhere, captions multiplying like weeds:

Applications?? Is he serious lmaooo
Wait so no more duo streams?? My life is over.
Imagine thinking anyone could replace Chi Cheng.
Good, CC was too cold anyway. Let him find someone who actually laughs with him.

The edits start next. Old clips of me practically draping myself over him during streams, slowed down with tragic music. Replays of the way I stole chips from his bowl. Zoom-ins on the almost-smile he never admitted to. Fans dissecting every glance like it’s evidence in a murder trial.

He looked tense.
No, he cared. Look at the way he tilted toward him.
Maybe it was PR the whole time.
Maybe it was love.

Someone posts:

Applications link crashed already. 10k people trying to apply to be his partner in the first 20 minutes.

Another:

I’m sorry but Wu Suowei drafting a Google Form to replace Chi Cheng is the funniest power move of 2025.

I can’t stop scrolling. My chest hurts worse with every post I read, but I’m addicted to the pain. My face reflected back in the black edge of my phone looks wild-eyed, almost feverish.

“God, I’m insane,” I mutter, throwing the phone onto the bed.

It buzzes immediately.

Of course it’s Shuai. Who else would call me while the internet collapses around me?

 swipe to answer, and his laughter explodes through the speaker.

“Oh my god, you absolute psycho. Do you realize what you’ve done?!”

I groan into the pillow. “Please lower your volume or I’ll hang up.”

He laughs so loud it’s borderline evil. “No, no, I won’t. Because this is karma for making me read fanfic-length group chats about you two for months. Oh my god, the drama, the bloodbath, the— Wait, what did you even post? ‘Applications open’? Are you fucking hosting auditions for a boyfriend on Twitter?”

“Streaming partner,” I mumble.

“Same thing!” Shuai shrieks. “You’re telling me the guy you’ve been practically ovulating on stream over is suddenly chopped liver and you’re ready to recruit his replacement with a Google form? Iconic. Insane. Stupid. Babe, this is messy even for you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, nails digging crescents into my palm. “I don’t care. He needs to get out of my life.”

“Yes, you do.” His tone shifts, just slightly. Less sharp, more knowing. “If you didn’t, you’d be ignoring him, not staging a public execution. Be real.”

I bite my lip hard enough to sting.

Before I can argue, Shuai suddenly gasps. Then squeals so loud I yank the phone away from my ear.

““OH. MY. GOD. HAVE YOU SEEN IT YET?! Have you SEEN IT?”

I sit bolt upright. “Seen what?”

“Refresh your feed right now, you clown.”

Dread coils in my stomach as I grab the phone. Notifications are still flooding in, but one post is pinned at the very top, sleek black-and-white header with his company’s logo.

My chest seizes.

I click.

The words hit like a fist.

GameCorp

OFFICIAL STATEMENT – PRESS RELEASE

We would like to reassure our audience that Wu Suowei and Chi Cheng are still collaborating.

The duo’s content has been temporarily delayed due to scheduling and personal matters. We appreciate your patience and support during this period.

My throat tightens. My hand shakes as I scroll.

Regarding speculation: any influencer attempting to assume Wu Suowei’s partner role should be aware that contractual obligations remain in place. Legal protections apply. Action will be taken against attempts to interfere with this partnership.

I nearly drop the phone.

I can’t breathe.

Shuai’s voice is still in my ear, rapid-fire: “Holy shit, he just—he basically said you’re still his. That nobody else gets to touch you. He threw legal jargon at your clown Google form. That’s him saying you’re his. That nobody else gets you. That you can’t move without his permission. This is insane. I’m screaming, I’m dying—”

But all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

“He’s controlling the story,” I whisper. “He’s controlling me.”

My legs move before my brain can catch up. I’m pacing the room, hoodie flapping around me, vision blurring with rage. The press release stares back at me from the phone like a smug grin.

“He doesn’t own me,” I snarl, voice cracking. Louder now. “He doesn’t own me!”

The words rip out of me raw, half scream, half sob. My chest heaves, sweat beading at my temples, adrenaline screaming for release.

Shuai is shouting my name, asking what I’m doing, but I don’t answer.

Because I already know what I’m doing.

I’m grabbing my keys.

I’m storming out the door.

I’m going to him.

By the time the cab drops me in front of his building, my whole body is shaking.

Not just from the ride—the driver swerving through traffic while I sat in the back with my knees bouncing, fingers digging crescent moons into my thighs—but from the sheer force of what’s boiling in my chest.

I can’t sit with it anymore.

Not after that statement. Not after he went and rewrote my words in front of the entire internet like I was some kid whose mouth needed to be cleaned up by an adult. Scheduling conflicts. Personal reasons. Like we’re still tied together with a neat little bow, like I didn’t just claw my way out of him. Like my voice, my fury, my choice didn’t even matter.

I pay the fare with shaking hands, bills crumpled and sweaty. The driver mutters something—“Hey, take it easy”—but I’m already halfway out, slamming the door behind me.

The lobby feels too bright, too sterile. The floor’s polished to a shine that makes my sneakers squeak. There’s a faint smell of citrus cleaner in the air, and it’s so wrong, so quiet, that my rage flares harder. My reflection in the elevator doors is a stranger—red-faced, eyes wild, mouth pressed tight like I might actually bite through my own lip.

The elevator ride is a blur. My reflection in the chrome doors looks like a stranger: eyes red, mouth pressed tight, jaw trembling with the effort to hold myself together. The ding when the doors open is too loud, too final. The hall stretches out, each step dragging me closer until I’m staring at his door.

And I lose it.

I pound. My fist slams into his door, over and over, until the sting of bone against the surface shoots up my arm. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“CHI CHENG!” My voice cracks, a ragged scream torn out of my chest. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

The corridor echoes with it. Lights flicker. A door down the hall creaks open, some old neighbor peeking out in her slippers. A guy with his dog pauses, staring. I don’t care. Let them look. Let them all hear.

I hit the door again, my knuckles raw now, a sharp burn with each strike. “COME OUT, YOU FUCKING—” My throat gives, voice splintering into something almost hoarse. “Don’t you dare fucking hide from me!”

Finally, the lock clicks. The door eases open.

And for a split second, I forget how to breathe.

Because he doesn’t look like Chi Cheng. Not the Chi Cheng I’ve known, not the untouchable wall of a man.

It’s him—but not the him I know. Not the immaculate CEO in a starched shirt, the untouchable wall of iron composure.

He’s standing there in a plain white t-shirt, rumpled and creased like he pulled it from the floor. His hair is messy, falling wrong in places.. His eyes are dark, tired, ringed faintly at the edges.

Raw. Vulnerable. Almost like he’s been unraveling too.

My stomach flips. I hate that I notice. I hate that the first thing I feel is this stupid, traitorous lurch of concern.

“Suowei—” His voice is low, quiet.

I don’t let him finish.

My hands slam against his chest, shoving with every ounce of fury in me. He staggers back a step, surprise flashing across his face.

I follow, storming into his apartment before he can stop me. The air inside smells faintly of smoke and stale coffee. The curtains are half-drawn, the place dimmer than I remember. Papers scatter across the low table, ash in the tray. It’s not the pristine, intimidating space I’ve walked into before—it’s messy. Human.

The door clicks shut behind me, but I don’t even glance back. My fury is too big, too loud. 

“You think you can just—just DECIDE everything for me?!” My voice is too loud, too sharp, bouncing down the hall. “You think you can rewrite my words because you’ve got some company press release backing you up?!”

He takes a breath, about to speak—but I barrel right over it, words tumbling out like knives.

“You—” My chest heaves, each inhale like fire. “You went behind me. You made me look like—like I’m still your fucking partner, like nothing’s wrong, like—like—” My throat tightens, choking me off.

I can’t stop. I won’t stop. If I let him get a word in, I’ll drown.

“You threaten anyone who dares come near me, like I’m property! Like I’m some prize you fucking own! Do you even hear yourself? Do you even know how insane that is?!”

His eyes stay locked on mine. Steady. Quiet.

And that makes me shake harder, makes my anger claw deeper.

“You threaten anyone who dares come near me—did you think I wouldn’t notice? That pathetic little clause about contracts?” My voice rises, cracks. “You don’t get to stake a claim on me like I’m your fucking property!”

My throat snaps shut again. My chest convulses. The words crawl up anyway, ragged and raw:

“I’m not—” My voice cracks like glass. “I’m not yours!”

It comes out half-scream, half-sob. My hands curl into fists, knuckles trembling.

But I can’t stop. I keep going.

“You think you can buy me off with flowers and food and fucking delivery guys—like money’s all it takes? Like I’ll just roll over because you sent me boba with some pathetic note? You think I’m that in love with you?!”

The word sears my tongue. I don’t even know if I mean it. But it’s out there, hanging in the air between us.

My vision blurs, hot and wet. Goddammit. Not here. Not in front of him.

I bite down hard, but the tears slip anyway, tracking down my face. My voice is shredded now, thin and hoarse, but I keep pushing, louder, messier, desperate:

“I hate you!” I choke, voice breaking. “I hate how you think you can control me. I hate how you get in my head, even when I block you, even when I try to run. I hate that you—” My breath stutters, chest seizing. “I hate that you make me feel like this.”

I swipe at my face with the back of my hand, furious at myself. My voice drops, ragged, trembling.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” I rasp. “You don’t get to stand there looking—looking like that, like you care, and just stay silent while I—while I—”

The words tumble out faster now, overlapping, incoherent in places. Accusations. Half-thoughts. Old wounds. Everything I’ve swallowed since the beach, since that night, since the first time I realized just how badly he could hurt me.

And through all of it, he just stands there.

Watching.

And he hasn’t said a single word.

Not one.

“Say something!” My voice cracks, too loud, bouncing off the walls. My fists tremble at my sides. “You’re always so fucking quiet, so fucking superior—say something now, you jerk!”

Something flickers in his eyes then. Not cold. Not blank. Something dangerous. My stomach drops before my brain catches up.

Because suddenly he’s moving.

I barely see it — one step, two — and then his hand is at my jaw, strong fingers gripping, forcing my head back against the doorframe. His other hand slams beside my head, pinning me. My heart lurches into my throat.

And then his mouth crashes onto mine.

It’s not a kiss. It’s an assault. A punishment. Teeth scrape, lips bruise, breath stolen. My eyes fly wide, my fists pound against his chest in panic, in fury. I taste cigarettes and desperation, feel the sharp edge of his stubble burning against my skin. He doesn’t let me speak. He doesn’t let me breathe.

I shove, twist, curse against his lips — but it’s useless. He doesn’t budge. My body’s trapped between his chest and the hard wood of the door, his hand iron around my jaw.

“—st—! G—off—!” I try to force the words out, but they’re crushed under the weight of his mouth. Every attempt to breathe, every syllable I form, is devoured. He swallows my protests like they’re nothing, like I’m nothing but the taste of me, the sound of me struggling.

My fists hammer at his chest, frantic. “Chi—! St—!” It comes out muffled, broken, my lips bruising against the cage of his kiss. He doesn’t let me get a single full word free. Not one.

And then—suddenly—he rips his mouth from mine, dragging in a shuddering breath. His forehead presses against mine, his grip still locked, his chest heaving. His eyes blaze into me, dark and wet and raw.

“You never let me talk,” he growls, voice low, ragged, shaking with anger and something deeper. “If I can’t reach you with words…” His thumb digs against my jaw, desperate, trembling. “…then I’ll reach you like this.”

Before I can suck in enough air to respond, his mouth crashes back onto mine, fiercer than before.

I should hate it. I do hate it.

But god, my knees are weak.

Every protest gets swallowed by him. Every sob I bite down gets ripped out of me through the press of his mouth. It’s brutal, and it’s everything I swore I wouldn’t let myself feel again.

And then — it shifts.

The pressure eases. His mouth softens, lips molding against mine instead of crushing. His hand trembles at my jaw. It’s not punishing anymore — it’s pleading. Begging. Like he’s saying through the kiss what he never says with words: don’t leave me. Don’t shut me out.

I freeze, thrown by the change. His lips move slower now, almost reverent, broken by shuddering breaths. He kisses me like I’m oxygen, like I’m the only thing holding him together.

And it wrecks me.

Because I can feel it — the cracks in him. His desperation bleeding through. The kiss isn’t just claiming anymore; it’s asking. It’s pleading. And my body betrays me, betrays everything my anger screamed, because I melt for half a second. My fists still against his chest. My lips tremble and part under his. My eyes sting.

Then panic slams back into me.

“No!” I wrench my head to the side, breaking the kiss. My chest heaves, mouth wet, cheeks burning. I push at him harder this time, fists pounding, nails dragging at his shirt. “You can’t—! Don’t you dare—! You can’t do this to me!”

I twist, trying to duck away, but his arms move faster. Suddenly both hands are on me — one gripping the side of my face, the other clamping at my waist. I thrash, kicking at his shins, screaming every curse I know.

“Let go of me, you bastard!”

He doesn’t. His jaw is tight, eyes dark and blazing with something I can’t name. His chest rises and falls hard against mine, the heat of him suffocating.

And then—before I can wriggle free—he bends, hooks his arm behind my knees, and lifts.

“What—HEY!” The world tilts violently as my stomach slams against his shoulder. My breath knocks out in a startled yelp. My fists beat at his back immediately, frantic, furious. “Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!”

My legs kick uselessly, my voice hoarse with rage. I twist, trying to slip, but his arm clamps firm around my thighs. He’s stronger than me. So much stronger. My humiliation scorches hotter than my anger.

“Are you insane?!” I shriek, pounding at his spine with both fists. “You can’t just—Chi Cheng! PUT ME DOWN! You can’t—!”

SMACK.

A sharp slap lands on my ass, shocking, humiliating. My body goes still, rigid. My face burns so hot it could combust. “Did you just—?!” My voice cracks, strangled. “You—! You—!”

His voice rumbles low, gravel against my skin. “Stay still. We’re gonna talk. You and me.”

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel dizzy. The command reverberates down my spine, through my bones. It should enrage me more — it does. But something else twists beneath it. Something terrifying. My breath hitches.

"And you are definitely mine."

I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, maybe because I'm currently upside down. I don't know.

I smack his back weakly, more out of stubbornness than real fight now. “You’re insane. Completely—insane.”

But my voice is quieter. Shaky.

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking — steady, unbothered — carrying me deeper into the apartment like I weigh nothing. My fists beat slower, weaker. My chest heaves, every nerve alight with humiliation and adrenaline.

The door slams shut behind us with a kick of his foot. The lock clicks.

And suddenly it’s just us. Just me, upside down and burning, and him, unshakeable, carrying me toward whatever comes next.