XINYI'S POV
Xinyi wakes to light that doesn't hurt.
That's the first thing he notices. The morning seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows is soft, golden, the kind of light that makes everything look like a filter. No pounding behind his eyes. No ache in his joints when he shifts under the sheets.
He blinks. Stretches his arms above his head, feeling the pull in his shoulders, the satisfying pop of his spine. His mouth tastes like something died in it—cotton and stale air and the ghost of last night's soup.
The room is warm. Warmer than it should be.
Xinyi frowns, pushing himself up on his elbows. The thermostat must have been bumped up. And his bed—he looks around, taking in the extra pillows that have appeared on the bed. Two more than usual. One of them smells faintly like sandalwood and smoke.
He stares at it for a long moment.
Right. The armchair.
He turns his head, squinting at the leather armchair by the window. Empty. No tie draped over the back. No jacket folded on the seat. Just the cold morning light falling across the cushions, undisturbed.
Hm.
Xinyi sits up fully, rubbing his face with both hands. His skin feels less hot. His head doesn't throb when he moves. He's not sure if he should be relieved or suspicious. The fever broke—he remembers that much. Remembers warmth pressed against his back. A low voice telling him to sleep.
He doesn't remember much after that.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the cold marble floor. The chill jolts him awake, a sharp little reminder that he's alive and apparently not dying anymore. Small victories.
The bathroom is mercifully close. He shuffles in, catches his reflection in the mirror—pale, dark circles, hair doing something that can only be described as tragic—and grimaces. He looks like he crawled out of a grave. Or a very long study session. Same energy, really.
He brushes his teeth with mechanical efficiency, splash of cold water on his face, runs his fingers through his hair until it's less offensive. His hands are steady. That's something.
When he pads back into the bedroom, drying his face on the sleeve of his hoodie, he stops.
Jae-hyun is there.
Standing by the window, phone in hand, thumb scrolling through something. Dressed in a simple black shirt and loose black lounge pants, hair still slightly disheveled like he just rolled out of bed. No tailored suit. No tie. No leather shoes.
Xinyi blinks.
Jae-hyun looks up. Their eyes meet. Without a word, he locks the phone and slides it into his pocket.
The gesture is so deliberate that Xinyi's brain stalls.
"Aren't you going to work?" The words come out before he can stop them, rough from sleep, but the confusion is real. He stands there, damp-faced, in his oversized hoodie, staring at the CEO like he's grown a second head.
Jae-hyun doesn't answer immediately. His gaze travels over Xinyi's face, slow and assessing, like he's cataloging every detail. The shadows under his eyes. The flush that's faded from his cheeks. The way he's standing—steady, not swaying.
"No," Jae-hyun says simply.
Xinyi waits for more. None comes.
"No?" he echoes. "What does 'no' mean? You have an empire to run. Spreadsheets to conquer. Enemies to destroy."
"Enemies to destroy?" One of Jae-hyun's eyebrows lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching. "What have you been watching?"
"Late-night dramas. You'd fit right in." Xinyi crosses his arms, watching Jae-hyun warily. "Seriously. You're not going in?"
"I cancelled."
"Cancelled."
"My schedule is cleared for the week."
Xinyi stares at him. Jae-hyun stares back, unblinking, his expression giving nothing away.
"For the week," Xinyi repeats slowly, as if testing the words in his mouth. "You cleared your entire schedule. For the week."
"Is there an echo in here?"
"Why?"
The question hangs between them, simple and sharp. Jae-hyun's gaze doesn't waver. He takes a step closer, then another, his bare feet silent on the marble. He stops just short of Xinyi, close enough that Xinyi can smell the soap on his skin, the faint musk of his pheromones.
"Because you're sick," Jae-hyun says, his voice low. "And I'm not leaving you alone."
Xinyi's brain short-circuits.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"That's..." He trails off, trying to find the right word. Sweet. Creepy. Unnecessary. "That's a lot," he settles on. "For a fever."
"It wasn't just a fever."
"It was ten days of a fever. I've had worse."
"You hid it from me for ten days."
"I hid it from you because I didn't want you to—" Xinyi stops himself, jaw clicking shut. He looks away, his gaze landing on the rumpled sheets, the empty soup bowl still on the nightstand. "I didn't want you to make a big deal out of it."
"Too late."
Xinyi lets out a breath, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "I can see that."
He looks back at Jae-hyun. The alpha is still watching him, that unreadable intensity in his dark eyes. There's no smirk, no teasing tilt to his mouth. Just quiet attention, like Xinyi is the only thing in the room worth looking at.
It's unsettling.
"So what's the plan?" Xinyi asks, because he doesn't know what else to do. "You're just going to... hover?"
"If necessary."
"Bear-hyun."
Something flickers in Jae-hyun's eyes at the nickname. Surprise. Amusement. Maybe both. He doesn't comment on it, but his voice is softer when he speaks. "You need to eat. Sleep. Recover. I'm going to make sure you do."
"I can eat on my own."
"You haven't been."
The words land like a slap. Xinyi's mouth opens, but nothing comes out, because Jae-hyun is right. He hasn't been eating. Not properly. Pushing his plate away, blaming stress, letting the meals go cold while he curled up in bed.
"That's different," he says weakly.
"How?"
"I don't know. It just is."
Jae-hyun steps closer, and Xinyi has to tilt his chin up to meet his gaze. The alpha towers over him, broad shoulders blocking the window light, casting them both in shadow. His pheromones wrap around Xinyi like smoke, heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
"I made congee," Jae-hyun says. "It's in the kitchen. You're going to eat it."
Xinyi's stomach chooses that moment to rumble, loud and traitorous. He feels heat crawl up his neck, tinging his ears red.
Jae-hyun's mouth curves. Just slightly. A ghost of a smile.
"Was that your answer?"
"Shut up."
"Come." Jae-hyun turns, heading for the bedroom door without looking back. "Before it gets cold."
Xinyi hesitates. His feet stay rooted to the marble, the suspicion crawling back up his spine. He watches Jae-hyun's back, the broad line of his shoulders, the way he moves through the penthouse like he owns every inch of it. Which he does. But still.
This is weird.
Jae-hyun doesn't do caretaking. He does transactions—sex for rent, for meals, for tuition. That's the arrangement. That's always been the arrangement. Xinyi gives him something, and Jae-hyun pays for it. Clean. Simple. No strings.
But last night wasn't clean. Last night was soup and whispers and being held against a chest that smelled like sandalwood and smoke. Last night was Jae-hyun's voice in his ear, telling him he was not a toy, not a burden, not something disposable.
And now Jae-hyun is here. In casual clothes. Making congee.
Xinyi's brain is trying to compute this, and it's coming up with only one explanation.
Oh.
Oh, he wants sex.
Of course. That makes sense. Jae-hyun cleared his schedule because he wants Xinyi well enough to fuck him. The caretaking is just—investment. Like changing the oil before a long drive. Making sure the engine runs smooth before he pushes it.
The thought should make Xinyi feel used. Instead, it's almost a relief. A framework he understands.
He follows Jae-hyun out of the bedroom, padding barefoot across the cool marble into the open kitchen. The penthouse is bathed in morning light, the city sprawling beyond the windows like a postcard. Jae-hyun is already at the stove, ladling steaming congee into a bowl. The smell hits Xinyi—ginger, sesame, something savory and warm—and his stomach growls again.
Jae-hyun sets the bowl on the breakfast island. Pulls out a stool. Gestures.
"Sit."
Xinyi sits.
He stares at the congee. It looks good. Properly made, the rice broken down into a thick, silky porridge, topped with shredded chicken and scallions and a drizzle of sesame oil. A poached egg sits in the center, yolk still runny.
His mouth waters.
He doesn't reach for the spoon.
"You're staring at it like it's poisoned," Jae-hyun observes, leaning against the counter across from him, arms crossed. The pose draws attention to his biceps, the way his sleeves stretch over his forearms. Xinyi ignores it.
"I'm just... wondering."
"About?"
"The catch." Xinyi looks up, meeting Jae-hyun's dark eyes. He keeps his voice light, casual. "You cleared your whole week. You're making me breakfast. You're wearing—" he gestures at Jae-hyun's outfit, "—that. So what's the angle?"
Jae-hyun's expression doesn't change. "The angle."
"Yeah. You know. The thing you want that makes this worth your time." Xinyi picks up the spoon, rotates it in his fingers. "I'm just trying to figure out when the other shoe drops."
"The other shoe."
"Are you going to repeat everything I say?"
"Are you going to eat?"
Xinyi clicks his tongue. "Fine. Dodge the question."
He scoops up a spoonful of congee, blows on it, and takes a bite.
It's good. Really good. The ginger warms his throat, the sesame oil coating his tongue. He hasn't had congee this good since—well, since his mother made it for him back home. The thought tugs at something in his chest, and he shoves it down, focusing on the food.
Jae-hyun watches him eat. Doesn't look away. Doesn't check his phone. Just stands there, arms crossed, gaze steady, like he has all the time in the world.
Xinyi eats in silence. The bowl grows emptier. His stomach settles into something warm and content.
"Okay," he says, setting down the spoon. "I ate. Happy?"
"More."
"No."
"One more bowl."
Xinyi scowls at him. "I'm not a child."
"Then stop acting like one and eat properly."
"That's not—" Xinyi cuts himself off, pressing his palm to his forehead. "You're impossible."
"And you're still recovering. One more bowl, and I'll leave you alone."
"Will you, though?"
Jae-hyun doesn't answer. He just takes Xinyi's bowl, returns to the stove, and fills it again. The movement is fluid, automatic, like he's done this a hundred times. It's strange to see him in a kitchen—Jae-hyun, who probably has a chef on retainer, who probably doesn't know where most of the appliances are. But here he is, ladling congee like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He sets the second bowl in front of Xinyi. Fresh scallions, another egg, a drizzle of chili oil this time.
Xinyi looks at it. Looks at Jae-hyun.
"You went all out," he says quietly.
"Eat."
He eats. Slowly this time, savoring it. The chili oil adds a pleasant warmth, spreading through his chest. He can feel his body absorbing the nutrients, the energy trickling back into his limbs.
When he finishes the second bowl, he pushes it away with a sigh. "I'm going to explode."
"Good."
"That's not a normal response."
Jae-hyun takes the bowl, rinses it in the sink, and sets it in the dishwasher. Xinyi watches him move, still trying to figure out the angle. The sex thing still makes sense, but there's something else here. Something he can't quite name.
"So," Xinyi says, drumming his fingers on the island. "You've fed me. You've hovered. What's next on the itinerary? A sponge bath? A lullaby?"
Jae-hyun turns, wiping his hands on a towel. "Do you want a sponge bath?"
"No!"
"Then don't suggest it."
Xinyi's face burns. He looks away, fixing his gaze on the city skyline, the morning sun glinting off distant buildings. "I'm just saying. This is a lot. For someone who usually just... takes what he wants and leaves."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Xinyi doesn't turn around. He keeps his eyes on the window, counting the floors of the tower across the street. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Is that what you think I do?"
Jae-hyun's voice is quiet. Not angry. Something else.
Xinyi shrugs. "It's what you do. I'm not complaining. It's the arrangement."
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Jae-hyun comes around the island, stops beside Xinyi's stool. He doesn't touch him, but he's close enough that Xinyi can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Look at me."
Xinyi does. Because he always does. Because something in Jae-hyun's voice makes it impossible not to.
Jae-hyun's dark eyes hold his. His jaw is set, his expression unreadable, but there's something flickering beneath the surface. Something raw.
"You are not a transaction," he says, each word deliberate. "Not to me."
Xinyi's throat tightens. He swallows. "Last night—"
"Last night I meant every word."
"But the arrangement—"
"The arrangement keeps you in this penthouse. It doesn't keep me from caring about what happens to you." Jae-hyun's voice drops, rough and low. "And I do care, Xinyi. Whether you believe it or not."
Xinyi stares at him. His heart is beating too fast, a stuttering rhythm in his chest. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again.
"That's—" he starts, then stops. Laughs, a short, breathless sound. "That's a really inconvenient thing to say to someone."
"Why?"
"Because I can't—" Xinyi gestures vaguely, frustration flickering across his face. "I don't know how to respond to that. I'm good at sarcasm. I'm good at deflecting. I'm not good at... this."
"This."
"Whatever this is." Xinyi waves between them. "You being nice. Caring. Staying."
Jae-hyun is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out, slow enough that Xinyi could pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. His fingers linger, warm against Xinyi's skin.
"You don't have to respond," he says. "Just let me take care of you."
"For how long?"
"Until you're better."
"And then?"
Jae-hyun's hand drops. He steps back, giving Xinyi space, and his expression settles back into something neutral. "Then we figure it out."
Xinyi doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't know what to do with any of this. So he does what he always does—he deflects.
"Fine. But if you're staying, you're not allowed to wear suits. It's weird seeing you in something that doesn't cost a car payment."
Jae-hyun's mouth twitches. "I'll keep that in mind."
"And you're making lunch too. I'm not cooking."
"I assumed."
"And I get to pick the movie later."
"Within reason."
Xinyi narrows his eyes. "Define 'within reason.'"
"No horror. No sad endings. Nothing that will make you cry."
"That's... very specific."
Jae-hyun doesn't answer. He just turns, heading toward the living room, and Xinyi watches him go. The suspicion is still there, coiled in his chest, but it's quieter now. Muted by the congee settling warm in his stomach and the lingering heat of Jae-hyun's fingers on his forehead.
Maybe this isn't about sex.
Maybe Jae-hyun just wants to take care of him.
Xinyi doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't know how to fit it into the framework of their arrangement, their transaction, their careful distance. But as he slides off the stool and follows Jae-hyun into the living room, he thinks—maybe he doesn't have to figure it out right now.
Maybe he can just let it happen.
Xinyi stops at the living room threshold.
Jae-hyun is already settled on the couch, one arm draped across the back, the other reaching for the remote on the low marble table. His posture is relaxed, legs spread, the black lounge pants pulling taut across his thighs. He looks like he belongs here. Like he's always been here.
Xinyi watches him for a beat. The afternoon light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slight stubble shadowing it. He's not checking his phone. Not looking at the city skyline. Just reaching for the remote, like he has nowhere else to be.
The conge sits warm in Xinyi's stomach. The memory of Jae-hyun's fingers on his forehead lingers.
He doesn't know why he says it. The words just come, flat and dry, like they've been waiting at the back of his throat.
"So when do you want me to pay you back for the congee?"
Jae-hyun's hand freezes mid-reach. He doesn't turn, but something in his shoulders shifts, a subtle tightening that Xinyi catches only because he's watching for it.
The remote stays on the table.
"What?"
Xinyi leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. "The congee. And the hovering. The cancelled meetings. I'm asking when you want me to make it up to you."
Jae-hyun turns slowly. His dark eyes find Xinyi's, and there's something hard in them, something that makes Xinyi's stomach tighten despite himself.
"You think I'm keeping a tab."
"Aren't you?" Xinyi shrugs, the motion lazy, dismissive. "Everything has a price. That's how this works."
He says it like it's obvious. Like it's the only framework that makes sense. Because it is. The arrangement has always been clean, simple, transactional. Xinyi gives Jae-hyun something—his body, his time, his submission—and Jae-hyun gives him back rent, meals, tuition. Lines drawn. No confusion.
But the congee wasn't part of that. The night spent holding him wasn't part of that. And Xinyi doesn't know how to process something that doesn't fit the framework.
So he's trying to shove it back in.
Jae-hyun rises from the couch. The movement is unhurried, but there's a coiled tension in it, a predator uncurling. He crosses the space between them in three long strides, stopping just short of Xinyi, close enough that Xinyi has to tilt his chin up to hold his gaze.
"Is that what you think this is?" Jae-hyun's voice is low, rough at the edges. "A debt?"
"Everything is a debt." Xinyi keeps his voice light, even. "You know that better than anyone. You run a company. You don't do things for free."
"I made you soup."
"And now you're here. In my space. For a week." Xinyi's pulse is picking up, but he doesn't let it show. "I'm just trying to figure out the interest rate."
Jae-hyun's jaw tightens. He's close enough that Xinyi can smell the soap on his skin, the faint undertone of his pheromones—heavy, musky, wrapping around Xinyi like a weight. It makes something in Xinyi's chest go tight.
"There's no interest," Jae-hyun says. "No payment. No tab."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you're sick."
"I'm not sick anymore."
"You're recovering."
"Same thing." Xinyi tilts his head, studying Jae-hyun's face. "And when I'm fully recovered? What then?"
Jae-hyun's eyes flicker. Something passes through them—frustration, maybe. Or something rawer. He doesn't look away.
"Then we figure it out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Xinyi laughs, a short, breathless sound. "You're a terrible liar, Bear-hyun."
The nickname lands differently this time. Heavier. Jae-hyun doesn't acknowledge it, but his gaze sharpens.
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth."
"The truth is I don't know." Jae-hyun's voice drops, almost a whisper. "I don't know why I cancelled my meetings. I don't know why I stayed last night. I don't know why I can't stop thinking about you."
Xinyi's breath catches.
"That's—" he starts, then stops. His throat is dry. "That's not—"
"You asked for the truth." Jae-hyun steps closer, and Xinyi finds himself pressed against the doorframe, Jae-hyun's body a wall of heat in front of him. "I'm giving it to you."
"You can't just—" Xinyi swallows. His voice comes out thinner than he wants. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to know what to do with them."
"I don't expect anything." Jae-hyun's hand comes up, fingers brushing Xinyi's jaw, tilting his face toward him. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shiver down Xinyi's spine. "I'm just tired of pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That you're just a transaction."
Xinyi's heart stutters. He stares at Jae-hyun, at the dark eyes boring into his, at the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. The alpha is close enough that Xinyi can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell the musk of his pheromones curling through the air.
He should push him away. He should make a joke, defuse the tension, retreat into sarcasm. It's what he does. It's how he survives.
But his body doesn't move.
"Jae-hyun." His voice is barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know." Jae-hyun's thumb traces the line of Xinyi's jaw, featherlight. "I don't know what I'm doing, Xinyi. I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Cared about someone."
Xinyi's throat tightens. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
Jae-hyun's eyes search his, looking for something. Xinyi doesn't know what he finds, but after a long moment, Jae-hyun's hand drops. He steps back, giving Xinyi space, and the loss of heat feels like a physical ache.
"I'm not going to ask you to pay me back," Jae-hyun says, his voice steady again. "Not with your body. Not with anything. The congee was free."
Xinyi lets out a shaky breath. "That's—"
"Weird. I know." Jae-hyun's mouth twists, almost a smile. "But you're going to have to get used to it."
"Get used to what?"
"Me taking care of you."
Xinyi's brain short-circuits. He stares at Jae-hyun, at the alpha who built an empire on ruthlessness and control, who takes what he wants and never apologizes, who is standing in a living room in casual clothes, telling a broke college student that he wants to take care of him.
It doesn't make sense.
But neither did the congee. Neither did the armchair. Neither did the way Jae-hyun held him through the night.
Xinyi runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You're making this really complicated."
"I know."
"I had a system. A framework. It worked."
"It was broken."
"It worked," Xinyi repeats, sharper. "I knew where I stood. I knew what I owed. I knew how to repay it."
"And now you don't."
"Now I don't." Xinyi meets Jae-hyun's gaze. "So what am I supposed to do with this?"
Jae-hyun is quiet for a moment. Then he steps forward again, slower this time, and reaches out. His hand cups the back of Xinyi's neck, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape. The touch is warm, grounding, possessive.
"Let me show you," Jae-hyun murmurs, his voice low and rough. "Let me show you what it feels like to be taken care of without a price tag."
Xinyi's breath hitches. His body is betraying him, leaning into the touch, craving more. The heat of Jae-hyun's palm against his skin, the weight of his fingers, the way his thumb traces a slow circle at the base of Xinyi's skull.
"And if I don't want that?" Xinyi asks, but his voice is weak, unconvincing.
Jae-hyun's eyes darken. "Then I'll stop."
"Will you?"
"Yes." The word is firm, certain. "I won't touch you unless you want me to. I won't stay unless you ask. But I'm not going to pretend I don't care."
Xinyi closes his eyes. The world narrows to the point of contact, Jae-hyun's hand warm on his neck, his scent wrapping around him like a blanket. He should pull away. He should laugh this off, make a joke, retreat to the safety of their old arrangement.
But he doesn't.
"Okay," he whispers.
Jae-hyun's fingers tighten slightly. "Okay?"
"Okay, show me." Xinyi opens his eyes, meeting Jae-hyun's gaze. "But if you fuck this up, I'm calling you Bear-hyun forever."
A smile—a real one, small and crooked—crosses Jae-hyun's face. It transforms him, softening the hard lines, making him look almost human.
"I can live with that."
He doesn't kiss him. Doesn't pull him closer. His hand stays on Xinyi's neck, warm and steady, and for a long moment they just stand there, breathing the same air, the city sprawling beyond the windows, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor.
Then Jae-hyun steps back, his hand sliding away, and the loss of contact leaves Xinyi feeling unmoored.
"Come," Jae-hyun says, his voice softer now. "Sit with me."
He turns and walks back to the couch, settling into the same spot, one arm draped across the back. He looks at Xinyi, waiting.
Xinyi hesitates. The couch is big enough for them to sit apart. But Jae-hyun's arm is spread wide, an invitation. A space next to him.
Xinyi's feet carry him forward before his brain catches up. He pads across the marble, sinks onto the couch beside Jae-hyun, close enough that their thighs almost touch. The leather is cool against his bare legs. The city spreads out before them, glittering and distant.
Jae-hyun doesn't move his arm. Doesn't reach for him. Just sits, his presence a warm weight at Xinyi's side.
Xinyi stares at the skyline, at the afternoon sun catching the glass towers, painting them in shades of gold and amber. His heart is still racing, but it's slowing now, settling into a rhythm he doesn't quite recognize.
He doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know where it's going. But for the first time in days, he doesn't feel like he's drowning.
Maybe that's enough.
They sit in silence, the city humming below them, and Xinyi lets himself lean, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes Jae-hyun's arm.
Jae-hyun doesn't say anything. But his hand finds Xinyi's on the cushion, fingers curling around his, warm and sure.
Xinyi doesn't pull away.
(POV SWITCH)
JAE-HYUN'S POV
Jae-hyun watches Xinyi rummage under the coffee table with the ease of someone who has done it a hundred times. The bag of chips emerges with a triumphant crinkle, and Xinyi settles back against the cushions, tucking his feet up, knees brushing Jae-hyun's thigh.
The contact is casual. Unthinking. Like Jae-hyun's body is just another piece of furniture.
He should be offended. He's not.
Xinyi's socked feet find the edge of the couch, his whole body curling into the corner of the sectional like a cat claiming a sunbeam. The bag of chips rests against his stomach, and he tears it open with his teeth—actually uses his teeth—and the sharp crack of the seal breaking fills the room.
"You're going to ruin your appetite," Jae-hyun says, because he's supposed to be taking care of him and chips are not part of that plan.
"I just ate two bowls of congee." Xinyi shoves a handful of chips into his mouth, crunching loudly. "This is the second stomach. For snacks."
"That's not how anatomy works."
"You're not a doctor."
"Neither are you."
Xinyi waves a chip at him like a wand. "I watch medical dramas. Same thing."
The remote appears in Xinyi's other hand—Jae-hyun didn't even see him pick it up—and the TV flickers to life. The screen opens on a grid of streaming options, rows and rows of thumbnails, and Xinyi scrolls with the lazy confidence of someone who has memorized the entire catalog.
Jae-hyun should be working. There are emails. Reports. Deals that need his attention even if he cleared his calendar. But the afternoon light is soft through the windows, and Xinyi's scent is curling through the air, warm and sweet like honeyed tea, and Jae-hyun's body feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
He watches the thumbnails flick past. A documentary about deep-sea creatures. A historical drama about Joseon kings. Something with zombies. A nature series narrated by someone with a soothing voice. A space opera. A soap opera about twins separated at birth.
"You watch a lot of television," Jae-hyun observes.
"I'm a college student. Television is how I survive the existential dread." Xinyi's eyes don't leave the screen. "Also, I have a system. Monday is documentary day. Tuesday is romcom double-feature. Wednesday is whatever looks stupid. Thursday is—"
"You have a schedule for television."
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not judging." Jae-hyun's mouth twitches. "I'm fascinated."
Xinyi hums, noncommittal, and keeps scrolling. The watch history loads in the corner of the screen, a long list of titles that scrolls for several seconds before reaching the bottom. Jae-hyun catches glimpses: The Thing, Pride and Prejudice, March of the Penguins, Love Actually, Alien, Some Like It Hot, The Great Wall —an eclectic, chaotic mix that tells him more about Xinyi than any conversation could.
Then Xinyi's finger stops scrolling. His eyes light up, a genuine spark of excitement that makes him look younger, softer.
"That one!"
He points at the screen, mouth already full of chips, and Jae-hyun follows his gaze to a movie card. A pastel backdrop. Two attractive people standing too close together in the rain. The title is something saccharine, something about a bakery and a second chance.
"No," Jae-hyun says.
"It has a happy ending!"
"I said nothing sad. This is—" He gestures at the screen. "This is an entire genre of sad. Someone dies. Someone leaves. Someone stands in an airport at the last scene—"
"It's a romcom. Romcoms have happy endings. That's literally the genre contract." Xinyi's lower lip pushes out, a pout that looks practiced but lands anyway. "You promised. No sad endings. This is the opposite of sad."
"I don't trust it."
"Bear-hyun."
The nickname lands soft, almost fond, and Jae-hyun feels something shift in his chest. A loosening. A surrender.
He grumbles, low in his throat, and reaches for the remote. His fingers brush Xinyi's as he takes it, and the touch lingers a beat too long before he presses play.
"If this makes me cry," Jae-hyun says, "I'm holding you responsible."
Xinyi beams. "Noted."
The movie opens on a pastry shop in a small town, all warm lighting and flour-dusted countertops. A woman drops a tray of croissants. A man in a suit walks in. The meet-cute is aggressively predictable.
Jae-hyun's attention drifts.
Because Xinyi has shifted beside him, settling deeper into the cushions, his shoulder pressing against Jae-hyun's arm. The chips rest between them now, the bag open, and Xinyi reaches in every few seconds, pulling out a handful, crunching with the focus of someone who has never been told not to chew with his mouth open.
He's small.
Jae-hyun has noticed before, abstractly, the way Xinyi fits into his clothes, the way his wrists look like they could snap under too much pressure. But here, pressed against his side, Xinyi feels impossibly delicate. His frame is narrow, his shoulders barely reaching Jae-hyun's chest. His legs, folded on the couch, are slender, the bones visible under the pale skin.
He looks like a strong wind could knock him over.
And yet he survived ten days of fever without telling anyone. Suffered alone in that guest room, pushing his plate away, sleeping through the afternoons, hiding it all behind a smile that Jae-hyun now recognizes as practiced.
The thought makes something hot and sharp curl in Jae-hyun's chest.
Xinyi's scent curls through the air, wrapping around him, sinking into his lungs. It's different from the heavy, cloying sweetness of estrus—softer, lazier, like the last hour of daylight. It smells like clean sheets and warm skin, like the air after rain. There's a faint undertone of the chili oil from the congee, the salt of the chips, but underneath all of it, that unmistakable signature that belongs to Xinyi alone.
Jae-hyun's mouth waters.
He breathes in, slow and deep, and his body responds before his mind catches up—his pulse picking up, his skin heating, his cock stirring in his lounge pants.
Fuck.
He shifts, adjusting his position, hoping Xinyi doesn't notice. The omega is engrossed in the movie, his eyes fixed on the screen, his hand reaching into the chip bag on autopilot. He has no idea what he does to Jae-hyun. No idea that his scent hits like a drug, that his body is a study in temptation, that every brush of his shoulder against Jae-hyun's arm sends a jolt of heat through the alpha's veins.
Jae-hyun should move. Put distance between them. Regain control.
He doesn't.
Instead, he lets himself feel it—the warmth of Xinyi's body against his side, the rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shift as he gets comfortable. He catalogues every detail like evidence. The way Xinyi's eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The slight flush across his cheekbones, no longer from fever but from the warmth of the room. The way his lips part when he's focused, a soft, unconscious vulnerability that makes Jae-hyun want to protect him from everything.
Including himself.
On screen, the man in the suit has somehow gotten flour on his shirt. The woman is laughing. The music swells.
Jae-hyun doesn't see any of it.
He's making a mental list. Food—he needs to order groceries, real groceries, things that will put weight back on Xinyi's frame. Something for dinner. Something light for the evening. Maybe fish, rice, vegetables. Soup again, if Xinyi will tolerate it.
A warm bath. The omega's temperature is stable now, but a bath would help him relax, help his body recover fully. Jae-hyun will run it himself, check the temperature, make sure the salts are the ones Xinyi likes. He remembers seeing lavender bath salts in the guest bathroom once. He'll buy more.
More sleep. Xinyi needs at least another two days of proper rest before he's out of the danger zone. Jae-hyun will make sure the bedroom is warm, the curtains drawn, the door cracked so he can hear if Xinyi stirs in the night. He'll stay in the armchair again if he has to.
The list grows, each item a thread of control he's weaving around the omega. A net of care. A cage of attention.
Xinyi shifts again, his head tilting, and suddenly his temple is resting against Jae-hyun's shoulder. The weight of it is slight, barely there, but it sends a shock through Jae-hyun's entire nervous system.
"This part is sad," Xinyi says, his voice muffled slightly by the position. "But it gets better. Promise."
Jae-hyun looks down. Xinyi's hair is soft, falling across his forehead, and his eyes are fixed on the screen. He looks comfortable. Content. Like this is the most natural thing in the world—curling up against his alpha, sharing a bag of chips, watching a terrible romcom on a Tuesday afternoon.
Jae-hyun's throat tightens.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just lets Xinyi stay there, warm and trusting, his scent filling the space between them, and tries to remember the last time someone leaned on him like this.
He can't.
His hand moves before he decides it will. His fingers find Xinyi's hair, threading through the soft strands, stroking slowly. Xinyi makes a small sound, a hum of approval, and presses closer.
Mine.
The word echoes in Jae-hyun's chest, primal and possessive. He doesn't fight it. Doesn't try to rationalize it away. For one suspended moment, he lets himself want this—the warmth, the trust, the weight of Xinyi against his side.
He still has no idea what he's doing. No idea where this is going. The arrangement is broken, the transaction voided, and he's standing in the wreckage with no blueprint for what comes next.
But Xinyi is warm. The afternoon is golden. The movie is terrible.
And for now, that's enough.