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The air over South Plaza still thrummed with the ghost of panic bleeding to relief. Hero X stood casually a few feet away from the wreckage left behind by the villain of the week. All around him, the organized chaos of aftermath unfolded: emergency lights painted everything in frantic red and blue, EMTs guided shell-shocked civilians to waiting ambulances, and authorities stationed at points to help guide the chaos and draw in the reigns as to charter order into the mess.
Between his fingers, the captured villain was an image of twisted indignation. Nothing new if X was being honest, to some extent most of the cards in his deck reflected a similar look . X would look around making his way to whoever looked like they were taking the most amount of charge at the scene to offer the card to them. It was an oddly familar routine when X was concerned. The officer nodding his head taking the card as he radioed in for his collagues to ready the containment unit. A group of men in uniform arrived, rushing over to set up the containment making sure it was secure before the officer moved to set the card inside and step away for it to be locked up. Once set they would look to X, nodding their head to show their readiness. X would nod back before raising his hand to snap, the villain would reappear with a flurry of pixels, just as the media barrier was breached.
“Hero X! Channel Seven News! A moment for the city?” The reporter, a woman with a helmet of immaculate hair and a microphone like a silver spear, materialized before him. Her cameraman was a hulking shadow behind a blinding light.
X suppressed a sigh that felt dredged from his bones. The post-power drain was always a suck on his energy, and all he could think about was the couch, the quiet of their apartment, and the specific way Lin Ling would raise one perfect eyebrow at the state of him, before offering him something sweet. Usually something strawberry related.
“Make it quick. I’ve got… prior engagements.” Dinner, he thought. I promised I’d cook tonight.
“Of course! The city thanks you for your swift action today. Now, our viewers are always so invested in the lives of our protectors. Specifically, the relationship between you and Hero Lin Ling. It’s the talk of the town—our premier ‘Power Couple.’ Any comment on what keeps the spark alive amidst the chaos?”
X’s smile was thin but genuine at the mention of Ling.
“He puts up with me. That’s basically a superpower in itself. Next question.” He slipped his hands into his pockets with simple grace. He saw no reason to tell them all the ways his beautiful Lin Ling captured his heart and why.
The reporter’s smile turned razor-sharp, sensing deflection.
“Let’s try a hypothetical, then! Pure fun for the fans. If, for some reason, you and the formidable Lin Ling were not an item… who among the city’s other heroic figures could you see yourself dating?”
X paused, his hand still in his pocket. It was an idiotic question. Vapid. The kind designed to generate social media ripples and clickbait articles. His instinct was to snap away, to leave her talking to empty air. But the day’s minor annoyances chose that moment to meld into a single, tempting idea. The paperwork fiasco Smile had pinned on him last week. And just this morning, that infuriatingly cheerful theft on the way to work. Smile’s golden-streak blur as he’d yoinked the last can of X’s precious, hyper-caffeinated soda right from his grip with a wink and a sly comment of “Consider it an investment in your health!”
A slow, wicked grin spread across X’s face, cutting through his fatigue. It was too perfect. A little public goading that would have fans and media flocking to Smile's socials to annoy him and maybe cause a little bit of a PR issue on his end, a minor nuisance, nothing a few quick comments couldn't brush away. Utterly harmless, he thought as he leaned into the microphone, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, playful rumble that he knew played well on screen.
“Well, since it’s purely hypothetical…” He let the pause hang, watching the reporter’s eyes light up with avaricious glee.
“I guess, if the universe forced my hand… Smile’s got a certain… relentless positivity. An energy that could be… interesting.” He gave a final, deliberate shrug, the picture of casual mischief.
“Now, I really do have a prior engagement.” In a snap of imploding air that ruffled the reporter’s perfect hair, he was gone. He didn’t see her triumphant look to the camera, already composing her headline. He didn’t see the clip begin its viral journey across the city’s networks. He was already thinking of garlic, ginger, and the way Lin Ling’s expression when he enjoyed the first bite of a well-made meal.
Lin Ling’s day had begun in the hushed, pre-dawn perfection he mandated for himself. While X was undoubtedly still a warm lump in their bed, Lin Ling had moved through his morning meditation on their balcony, each motion a study in controlled power, the rising sun painting his silhouette in gold. He’d meditated, aligning his internal energy. He had reviewed the newest commercial campaign Ms. J sent over with a cup of fresh brewed coffee.
His first Campaign, alongside Ahu, to promote healthy living and bring some light towards the uptick in animal abuse, and what the community can do to spot and prevent it. He had just finished up his coffee when X stumbled into the kitchen, already dressed for the office and moving to pour himself a thermos for the ride. They exchanged a few words mostly soft reminders and a couple of playful teases and promises.
Lin Ling slipped off of his chair to catch X before he ran out of the kitchen. His hands moving to straighten the man's tie first, adjusting it carefully. Honey hues would raise to meet steel as he tightened the knot, holding it for a moment before he was tugging the man now to meet his lips. Coffee and something that was just X. Their lips melted and danced together as if they hadn't spent the better part of the night before pressed together.
When they parted it was with a soft sigh and sweeter pecks. Flushed cheeks and half lidded eyes their silent conversation. Words of romance couldn't compete with the adoration in their gaze. Slowly they would parts with soft whispers of "see you" "be home on time" "I miss you" "I love you".
Once X was out the door, Lin Ling would go to shower and get dressed for his own day. Making his way into the Treeman rented Studio where Ms. J was already waiting with Ahu and Xin Ya. He would apologize for not being early and get an earful, then they were off. Things weren't so hard and of the top ten he did enjoy working with Ahu. The other always had this gruff attitude, but would turn to putty when Xin Ya was concerned. It was adorable in its own right and Lin Ling did enjoy the other's company.
"Good Job today Lin Ling and Ahu. Both of you were able to complete the shoot ahead of schedule” Ms. J spoke clapping her hands. The praise she gave, well Lin Ling was sure it was more so because they were in front of Ahu and Xin Ya, more so than her being proud of Lin Ling's work. He could do his best and she would still push him for more. He didn't mind it all that much anymore. She expected more and it gave him a new goal to strive for. Always improving and all that.
He would walk with Ahu and Xin Ya after the shoot. Mostly to head back to the old part of town and check up on the state of things there. He was also curious to see what new theatrical project Xin Ya had in store for Ahu. Once done he would bid them his good bye before turning to make his way back home.
It was on his way home when he reached for his phone to turn it back on, having shut it off before the shoot. A habit instilled after Ms. J had smashed his last phone for how much time he as spending on it messaging X. Once the screen lit up awake, A news alert would pop up, then dozens more. He thumbed it open on reflex curiosity and dread filling him. A surplus of notifications like this usually meant something was trending that had to do with him.
HERO X SAVES SOUTH PLAZA! WITNESS THE MOMENT! The video auto-played. There was X, gloriously handsome, the very embodiment of aloof, mischievous power. Lin Ling’s lips quirked. Show-off. Beautiful, ridiculous show-off.
The clip continued. The reporter’s question, dripping with faux innocence, pierced the city’s rumble, through his earbuds: “If, for some reason, you and Lin Ling were not together… who among the city’s other Heroes could you see yourself dating?”
Lin Ling’s body did not react. His posture remained perfect, his expression the usual serene mask. But internally, the world narrowed to the tiny screen. A profound, chilling stillness settled in his core. It wasn’t anger. It was the focused silence of a predator, of a system locking onto a target.
He watched X’s face. Saw the flicker in his eyes—not warmth, not love, but mischief. The specific, familiar mischief that preceded X doing something profoundly stupid for his own amusement. The grin that wasn’t tender, but teasing.
“Well, since it’s hypothetical… I guess, if I had to pick… Smile’s got a certain… energy. Could be interesting.”
The words hung in the digital air. The reporter’s gleeful gasp was a tiny, sharp needle in Lin Ling’s ear. X vanished with a snap.
Around Lin Ling, people strolled, shopped, and talked. He stood motionless, a pillar of calm in the shifting crowd. He replayed the clip. Then again. He analyzed it with the same detached precision he’d used to assess the failing tunnel supports. The body language: casual, playful. The qualifiers: “Hypothetical.” “If I had to pick.” The descriptor: “Energy. Interesting.”
Intellectually, he understood. It was a joke. A petty, public prank aimed at Smile, fueled by sone childish, probably soda related grievance. It was classic X. Never abuse only confuse, yet. Intellect was a feeble shield. It did nothing to halt the sudden, hollow feeling that opened beneath his ribs, as if one of his gravity had collapsed inward. It wasn’t about infidelity. The concept was laughable. It was the flippancy. The effortless way X had offered up the sanctity of them, the most real and anchored thing in Lin Ling’s life, as a throwaway line for public consumption.
The planned evening, the shared meal, the quiet debriefing of their days, the way X would inevitably fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, curdled in his mind. It was replaced by the image of that grin, that public, performative grin, and the knowledge that right now, across the city, people were laughing, gossiping, reducing what they had with a hypothetical “what-if.”
The rest of Lin Ling's walk to their apartment building was a blur. The familiar streets felt alien. His phone buzzed again. A message in the encrypted Hero chat. It was from Smile.
Smile: 😇 @X Dude! Caught your shout-out! Blushing over here! But you know I value my life too much to try with you! 😘 @Lin Ling he’s all yours, Please don't be scary! 😊😊😊
The message, meant in jest, to defuse, was acid on the wound. Their private life was now a group chat punchline. The cold that had started in his gut spread, crystallizing into a sharp, permafrost layer over his emotions. He was cold, through and through.
The smell that hit him, ginger, garlic, chili oil, was so intimately X, so profoundly home, that it was a physical assault on his frozen core. He heard the off-key humming, the sizzle of the wok. For a heart-stopping second, the ice cracked, and a wave of sheer longing nearly buckled his knees. He wanted nothing more than to walk into that kitchen, press his forehead against that strong back, and let the day melt away.
But then he saw the mental image again: the reporter’s microphone, X’s teasing smirk. The ice reformed, thicker, harder. He walked through the doorway. He focused on the ritual: the exact parallel alignment of his boots on the rack, the smooth drape of his jacket on the hook, the measured tread towards the bedroom, a neutral zone where he could try to reassemble himself into someone who wasn’t aching.
X hummed a tuneless, meandering melody, something between a commercial jingle he couldn’t forget and the theme to an old mecha anime, as he faced his culinary adversary. The ground beef, a half-pound of redish-grey, had decided to forsake its loose, crumbly nature and form a single, defiant clump in the center of the blisteringly hot wok. The oil sizzled around it with a sound like miniature applause.
“Oh, you think you’re a team player now?” X muttered to the meat, poking it with the edge of his spatula.
“After all these years of being perfectly scattered? Unbelievable.”
Cooking for Ling was the one domestic skill he’d pursued with a hero’s dedication. It was physics and chemistry he could control, with delicious, immediate rewards. The kitchen was their domain of peace, a place where Lin Ling’s meticulous order (knives magnetized to a steel strip by length, spices in identical glass jars with handwritten labels in his script) met X’s cheerful chaos (a splash of dark soy sauce on the counter, a trail of rice grains leading to the cooker, the ever-present can of soda sweating a ring onto the counter).
He’d already prepared the spices for the dish. A small bowl held the fermented chili bean paste, its deep, funky aroma promising layers of umami heat. Another contained finely minced garlic and ginger, their pungency sharp and clean. A third showcased the Sichuan peppercorns, some whole, some freshly ground, their citrus-y, tongue-numbing magic waiting to be unleashed. The silken tofu, pale and trembling in its water bath, was a delicate counterpoint to the heat he had prepared.
With a focused grunt, he brought the flat of the spatula down on the beef clump, crushing its rebellion. It broke apart into perfect, crispy-edged crumbles.
“Victory,” he declared to the empty kitchen, a grin spreading across his face.
He worked with a focused joy. The garlic and ginger hit the oil, and their fragrance bloomed instantly, a scent that meant home more than any other. He stirred, watching them turn just golden before adding the chili bean paste. The rich red paste darkened, coating the beef, staining the oil a fiery crimson. The steam that rose now was spicy enough to make his eyes water. He reached for the Shaoxing wine, the splash hissing violently, deglazing the fond and adding a sweet, complex depth.
This was the part he loved. The construction. Adding broth, watching it bubble and mix with the spices. Then, with a care he reserved almost exclusively for this and for treating Ling’s rare injuries, he slid the squares of silken tofu into the simmering magma. He nudged them gently into the sauce, not stirring, letting them heat through without breaking apart. A slurry of cornstarch and water went in next, thickening the sauce until it clung to the tofu and beef in a glossy, scarlet embrace. A final shower of ground Sichuan pepper, a drizzle of sesame oil for fragrance, and a careful scattering of finely sliced scallion greens for color.
He stood back, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. The mapo tofu was a masterpiece of contrasts: creamy white against red, soft tofu against savory beef. It was Ling’s favorite. It was an apology for being late last week, a celebration for his successful solo mission yesterday, and a simple, daily “I love you” all in one dish.
He turned to the rest of the kitchen, his domain now a battlefield of creation. He’d set the small, round dining table with the dark celadon-glazed bowls Ling had found at a flea market—they were imperfect, slightly irregular, and Ling loved them for their quiet character. The chopsticks, ebony and tipped with silver, were laid parallel. A single sprig of purple orchids from the balcony plant (which X was forbidden from watering) sat in a slender vase in the center. The rice cooker beeped its completion, releasing a cloud of sweet steam. He fluffed the short-grain rice, admiring the pearly grains, before filling the two bowls.
The apartment was a portrait of evening peace. The last of the sunset painted long, amber stripes across the polished floor. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was a glittering tapestry of life, but here, in their nest, the world was soft and quiet. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic whoosh of traffic below.
He was just considering whether to light the beeswax candle Ling liked when the key clicked in the lock. The sound was a punctuation mark to his contentment. He didn’t turn, a smile already breaking over his face as he called out—
“Hey, you’re just in time! The rice is about to—oh.”
His voice faltered. He hadn’t heard the usual sequence. The solid thump of Ling’s boots being toe-heeled off, the soft shush of his jacket being shrugged from his shoulders and caught on the hook in one fluid motion, the barely-there sigh, more an exhalation of shifted weight, that signaled the shedding of the Hero persona and the return of the man.
This silence was different. It was… procedural. X turned, spatula still in hand.
Lin Ling moved through the entryway like a ghost. His movements were no less graceful, but they were devoid of their usual lived-in ease. He placed his boots on the rack—left, then right—aligning them with a precision that was almost militant. He hung his jacket. Not a wrinkle disturbed its matte black surface. He did not glance towards the kitchen, towards the light, towards X. His beautiful face, illuminated in the hallway’s soft indirect light, was a study in polished jade: flawless, cold, and utterly unreadable. Then, he turned and walked down the short hall towards their bedroom. The door closed with a soft, definitive click.
X stood frozen, the spatula dripping a single, fat drop of red oil onto the stove-top with a violent hiss. The glorious, aromatic steam from the wok suddenly felt accusatory. The carefully set table looked foolish, like the preparations for a party where no one would come.
“Ling?” he called, his voice sounding oddly loud in the quiet. He set the spatula down.
“That you?”
Only the hum of the refrigerator answered.
The bewildered concern that rose in him was immediate and familiar, but edged with a new, sharp confusion. A bad day. It had to be cataclysmically bad. The photo shoot the other had, must have been a particular kind of hell. Lin Ling’s anger was never loud; it was a deepening chill, a retreat into a fortress of impeccable silence. But this felt… different. Colder. The air in the warm kitchen seemed to drop several degrees.
X would cover the food, remove the apron he wore and and made his way towards the bedroom. His approach was silent and swift. Hand landing on the doornob and slowly pushing it ajar.
“Hey,” he said, softer now, leaning into the frame. The room was dim, lit only by the fading twilight. Lin Ling sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, his back to the door, his posture a straight line from the crown of his head to the base of his spine. He was pulling his hair tie free with slow, deliberate fingers. The dark cascade of his hair fell around his shoulders, a silken curtain that hid his profile. The movement was so achingly familiar, a nightly ritual X loved to watch, but now it was performed with the solemnity of a last rite.
“Tough day?” X ventured, stepping inside. The floorboards were cool under his socks.
Lin Ling gave no indication he’d heard. He set the hair tie on the nightstand.
Worry spiked, sharp and urgent. X crossed the room, the soft shush of his sweatpants the only sound. He knelt on the plush rug before Lin Ling, his hands coming up to rest gently on the tense muscles of his thighs, just above the knees. Through the fine wool of Ling’s trousers, he could feel the coiled strength, the rigid control.
“Whatever it is, we can—”
Lin Ling stood. It wasn’t a jerk; it was a smooth, unstoppable uncoiling, like a steel spring released. It broke X’s contact effortlessly. He moved to the dresser, the one with the mirrored front that X always complained made him feel watched. Lin Ling’s reflection was a pale, beautiful mask as he pulled out a pair of soft, charcoal-gray sweatpants.
Okay. Deep freeze. A flicker of X’s own frustration cut through the concern. He was trying. He was here. He got to his feet and intercepted Ling’s path to the ensuite bathroom, his hands coming to rest on those familiar, strong shoulders. He could feel the incredible power that thrummed just under the skin, held in absolute check.
“Ling,” he said, his voice firming.
“Talk to me. A Hi, at least?”
Finally, Lin Ling turned his head. His gaze met X’s in the dim room. And X felt his breath catch. It wasn’t a glare of fire. It was a glacier. It was the absolute zero of deep space. It held a disappointment so profound, so personal, that it seemed to leach the warmth from X’s own body. For a long, suspended second, they simply looked at each other. Then, with a minute, controlled, and devastatingly precise twist of his shoulders, Lin Ling shrugged off X’s hands. The rejection was silent, absolute, and complete.
He walked past X, out of the bedroom, and back towards the kitchen.
X followed, a silent, confused shadow. He watched as Lin Ling approached the beautifully laid table. For a heartbeat, X thought—hoped—the sight of the meal, the effort, might crack the ice. But Lin Ling’s eyes swept over it as if it were a museum display. He picked up a bowl (not the bowl X had made), served himself a modest, precise portion of rice and tofu—avoiding the larger chunks of beef X had strategically placed on top—and sat down. He picked up his chopsticks, aligned them, and began to eat. Each motion was economical, flawless, and utterly devoid of pleasure. He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on some middle distance beyond the orchid, beyond the window, in a place X could not reach.
X sank into his own chair, the one that usually felt like a throne of contentment. His own bowl of food sat before him, steam still faintly rising. It looked like ashes. The hollow feeling in his gut expanded. He picked up his chopsticks, put them down. Re-ran the mental tape of his day. The fight? Standard operating procedure. The soda fiasco? Smile’s fault, but he’d gotten him back, hadn’t he? That interview quip…
The interview.
The glib, off-the-cuff, hypothetical answer.
The playful, trollish tone.
The public broadcast.
Oh.
Oh, you monumental, galaxy-class idiot.
The realization didn’t dawn; it detonated. A silent, white-hot supernova of understanding that lit up every synapse. The reporter’s vapid, baiting question. His own thoughtless, “clever” retort, designed solely to annoy a colleague. The 24-hour news cycle, hungry for crumbs.
He slowly, carefully, placed his chopsticks on the table, the click of ebony on wood abnormally loud. The worry and defensive frustration vaporized, replaced by a surge of such overwhelming, tender, ridiculous delight it threatened to lift him out of his seat. He looked across the table at his love, who was now using the edge of a chopstick to meticulously separate a single Sichuan peppercorn from a cube of tofu, his beautiful face a masterpiece of impassive, wounded dignity.
A grin split X’s face. It was so wide, so involuntary, it felt like it would permanently reshape his features. It was the grin of a man who had, through staggering idiocy, stumbled upon the most precious secret in existence.
“Ling,” he said, the name escaping on a puff of incredulous laughter.
Lin Ling took another bite, chewing with deliberate focus.
“Lin Ling,” X tried again, his voice softening into something warm and coaxing. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping softly on the floor, and scooted it around the corner of the table, moving closer.
“My love. My gorgeous, brilliant, impossibly storm-cloud of a love.”
A faint, almost imperceptible tic in the muscle of Lin Ling’s jaw. A tiny crack in the permafrost. A tell.
X leaned in, closing the distance between them. He could see the individual lashes casting shadows on Ling’s cheek, the faint flush of exertion still high on his bone structure. He dropped his voice to a warm, intimate rumble, a tone reserved for pillows and promises.
“Are you… jealous?”
The effect was instantaneous, and more beautiful than any cosmic event X had ever witnessed. The chopsticks stilled, suspended above the bowl. Lin Ling did not speak. He did not gasp or deny. He simply, with a magnificence that stole X’s breath, turned his head away. His chin lifted in a sublime display of haughty offense, his nose tilting up just a fraction. And from his lips, perfectly modulated and devastatingly eloquent, came a soft, definitive, “Hmph.”
It was the most glorious sound X had ever been privileged to hear.
The laughter broke free then, not mocking, but warm and rich and full of a boundless, adoring awe. He was out of his chair in a movement that was pure reflex, a snap of intent that bypassed thought. One moment he was seated, the next he was behind Lin Ling’s chair, his arms wrapping around that tense, straight torso, burying his laughter and his face in the sweet, familiar scent at the junction of Ling’s neck and shoulder.
“You are!” he crowed, his voice muffled against warm skin. He began to pepper kisses along the stubbornly rigid line of Ling’s jaw, quick, affectionate bursts of contact.
“You’re jealous! Over a stupid, throwaway joke I made to annoy Smile because he committed soda-based larceny this morning!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lin Ling muttered, but his voice lacked its customary steel. It was thin, brittle, the protest of a man who knew the game was up.
“The interview,” X whispered between kisses that traveled from the sharp angle of his jaw to the sensitive spot just below his ear.
“That asinine, hypothetical nonsense. I said Smile to mess with him, to troll the media vultures buzzing around. It was air. Static. It meant less than nothing.” Gently, he turned the chair, forcing Lin Ling to face him, though those storm-cloud eyes remained fixed on a point beyond X’s shoulder, the blush on his cheeks deepening. With infinite care, X cupped Lin Ling’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over the high, elegant cheekbones.
“Look at me. Please.”
The struggle was visible, a war waged in microseconds. The hurt, the pride, the sheer exhaustion of the day warring with the deep, unwavering love beneath. Slowly, with immense reluctance, Lin Ling’s gaze shifted. It dragged upwards, over X’s shoulder, his throat, his chin, finally meeting his eyes. The cold was still there, a lingering frost, but behind it, X saw the raw vulnerability, the quiet, personal ache he had so casually inflicted.
The sight hollowed him out and filled him with a ferocious tenderness.
“There is no one,” X said, all trace of laughter gone, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intense whisper. He leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching.
“There is no one in this dimension, or in any of the infinite, spinning fractals of the multiverse, who could even hold a flickering candle next to you. Not a spark. Not a glimmer. You are my constant. My gravity. You’re the quiet that pulls me home when I’m lost in my own noise. You’re the only person who can make a spreadsheet look like art and a glare feel like an invitation I’d cross galaxies to accept.” He was rambling, simping, laying the chaotic, overgrown garden of his heart bare without a shred of shame.
“I am so stupidly, completely, astronomically in love with you, Lin Ling, that the idea of anyone else isn’t even a wrong answer on a test. It’s a syntax error in the fundamental code of my existence. You have ruined me, in the best way possible, for every other conceivable being in all of creation.” He watched, enthralled, as the permafrost shattered. The glacial glare melted, not into water, but into something warmer, softer. It became a wounded, watery pout that trembled for a second before dissolving into an expression of heartbreaking openness. A vivid, rosy blush bloomed fully up Lin Ling’s neck, staining his pale cheeks and the tips of his ears. He tried valiantly to maintain the scowl, but his traitorous lips twitched, betraying him, threatening to curl into the smile X lived for.
“You’re an idiot,” Lin Ling whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears and a love so vast it had no other outlet.
“Your idiot,” X agreed instantly, surging forward the last inch to capture that reluctant, perfect mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It was a seal, a promise, an apology tasted, accepted, and folded into the history of them.
“Forever your idiot.”
Lin Ling sighed then, a deep, shuddering exhalation that seemed to release the weight of the collapsed tunnels. His body went utterly pliant, melting against X’s solid form like ice surrendering to the sun. His hands, which had been clenched in his lap, came up. They slid over X’s shoulders, the touch tentative at first, then firming, looping loosely around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape with a possessive, familiar certainty.
“I am still mad,” Lin Ling declared against his lips, but he was already kissing back, his mouth moving with a hungry, insistent passion that utterly belied his words.
“I know,” X whispered, grinning into the kiss, tasting the mapo tofu and the unique, clean essence of Ling.
“I’ll make it up to you. Name your price.”
“Good,” Lin Ling said, the word a warm breath against X’s mouth. And then he pulled X in, his arms tightening, deepening the kiss until the world narrowed to the point where their lips met. The city lights blurred outside the window, the forgotten food cooled on the table. There was only this: the solid, undeniable truth of X’s heartbeat against his own, the safe, encompassing circle of their arms.
When they finally parted, it was by millimeters, their foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the small, shared space. Lin Ling’s eyes were soft, the storm gone, replaced by a tranquil sea reflecting only X.
“The food,” he murmured,
“is getting cold.”
“Don’t care,” X mumbled, nuzzling his nose along Ling’s, his eyes closed in pure contentment.
“Rather kiss you.”
“You can do both,” Lin Ling said, and a small smile finally broke through, a breathtaking sight that never failed to make X’s heart stutter.
“But the kissing,” he added, his fingers tightening slightly in X’s hair,
“is non-negotiable.”
X laughed then, a sound of pure, unfiltered joy that echoed in their quiet apartment, bouncing off the pots and pans and the carefully labeled spice jars. It was the sound of home, reaffirmed.
“Sir, yes, sir,” he murmured, and obeyed, pulling his boyfriend—his jealous, perfect, wonderfully human boyfriend—into a warm, full-bodied hug that spoke of forgiveness, of homecoming, of a love so robust a little cold shoulder could never truly chill it.
They eventually ate. X stayed close so their knees were constantly touching. He ate with one hand, his other a permanent, reassuring presence on Lin Ling, a thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, fingers gently playing with the ends of his hair, a broad palm resting warmly on his thigh. The tactile reassurance was a constant, silent pulse: here, I’m here, it’s just us, always.
Lin Ling found his appetite returning. The mapo tofu, now lukewarm, tasted better than it ever had when hot. The complex heat of the chili, the numbing buzz of the peppercorn, the creamy silk of the tofu—it was no longer just a dish, but a sensory memory of this moment, of X’s ridiculous, wonderful speech. He ate slowly, savoring it, his own free hand often drifting down to cover X’s where it rested on his leg, lacing their fingers together.