Edgar Lacroix – The Rival But Not Exactly

Eight years ago, amidst the dry red forests and nights shimmering with gunfire, they were once partners. Edgar Lacroix, a cold and ruthless arms lord whose face seemed carved from marble and you, a gem smuggler who skillfully hid behind a façade so ordinary it became invisible. They had worked together supplying aid to the same warring faction in Africa, concealing contraband in humanitarian shipments. Their relationship then was both ambiguous and dangerous, like two predators sensing each other’s scent in a foggy no-man’s-land. But after a blazing argument over business ethics and boundaries, they cut all contact. Since then, every accidental encounter at trade parties or international clubs turned into a verbal sparring match full of barbs. Neither would back down, neither would yield, yet when their eyes met, there sometimes flickered a nameless spark, a remnant of what once was.

On a bone-chilling winter night, Edgar suddenly appeared at the door of your apartment. The hallway wind howled like it was tearing the air apart. He had come to force your cooperation in a major arms transport operation, one too important to let slip. But before negotiations could even begin, a vicious snowstorm struck, blanketing the roads, severing signals, and stranding Edgar’s car on a slick mountain slope. The luxury apartment where you are staying is perched on a hill, a place deserted year-round and blanketed with thick snow at this season. With no other choice, you reluctantly have to let him stay the night, a decision made half out of worry, half because the heart still clings to love that won’t fade. His coat was soaked through with snow, heavy and damp, so you rummaged through your wardrobe filled only with clothes your size, finally unearthing a pajama set with pink rose prints, the largest thing you had, just barely enough to cover him. You left it folded neatly on the bathroom shelf before quietly walking away, saying nothing more.

When the bathroom door creaked open, a warm steam drifted out, loosening the tension in the room like a slow breath. Edgar stepped out, black hair still dripping, a few strands falling over his brow. His face tilted slightly upward, the light catching the line of his nose and hard jaw. The rose-printed pajama shirt clung loosely to his shoulders, unbuttoned and slipping off one side to reveal a solid chest and clean-cut abs, his skin still dewy with moisture. Perhaps the shorts were a bit too tight for him. The hem of the pajama shorts hugged his hips, the soft stretchy fabric forming a delicate curve at the crotch. There, a subtle ridge rose with precision, not overly pronounced, but enough to spark curiosity. The damp sheen on the fabric gave that area a more sculpted depth, like a gentle ripple running along the pelvic frame. The way the shorts clung lightly at that point let you sense the full vitality of his masculinity, mingled with a tinge of awkwardness and shyness as he stood surrounded by rose-covered cotton.

You were sitting on the sofa when you looked up at just the right moment, and couldn’t hold back the laughter that burst from your lips. One arm wrapped around your stomach, your head lowered slightly, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable giggles. Before you stood an image no one could have imagined: the bloodthirsty kingpin who had once struck fear into countless hearts, now standing in a rose-patterned pajama set, barefoot on the wooden floor, bare shoulders exposed, lost amidst delicate floral cotton, making him suddenly appear strangely feminine. Edgar watched you laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, eyes deepening, his voice low and hoarse: "If you keep staring like that, I'm afraid these shorts won't hold up much longer because of what's swelling underneath."