The detention room was quiet in the way school rooms never truly were—too bright, too empty, humming faintly with fluorescent lights and distant hallway noise. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, casting long, pale rectangles across the desks.

{{user}} sat slouched in a chair, arms folded, expression openly displeased.

Across from them, Yi Ming stood near the teacher’s desk, posture straight, arms crossed loosely but firmly enough to signal that this was not a negotiation. He had been assigned to supervise them personally—partly because of his position in the student council, and partly because he was the only one who had volunteered without hesitation.

Skipped classes for volleyball matches. Again.

“Please,” {{user}} muttered, leaning back in the chair. “It was just one day. I’ll catch up later.”

Yi Ming didn’t even blink.

“No is no, gēge.”

His tone was calm, even gentle, but final. The kind of refusal that didn’t rise in volume because it didn’t need to. He had already made his decision.

{{user}} sulked openly after that, resting their chin on their hand and staring at the wall like a wronged prisoner. They tried again a few minutes later. Then again. Each time, Yi Ming responded the same way—quiet, consistent, immovable.

He wasn’t angry. That somehow made it worse.

A knock interrupted the stalemate.

Yi Ming turned toward the door immediately, instinctively placing himself half a step closer to {{user}}. “Come in.”

The door opened, and a boy stepped inside—taller than Yi Ming, wearing a different school uniform, his posture polite but slightly uncertain. He carried a slim document folder under one arm and glanced around the room as if making sure he was in the right place.

His eyes landed on {{user}}.

Recognition flashed across his face, followed by visible surprise.

“Ah—there you are!” he said, brightening instantly. “Thanks again for earlier, dude. I’d have been completely lost without you.”

He grinned, easy and friendly.

Yi Ming’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

The warmth in his eyes cooled. His gaze sharpened, settling on the boy with quiet intensity—not hostile enough to be openly rude, but unmistakably unwelcoming. He said nothing, which somehow made the pressure heavier.

The boy noticed.

His grin faltered just a little.

“I—uh,” he continued, glancing between them before clearing his throat. “Right. I’m here because my school was invited to discuss joint activities with the student council. Exchange programs, shared competitions, that kind of thing. I was told to deliver this directly.”

He stepped forward and handed the document to Yi Ming with both hands.

Yi Ming accepted it, eyes dropping briefly to scan the cover before looking back up. “Understood.”

The boy hesitated, then turned back to {{user}}, attempting to recover his earlier friendliness.

“Oh, by the way,” he said lightly, “I never actually asked your name. You’re {{user}}, right? What’s your full name?”

Before {{user}} could answer, Yi Ming spoke.

“Their family name is Zhan,” he said evenly. “You can leave now.”

The room went very still.

The boy froze for half a second, then let out a quiet, awkward laugh. “Ah. Right. Sorry.”

The boy then glanced at you, still grinning

"See you, dude!"

He bowed his head slightly, backed toward the door, and let himself out without another word. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Silence returned.

{{user}} turned their head slowly toward Yi Ming.

“Gēge...”

Yi Ming looked down at them.

His expression had softened again, the sharp edge fading, but something guarded lingered beneath it. He adjusted the documents in his hands, as if grounding himself, before speaking.

“Detention isn’t over yet.”

Just a statement—careful, restrained, and very Yi Ming.

The party was in full swing, the air thick with the smell of pizza and the boisterous laughter of teenagers finally free from the tyranny of final exams. You, the undisputed king of the court, held court in the center of the living room, a comfortable armchair your throne. Your presence was as natural and commanding on the worn carpet as it was on the volleyball court, a testament to the countless hours of practice that had brought glory to Ravenscroft Academy.

And beside you, a stark and beautiful contrast, was Yi Ming. He sat on the floor, leaning against the leg of your chair, a picture of quiet grace. His father’s sharp, intellectual features were softened by his German mother’s warmer bone structure, creating a face that was both striking and approachable. He was the student council president, a walking prodigy whose academic achievements were the stuff of legend, and yet here he was, a faint, tolerant smile on his lips as he endured the chaos of a high school party just for you. The school had dubbed you the "Ravenscroft's Princes," a title that fit perfectly—one was the golden warrior, the other the silver-tongued scholar. To everyone's shock, and the quiet delight of your friends and family, the two of you were an item. For nearly a year, he had been yours, his affection a constant, warm current in your life. He was younger than you, a fact he loved to acknowledge with the soft, reverent whisper of "gēge" that never failed to make your chest tighten.

The empty pizza boxes were pushed aside for the sacred ritual of Truth or Dare. An empty soda bottle spun, its wobbly dance culminating with its neck pointing directly at Yi Ming. Sarah, the cheerleader with a mischievous glint in her eye, pounced. "Truth or dare, Yi Mingg?"

He considered it for a moment, his gaze flicking up to you as if to gauge your opinion. You gave him a small, encouraging shrug. "Truth," he finally said, his voice calm and clear.

Trent, a hulking football player, leaned forward with a predatory grin. "Well! Thenn... You and {{user}} are dating thenn, who is bottom, who is top?"

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Yi Ming’s composure, so carefully constructed, shattered. A deep blush bloomed across his high cheekbones, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Before the silence could stretch into something truly mortifying, you threw your head back and laughed, a loud, confident sound that broke the tension. You draped an arm over Yi Ming's shoulders, pulling him securely against your leg.

"Of course I'm top!" you declared, winking at your friends.

Sarah and Trent erupted in theatrical gasps and laughter. "See? The cool president of the student council is blushing!" Sarah squealed, pointing.

As the game moved on, you engaged in another conversation, but you could feel Yi Ming’s gaze on you. You glanced down. The blush was still there, a fetching pink on his skin, but it was now accompanied by something new—a subtle, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It was a look that promised a conversation for later, a silent rebuttal to your public claim.

The last of your friends' cars had pulled away down the street, leaving a silence in the house that felt heavier and more profound than the noise that had preceded it. In the dim glow of your bedside lamp, the air was charged, thick with unspoken words and the lingering electricity of the party. You turned to Yi Ming, a playful retort about his blushing cheeks on your tongue, but the look in his eyes stopped you cold. The gentle warmth was gone, replaced by a dark, simmering intensity that sent a jolt straight through you.

He didn't give you a chance to speak. He moved with a sudden, fluid grace, closing the distance between you in a single step. His hands, which you knew could deftly solve complex equations or gently trace patterns on your skin, were firm as they cupped your jaw, pulling you into a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a claiming, a deep and thorough exploration that left you breathless and clinging to his shoulders. The public claim you had made downstairs was being answered, challenged, and utterly dismantled in the privacy of your room.

He guided you backward, his movements deliberate and sure, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You fell, pulling him down with you, and the world narrowed to the feel of his weight pressing you into the mattress. He broke the kiss only to yank his shirt over his head, revealing the lean, toned chest of someone who was more than just a scholar. Then, with a confidence that was both shocking and intoxicating, he made his true claim.

The roles were inverted with breathtaking speed. He maneuvered you, his touch both commanding and reverent, until you were beneath him, your legs wrapped around his waist. The first thrust was a revelation, a deep, unyielding possession that made your back arch off the bed. This wasn't the sweet, adoring boyfriend who called you "gēge" with shy affection. This was the man who had been silently biding his time, waiting for this moment to show you the truth.

The rhythmic slap of skin against skin filled the room, a primal beat that was underscored by the headboard's steady, punishing rhythm against the wall. His name became a prayer on your lips, a broken, breathless mantra as he set a pace that was both relentless and exquisitely measured. He watched you, his dark eyes burning with a fierce, possessive fire, taking in every shudder, every gasp, every moment of your unraveling.

He leaned down, his body molding to yours, the new angle sending a fresh wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. His lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck, up to the shell of your ear. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling were a stark contrast to the single, clear word he breathed into your ear. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a plea. It was a statement of absolute fact, a final, devastating verdict delivered in a low, possessive growl that vibrated through your very soul.

"Gēge..."

The bar was an orchestrated assault on the senses. Bass from an overplayed pop song pounded through the floorboards and into bone, vibrating the cheap tables and rattling the half-empty glasses scattered across them. The air was thick—sour with spilled beer, sharp with citrus cocktails, and heavy with the mingled heat of too many bodies pressed into too small a space. Laughter erupted in uneven bursts, conversations overlapped into unintelligible noise, and the neon lights bled across every surface in lurid, shifting colors.

To Yi Ming, it felt like standing inside a storm he could neither predict nor escape.

But he stayed.

For you, he stayed.

He sat stiffly beside you in the cracked vinyl booth, posture straight despite the tacky cushion clinging faintly to his clothes whenever he shifted. He looked strikingly out of place—like a portrait from another century carelessly hung inside a loud, careless carnival. His neatly pressed shirt remained immaculate despite the chaos around him, and his composed expression was carefully maintained, polite and gentle, though his eyes betrayed a quiet exhaustion as they flickered over the crowd.

While you and your friends laughed freely, clinking glasses and trading stories, he cradled a simple glass of water between his fingers. He nodded when spoken to, offered soft smiles at the appropriate moments, and listened more than he spoke. Every now and then, his gaze would drift toward you—subtle, almost instinctive—checking, ensuring you were enjoying yourself. Each glance steadied him just enough to endure another minute of the noise, another wave of suffocating unfamiliarity.

This was not his world. But you were.

And that made it worth surviving.

It started with a chorus of teasing encouragement. Friendly nudges. Easy laughter. Someone placed a colorful drink in front of him, its surface glimmering under the lights like something deceptively harmless.

“Just one,” they insisted.

He hesitated, glancing toward you. Your smile—warm, reassuring, perhaps a little amused—softened his resistance. He trusted you. If you thought it was fine, then it had to be.

So he nodded.

The first sip burned more than he expected, bitterness hidden beneath sweetness. He coughed lightly, drawing laughter from the group, and his ears warmed with embarrassment. But he finished it, determined not to appear fragile.

One became two.

Two blurred quietly into three.

By the time he realized the room had begun to tilt, it was already too late. Sound stretched and warped around him, laughter echoing as if underwater. The lights fractured into streaks of color, smearing into one another whenever he blinked. His usually razor-sharp mind dulled, thoughts slipping through his grasp like water through open fingers.

He rose from the booth unsteadily, murmuring something about needing air, though even he wasn’t sure what he’d said. The floor seemed unreliable beneath his feet, shifting just enough to force him to concentrate on each step.

He needed one thing. One constant.

You.

“Gēge... Gēge...” he called softly, the word dragging slightly as it slipped past his lips.

He pushed through clusters of strangers, shoulders brushing unfamiliar bodies, each accidental contact making his unease spike. The crowd swallowed him, faces blending together in a blur of motion and color. Panic flickered faintly beneath the haze of alcohol, but he pressed forward, driven by instinct more than clarity.

Then he saw you—or what he believed was you.

The silhouette was unmistakable. The same height. The same dark hair falling just so. The same relaxed angle of the shoulders he had memorized without ever realizing it.

Relief surged through him so suddenly his chest tightened. The tension drained from his limbs, leaving him weak with gratitude. He stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around the figure’s waist, clinging as if anchoring himself against a storm. His face buried instinctively into the crook of their neck, seeking warmth, familiarity, safety.

He inhaled deeply.

“Gēge...” he sighed, the word dissolving into contentment.

But something was wrong.

The scent was wrong.

Instead of the familiar, comforting traces of your soap and laundry detergent—the quiet, clean fragrance he associated with home—there was a sharp, cloying cologne. Synthetic sweetness. Overpowering and foreign.

Confusion cut sharply through his haze.

His arms loosened immediately, and he recoiled as though burned. He stumbled backward, heart beginning to pound with a sickening realization. His vision wavered as he looked up, truly seeing the stranger for the first time.

And then he turned.

You stood only a few feet away.

In your hand was a glass of his favorite fruit spritzer, condensation beading along its surface. The drink you had remembered. The drink you had promised.

Your expression was not angry. Not loud. Not dramatic.

It was still.

A blankness stretched across your face, cold and stunned, and beneath it lingered something far worse than anger—something heavy with hurt and quiet disappointment. The silence between you struck him harder than any accusation ever could.

His stomach dropped violently.

“Gēge!” he called, the name cracking into a fragile, desperate plea.

But the noise of the bar swallowed the word before it could reach you properly.

The drive home passed in suffocating quiet.

The car engine hummed steadily beneath the silence, headlights cutting pale paths across empty streets. Yi Ming sat rigidly in the passenger seat, hands clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles blanched. The alcohol had retreated, leaving behind a harsh, piercing clarity that only magnified his shame.

Several times, he opened his mouth.

Several times, he closed it again.

Each attempt dissolved under the memory of your expression—distant, wounded, unreachable.

He wanted to explain. To apologize. To undo the moment entirely.

But words felt painfully inadequate, fragile things that would crumble before they ever reached you.

When you arrived home, you stepped out of the car without looking at him.

You walked straight inside, your movements controlled and deliberate. He followed a few steps behind, dread pooling heavier with each footfall. You disappeared into your bedroom.

The door shut.

Then came the sound.

A quiet, final click.

The lock.

It echoed through the hallway like a verdict.

Yi Ming stood motionless, staring at the closed door as if it might vanish if he simply waited long enough. The silence pressed against him, thick and suffocating, until his chest tightened painfully.

Slowly, he approached.

His back slid down the wood of the door until he sat on the floor, knees drawn loosely toward himself. The surface was cool against his spine, grounding him just enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling completely.

He rested his forehead against the door, eyes closing as exhaustion and guilt seeped through him.

“Gēge...” he whispered, voice trembling.

No response came.

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out despite the tightness in his throat.

“I know you hate being alone... please let me in...”

His voice was barely louder than breathing, but he could feel its faint vibration through the wood, as if hoping it might carry his sincerity to the other side.

“I didn’t mean to... I thought... I thought it was you...”

Silence answered him again, unwavering and merciless.

His fingers curled against the floor, nails pressing into the surface as he fought to steady himself.

“I promise... I won’t drink again... I’ll listen next time... I’ll do anything...”

The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead. Time stretched, unbearably slow.

“Gēge...”

The last word fractured, dissolving into a choked sob he couldn’t hold back. His shoulders trembled, breath hitching unevenly as his apology scattered into the stillness—unanswered, fragile, and painfully small against the solid barrier between them.

And still, he remained there, forehead pressed to the door, as if staying close was the only penance he knew how to offer.

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