Tòumíng jolted awake at 6 AM to the sound of rummaging in his kitchen. Cabinets opening and closing. The fridge door. Footsteps on tile.
"Someone's in your apartment," Cupid's voice was sharp, alert. "Be careful. Could be the gang members coming back. Could be anyone."
Tòumíng's hand went instinctively to his chest, feeling the steady beat of their shared heart. He was shirtless still, wearing only the underwear he'd collapsed in last night. His new abs were on full display, along with fourteen bullet wound scars and two stab wound marks that looked even more dramatic in the early morning light filtering through his window.
He crept toward the kitchen, muscles tense, ready for another fight despite the exhaustion still weighing on him.
The kitchen light was off. Just a silhouette moving around in the pre-dawn darkness, opening his nearly-empty cabinets with what sounded like disappointment.
Tòumíng reached for the light switch and flipped it.
Fluorescent lights buzzed to life.
"AHH"He screamed.
"IIIIII" Měi Nán screamed back, dropping a jar of something probably the last of Tòumíng's ketchup packets—which clattered across the counter.
They stared at each other for a solid five seconds, both breathing hard, both clearly not expecting the other person to be there.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" Tòumíng yelled, hand still on his chest, heart hammering. "Why are you in my apartment?!"
"I HAVE A KEY!" Měi Nán yelled back, holding up the spare key he'd stolen yesterday like it was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Then his eyes tracked down from Tòumíng's face to his bare torso, taking in the abs and the frankly alarming collection of fresh scars. "What the fuck happened to you? You look like you got in a fight with a firing squad!"
"Long story! Why are you HERE? It's six in the morning!"
Měi Nán set down the key and ran a hand through his hair less perfectly styled than yesterday, more disheveled, like he'd been up all night. He was wearing different clothes too. Tight jeans, an oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder, sneakers instead of platform heels. Still looked good, but stressed.
"Can I sit down first? This is a whole thing."
"You're already breaking and entering! Might as well add trespassing to the list!"
"I have a KEY! That's ENTERING! Not BREAKING and entering! There's a legal distinction!" Měi Nán walked past him into the living room past the couch with its flipped cushions hiding blood stains—and collapsed onto it with a dramatic sigh. "Your apartment is depressing, by the way. No food, no furniture, just vibes and trauma."
"I'm doing minimalism!" Tòumíng followed him, still shirtless, still confused, still very aware that someone was in his apartment uninvited at 6 AM. "Explain. Now. Before I call the police."
"You're not going to call the police."
"How do you know?"
"Because you have bullet holes." Měi Nán gestured at Tòumíng's torso. "Fresh ones. Like, less-than-24-hours-old fresh ones. People who call police don't look like that."
Damn. He had a point.
"Fine. Explain anyway."
Měi Nán pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller on the couch, and sighed again. "Okay. So. You know how I'm a femboy, right?"
"I figured that out, yes."
"Well, I also... work. In a specific capacity. I get extra money from a variety of clients. Cheating husbands who want something their wives can't give them. Virgins who want their first time to be with someone patient. And the occasional low-tier gang members who have absolutely no love life and are desperate for any kind of intimacy."
Tòumíng's brain was still catching up. "You're a..."
"Escort. Companion. Professional boyfriend. Whatever term makes you comfortable." Měi Nán said it matter-of-factly, without shame or hesitation. "I charge upwards of a couple hundred thousand yuan for ongoing arrangements. Dating packages. Includes sex, hanging out, emotional support, the whole girlfriend experience but, you know, with a boy."
"Kick him out," Cupid hissed. "This is trouble. This is obvious trouble."
Tòumíng ignored him. "Okay. So you're an escort."
"Professional companion."
"Sure. What does that have to do with you breaking into my apartment at six in the morning?"
"I told you, I have a key, so it's not breaking—" Měi Nán stopped at Tòumíng's expression. "Right. The point. So, the arrangement is very clearly mutual. No real love. Just business. They pay me, I provide a service, everyone understands the boundaries. Most clients get that. Some don't."
"And you have a client who doesn't get that."
"Boyfriend number fifty-two. Pàng Hǔ." Měi Nán's expression darkened. "Big guy. Like, really big. Muscle for a gang on the east side. Low-tier, nothing impressive, but he makes decent money and he's been paying me for about three months."
"Okay..."
"At first it was normal. Sex mostly, some dinner dates, the usual. But then he started getting... romantic. Like, actually romantic. Buying me gifts I didn't ask for. Writing me letters. Talking about future plans. And I kept reminding him, this is business. This is a transaction. You're paying me, which means this isn't real."
Tòumíng sat down on the arm of the couch, listening despite Cupid's continued protests in his chest.
"Last night," Měi Nán continued, his voice getting quieter, "we were at a hotel. Nice place, he'd rented a suite for the week. And he... he proposed. Got down on one knee, pulled out a ring, the whole thing. Asked me to marry him, to leave the business, to be his forever."
"What did you say?"
"I said no. Obviously. Because it's not real. He's a client. I don't love him, I never loved him, and I was very clear about that from the beginning." Měi Nán's hands tightened around his knees. "He didn't take it well."
"How not well?"
"He trashed the hotel room. Completely destroyed it. Threw furniture, broke mirrors, punched holes in walls. Screaming about how I led him on, how I made him think we had something real, how I was just using him for money." Měi Nán's voice wavered slightly. "I got out before he could get violent with me specifically, but he's looking for me now. Texted me like forty times. Called a hundred. Says he's going to find me, make me understand, make me see that we belong together."
"That's..." Tòumíng searched for the right word. "Terrifying."
"Yeah. Hence why I'm here. At your place. Using the spare key I stole."
"You couldn't have gone to a friend's place?"
"Most of my friends are other escorts. He knows them. Knows their addresses. This place—" Měi Nán gestured around the sparse apartment, "—is new. Random. A guy I met yesterday who has more money than sense and apparently got shot fourteen times last night. Seemed like a safe bet."
"It's really not," Cupid muttered.
Tòumíng considered this. A violent gang member muscle who was obsessed with Měi Nán and actively hunting him down. Coming here was potentially bringing that violence to Tòumíng's doorstep.
But also... Tòumíng had literally beaten two gang members unconscious and killed a third less than twelve hours ago. He was basically unkillable. And Měi Nán, despite the theft and the breaking-and-entering, seemed genuinely scared.
"Kick him out!" Cupid insisted. "This is not your problem!"
"You can stay," Tòumíng said.
Měi Nán's expression shifted to relief. "Really?"
"Yeah. But just for tonight. And you're explaining everything about this Pàng Hǔ guy so I know what we're dealing with."
"We?"
"If he shows up here, I'll handle it."
Měi Nán looked at Tòumíng's scarred torso again, at the obvious signs of recent extreme violence, and something like understanding crossed his face. "You're insane, aren't you?"
"I have a title that confirms it."
"What?"
"Nothing. So you're staying tonight. Where are you sleeping?"
Měi Nán stood up from the couch, walked past Tòumíng toward the bedroom, and looked at the double bed, the only actual furniture in the apartment beyond the traumatized couch.
"Well," he said, turning back with a smile that was half-teasing, half-serious, "I'm not sleeping on that couch like a bum. I saw you flip those cushions. I know something happened there. So either we cuddle in your very cozy double bed, or you sleep on the couch instead while I take the bedroom."
Tòumíng stared at him.
Stared at the bed.
Stared back at Měi Nán, who was clearly enjoying his discomfort.
"Fucking hell."