The bedroom door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. Somewhere in the living room, something glass, probably one of the cheap decorative items Tòumíng had bought on impulse—shattered against the floor.
Měi Nán whirled on him immediately, eyes blazing with an intensity that made Tòumíng take an involuntary step backward. But the anger wasn't directed at him specifically—it was bigger than that, more diffuse, aimed at the situation, at Ài Fēng, at the entire frustrating morning.
"You really don't get it, do you?" Měi Nán's voice was sharp, cutting. "You don't see what he's doing?"
Tòumíng blinked, genuinely confused. "What who's doing?"
"Ài Fēng! The touching! The leaning in! The ass-in-your-face maneuver that was so obvious I'm surprised he didn't just sit on your lap!"
"He was just being friendly—"
"FRIENDLY?!" Měi Nán's voice rose. "That was not friendly! That was flirting! Aggressive, in-your-face, deliberate flirting designed specifically to piss me off!"
"But..." Tòumíng spread his hands helplessly. "Why would that piss you off? We're not dating. You said so yourself. 'It's not like we're dating or anything.' So why would it matter if he flirts with me?"
The words hung in the air between them.
Měi Nán's expression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession—anger morphing into something more complicated, hurt bleeding through the frustration, and underneath it all, a vulnerability that made him look younger, less guarded.
"You really don't get it," he repeated, quieter this time. Not accusatory. Just... resigned. "You genuinely don't understand what's happening here."
"Understand what?" Tòumíng was completely lost now.
Měi Nán opened his mouth to respond, to explain, to maybe finally articulate whatever had been building between them since the bike theft and the lard and the sleeping in the same bed—
A sharp knock interrupted them.
"Everything okay in there, bestie?" Ài Fēng's voice filtered through the door, saccharine sweet and perfectly timed. "Need me to come mediate? I'm very good at resolving tension."
The timing was so perfectly calculated, so deliberately intrusive, that Měi Nán's entire demeanor transformed. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by something harder, sharper.
He snarled—actually snarled—and yanked the door open.
Ài Fēng stood leaning against the doorframe, that infuriating smirk on his face, clearly enjoying the chaos he'd created.
But before he could say anything else, before he could twist the knife further, Měi Nán grabbed Tòumíng's hand and held it up between them deliberately, their fingers intertwined.
"Actually," Měi Nán said, his voice calm now, controlled, "we're discussing whether Tòumíng wants to make this official. Since you're so interested in my love life all of a sudden."
Tòumíng's brain short-circuited.
Completely.
Total system failure.
Make what official? What was happening? Were they—was Měi Nán saying they were—but they hadn't even talked about—
Měi Nán's grip on his hand was tight enough to cut off circulation, almost painful, anchoring him in place while his mind spun uselessly.
Ài Fēng's smirk faltered. Just for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but it was there—a crack in the perfect facade. Then it transformed into something else. Not quite approval, but close. Masked acknowledgment.
"Finally," Ài Fēng said, pushing off the doorframe and turning to walk away. "Took you long enough to claim him. I was starting to think you'd lost your edge, bestie."
He sauntered back toward the living room where the movers were very obviously pretending not to have witnessed the entire exchange, their eyes fixed on boxes and furniture with laser focus.
Měi Nán released Tòumíng's hand and walked out of the bedroom like nothing world-altering had just happened, his shoulders squared, his chin up, every movement radiating confidence.
Tòumíng stood in the bedroom doorway, completely lost, his hand still tingling from where Měi Nán had gripped it.
Inside his chest, Cupid's laughter echoed. Uncontrolled, delighted, absolutely losing it.
"Oh my god," Cupid wheezed between laughs. "You just got claimed. You just got publicly claimed as a boyfriend and you're standing there like a confused puppy. This is the best day of my existence."
"What just happened?" Tòumíng whispered.
"You're in a relationship now. Congratulations."
"But we didn't talk about—I didn't agree to—"
"You've been sleeping in the same bed, he dragged a bucket of lard across the city for you, you invited him to live with you, and you've watched forty-eight femboy porn videos. The relationship was inevitable. Měi Nán just made it official."
"I'm so confused."
"Welcome to dating. Get used to it."
In the living room,
Ài Fēng supervised his movers with sharp efficiency, his movements precise and controlled.
But inside, he was seething.
That bitch Měi.
Claiming Tòumíng like that. In front of him. Making a public declaration that basically told Ài Fēng to back off, to acknowledge defeat, to accept that Měi Nán had won this particular competition.
The worst part? Ài Fēng didn't even like Tòumíng that much. Sure, he was attractive—those abs, those scars, the whole rugged miner aesthetic was appealing in a rough-around-the-edges way. And yes, there was something intriguing about someone who could survive getting shot fourteen times and then eat lard for breakfast.
But it wasn't about Tòumíng.
It was about winning.
It was about the fact that Měi Nán had something Ài Fēng wanted to take, simply because Měi Nán wanted it. The rivalry between them had always been like this—not rooted in genuine desire, but in the need to one-up each other, to prove superiority, to claim victory in whatever petty battle they'd invented.
And right now, Měi Nán was winning.
Unacceptable.
Ài Fēng watched Tòumíng emerge from the bedroom, still looking dazed and confused, Měi Nán hovering nearby with possessive energy that screamed "mine" to anyone paying attention.
A plan formed in Ài Fēng's mind. Petty. Vindictive. Absolutely unnecessary.
Perfect.
He would make it his mission to seduce Tòumíng. Not because he actually wanted him—though the challenge would be entertaining—but because stealing him from Měi Nán would be the ultimate victory in their ongoing war.
Měi Nán thought he could just claim someone and that would be the end of it? Please. Ài Fēng had been playing this game longer, better, with more finesse.
If Měi Nán wanted to make this a competition, then Ài Fēng would show him what real competition looked like.
He smiled to himself, the expression hidden behind his professional moving-company-owner facade, and made a mental note to find reasons to visit Tòumíng's new villa. Frequently. Coincidentally.
After all, quality customer service meant checking in on clients. Making sure they were settling in properly. Being available for any needs that might arise.
Any needs at all.
This was going to be fun.