akijooo - Tumblr blog

akijooo · 2 months ago

Text

The Taste of Something Better

Zhan Zhengxi only ever brewed coffee for himself. Each cup was a quiet ritual—measured, consistent, untouched by change. His café was small, still, and a safe space.

One day, Zhengxi found himself breaking his own rules. New blends, new flavors… not for perfection, but for a regular customer named Jian Yi.

Zhan Zhengxi was the definition of efficient. He ran the espresso machine like it was an extension of his body—precise, powerful, untiring. The early morning rush was his element, and he liked the quiet lull afterward even better.

That was when he usually walked in.

Right around 9:17 every morning, the glass bell above the door would chime softly, and Jian Yi would appear. Blonde hair a little too bright for this sleepy part of town, earbuds in, hoodie always slightly too big. He never looked at the menu, never tried anything new.

"Small drip. No sugar," he said every time. Dull. Cheap. Standard.

Zhengxi had long since memorized the order. And yet Jian Yi always said it like it was their first meeting.

What he didn't say—what Zhengxi knew anyway—was that Jian Yi never drank the coffee. Not all of it, at least. Sometimes it went cold in front of him as he doodled into his phone or stared blankly at the people outside. Sometimes, he just sat with it, nursing the cup for an hour before leaving.

"Small drip. No sugar," Jian Yi said again one morning, like a script.

Zhengxi raised an eyebrow but made it anyway. "You know, we've got better stuff. You could try the Ethiopian blend. Or literally anything else."

Jian Yi grinned. "I'm a man of simple taste."

Zhengxi handed him the cup, fingers brushing his. "You're a man of no taste."

Jian Yi laughed, bright and amused, and Zhengxi hated how much he liked that sound. He watched him wander to the usual table, settling in like he belonged there already.

Truth was, he kind of did.

Other customers came and went, orders scribbled on cups, tips tossed into the jar, milk steamed and poured like a performance. But Jian Yi stayed. Some days he doodled in a sketchbook.

In Zhengxi's small business, he was the only regular cusyomer he had so far.

It was raining again the first time Zhengxi broke his own rule.

He stepped from behind the counter during the lull and brought over a second cup—latte art curling like cream smoke at the top. He approached Jian Yi's table and placed it in front of him.

Jian Yi blinked up at him. "Uh... I didn't order another one?"

"I know," Zhengxi said, sitting across from him. "But you've been pretending to like our drip for over a month, and I'm tired of watching good beans go to waste. This one's on the house."

Jian Yi flushed but took the cup anyway. He sniffed it. "Is this cinnamon?"

"Vanilla oat latte. Just try it."

Jian Yi sipped—and actually drank. A second sip followed. Then a third.

Zhengxi crossed his arms, watching him. "Tastes better, doesn't it?"

"I'll admit it does," Jian Yi said, smiling around the rim of the cup.

"I told you," Zhengxi said with a small, smug tilt of his lips. "You should try something from the actual menu sometime."

"This is really good," Jian Yi murmured, like he was surprised.

Zhengxi looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in all the weeks he'd been coming in. He noticed the softness in Jian Yi's features, how smooth his skin was, how his cheekbones caught the morning light. There was something quietly delicate about him, almost androgynous in how naturally beautiful he was.

His hair fell across his forehead in silky strands, still a little damp from the drizzle outside. His lips—plump and parted slightly from the heat of the drink—held a trace of foam now.

Zhengxi's gaze dropped to the way Jian Yi's fingers curled neatly around the cup. How he didn't look away even when he noticed Zhengxi staring.

Then Jian Yi took another sip, and a soft puff of foam clung to the corner of his mouth.

"You've got something—on your lips," Zhengxi said before he could stop himself.

"Really? Where?" Jian Yi looked up at him, tongue darting out to trace his mouth slowly. "Here?"

Zhengxi's stomach flipped. It wasn't fair, the way Jian Yi reached for the foam like that—casual, almost playful, but entirely dangerous.

"Did I get it?" Jian Yi asked, looking at him with that grin again.

Zhengxi quickly looked down and shrugged, trying to mask the heat rising up his neck. "Yeah. You got it."

Just then, the front door chimed and a new customer walked in—mercifully breaking the moment.

"I gotta get back to the counter," Zhengxi muttered, already turning away.

"Okay," Jian Yi called after him, still smiling. "Thanks for the coffee!"

Zhengxi's ears burned as he ducked behind the espresso machine. He didn't answer—but he was already thinking about what he'd make Jian Yi tomorrow.

In a week, Jian Yi had become Zhengxi's personal Michelin taste tester. He took the role seriously—perhaps a little too seriously.

"No offense," Jian Yi said one morning, swirling a honey cardamom cold brew in his hand like it was wine, "but this one tastes like potpourri got bullied in high school."

Zhengxi raised a brow, arms crossed over his apron. "You said you liked cardamom last week."

"I liked the idea of cardamom," Jian Yi corrected, licking a bit of cream off his thumb. "Execution? Tragic. Caffeine strength is decent though. I'll give it a six out of ten for effort."

"You're lucky I don't poison your cup."

Jian Yi leaned forward on the counter, grin unfazed. "You say that, but you keep handing me samples like I'm your favorite lab rat."

Zhengxi grumbled under his breath but passed over another small glass. "Try this one. Less spice, more roast."

Jian Yi took a cautious sip—then made a contemplative face, tapping a finger to his chin. "Hmm. Darker. Smokier. Still not the one."

"Maybe the one doesn't exist," Zhengxi muttered, turning to clean the milk frother.

"It will. You just need inspiration," Jian Yi said, the innuendo riding a little too easily on his tongue. "I'm happy to stick around until you find it."

Zhengxi didn't look at him, but he felt it—the weight of Jian Yi's stare, the casual flirtation that was starting to feel less like a game and more like a dare.

And the thing that really got him? Jian Yi meant it. He stayed.

Every morning like clockwork, same window seat. Same offhand commentary. Same crooked smile. Even when he brought his own food once—some suspicious-looking breakfast wrap—he insisted on ordering coffee from Zhengxi just so he had an excuse to talk.

"You could save money if you made this at home," Zhengxi told him one afternoon, sliding over an espresso blend with cinnamon and orange peel.

Jian Yi took a sip. "True. But then who would insult your life's work every morning?"

Zhengxi smirked. "I can think of better reasons to see me than trashing my coffee."

"Yeah?" Jian Yi asked, eyes glinting. "Name one."

Zhengxi opened his mouth—then closed it. He turned away under the guise of wiping down the counter, but Jian Yi's quiet laugh followed him like smoke.

But Zhengxi had to admit—quietly, and only to himself—that after all this time, he'd gotten used to Jian Yi's presence.

The sound of his voice across the counter. The dramatic reviews. The smirks that lingered too long. Even the way he'd sprawl across the corner seat like he owned it, earbuds in but one always hanging loose so he could eavesdrop on Zhengxi yelling at the espresso machine.

It had become routine.

And Zhengxi liked routine.

More than that—he liked Jian Yi.

So when Wednesday rolled around, cool and overcast, and the door didn't jingle at precisely 8:43 AM... he noticed.

He told himself it was nothing.

Probably just overslept. Or had class. Or ran out of money to blow on artisan coffee he only half-liked.

But Thursday came and went.

No Jian Yi.

The window seat stayed empty. Zhengxi caught himself glancing at it between orders, like maybe he'd just blinked and missed him walking in.

By Friday, something itched beneath his skin. He ground the beans too fine. Frothed the milk too aggressively. Snapped at the teenage trainee for stacking the cups too loud.

"Dude," the trainee said, eyes wide. "You good?"

Zhengxi didn't answer. He just stared at the empty chair across the room and muttered, "Fine."

But he wasn't. Not really.

It was ridiculous. Jian Yi wasn't a regular customer—he was a constant. An expected part of Zhengxi's every day. And now the silence felt too loud.

It wasn't until Saturday afternoon that Zhengxi did something out of character.

He pulled out his phone.

Stared at the contact saved simply as J.Y. (☕)—a name Jian Yi had put in himself the day they swapped numbers "for emergency taste-testing needs."

After a minute of debating, he opened the chat.

Zhengxi: You alive? Or did you finally die from one of my coffee experiments?

He stared at the message. Thought about deleting it. Thought about sending more.

Before he could, the screen lit up.

Jian Yi: lol still alive sorry for disappearing ...you free tomorrow?

Zhengxi blinked. His pulse did a weird thing in his wrist.

Zhengxi: Maybe. Depends on what you're planning. Jian Yi: Nothing dramatic. Just miss your face, that's all.

Zhengxi stared at the words.

And for the first time in three days, he smiled.

They met the next day outside a small café Jian Yi had picked—some quiet, artsy place on a tree-lined street with mismatched furniture and indie folk music humming through hidden speakers. The place had rave reviews online. Jian Yi insisted they "see how the competition holds up."

Zhengxi showed up in his hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets, a little wary.

Jian Yi was already waiting at a corner table, two drinks in front of him.

Zhengxi slid into the seat across from him. "You ordered for me?"

"I figured you'd go for the espresso blend." Jian Yi pushed the cup toward him. "It's their signature roast. Strong, bitter, a little too proud of itself. Reminded me of you."

Zhengxi gave him a look but took a sip. "It's decent."

"Decent?" Jian Yi repeated, mock-offended. "You have no poetry in your soul."

"I have taste. That's enough."

They spent the next hour critiquing every detail—the beans were over-roasted, the milk foam too thin, the syrup flavors unbalanced. Jian Yi pointed out that the café art was "weirdly anxious," and Zhengxi agreed when they got served lukewarm pastries.

But beneath the banter, there was something softer in the air. Something unsaid, hanging between them like steam rising from a mug.

Zhengxi noticed the faint tiredness in Jian Yi's eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders. He looked fine. But he didn't look okay.

He waited until their cups were nearly empty before speaking again.

"So," Zhengxi began, watching the last of the espresso swirl in his cup, "you gonna tell me why you stopped coming over?"

Jian Yi looked at him for a long moment. No quips. No grin. Just silence.

Then he shrugged. "I needed some space. Stuff came up."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah. Life stuff. Family, mostly."

Zhengxi didn't push. But he didn't look away, either.

"I thought you got tired of my coffees." he said quietly.

Jian Yi blinked. "You cared?"

"I got used to you being around," Zhengxi admitted, rubbing the rim of his cup. "And when you weren't around, everything felt off."

Jian Yi smiled. It was smaller than usual. Warmer. More real.

"I missed it too," he said. "Coming in. Seeing you behind that counter, scowling like someone stole your dog."

"I don't scowl," Zhengxi muttered.

"You do," Jian Yi said. "But I kinda like it."

A short pause made the ambiance more intense.

"I like a lot of things about you."

Zhengxi looked up. The café buzzed quietly around them, but for a second, it all faded.

He didn't say anything right away. Just stared, really stared, the way he only ever did when Jian Yi wasn't looking.

Now he was. Looking right back.

"Then come back," Zhengxi said finally, voice low. "To the shop. Tomorrow. The next day. As many as you want."

Jian Yi grinned—slow and genuine.

"Only if you make me something new."

"I already have something in mind."

Jian Yi raised a brow. "Inspired by me, I hope?"

Zhengxi didn't smile. But his eyes did.

"Everything lately is."

#19days #jian yi #zhan zheng xi #fanfiction #oneshot

2 notes · View notes

akijooo · 2 months ago

Text

Don’tCloseMountain

Streamer Don’tCloseMountain thought he’d just gained a generous new subscriber — until the donations turned unsettling, and the sender turned out to be someone he never expected to return.

Mo Guanshan never expected to stream full-time.

Sure, gaming was something he'd always enjoyed, and yelling at strangers online came more naturally than filling out job applications. But if you told him a year ago that losing yet another job — his third that year — would push him to become "DontCloseMountain," a small but steadily growing Twitch streamer, he'd have laughed and gone back to folding uniforms at the dry cleaner.

Yet here he was. Living off noodles, hoarding free samples of everything in the market, and stringing together just enough subscribers and pity donations to barely get by.

His setup was not anything extraordinary: a secondhand monitor with a fading line across the middle, a scuffed gaming headset, and a webcam he always tilted slightly upward to hide the clutter of his apartment.

His audience wasn't huge, but they were loyal — enough to fill his chat box with emojis and inside jokes, especially when he went on his trademark rants mid-game.

"Mountain, you gonna rage-quit again or what?" a user called SpaghettiMom typed during one particularly bad run of Apex.

"Not today, Satan," Guanshan muttered into his mic. "I'm chill."

He wasn't. But he smiled anyway, half sarcastic, half entertained by the chat's roasting. Streaming gave him something close to routine. An escape. And on some nights — when his kill count was high and the chat was buzzing — it almost felt like he was winning at life.

Almost.

The problem was, winning didn't pay rent.

Guanshan was scraping by. His Twitch earnings couldn't cover his electricity bill, let alone rent. He'd applied to a dozen jobs last week and hadn't heard back from any. The weight of it settled between his shoulder blades every time he leaned over his desk. Every night he closed his eyes to sleep, he did math in his head — calculating how many subs it would take to survive, how long until his landlord kicked him out.

Then one night, something unusual happened.

He was mid-stream, halfway through a sleepy late-night streaming when it popped up on screen:

$500 donation from 69tian.

His mouse froze. His heart skipped, too.

"Uh... okay," he said, blinking at the alert like it might disappear. "That's... not a typo?"

The chat blew up.

SpaghettiMom: WHOA user700: Yo who is 69tian?? littlechili: MOUNTAIN YOU SUGAR BABY NOW?? catchaser: LUCKY AF

Guanshan scratched the back of his neck. "Well. Damn. Thanks, uh... '69tian'? That's a... name."

He chuckled awkwardly, trying not to look directly at the name for too long. It was clearly a joke — a reference to something crass and juvenile — and yet there was something about it that made his scalp prickle.

It wasn't just the number or the smirk-inducing username. It was how it appeared. Sudden. Silent. Very weird.

Still, five hundred dollars was five hundred dollars.

That night, he didn't sleep much. He kept checking his Twitch page, refreshing the donation logs just to make sure it wasn't a scam. But it was real. The money processed. Cleared. Landed in his account.

And the next day, he streamed again — not because he wanted to, but because for the first time, it felt like there's something to look forward to.

The next few days, Guanshan kept seeing the name pop up in his donation alerts.

69tian has donated $100. 69tian has gifted 20 subs to chat. 69tian: nice kill, Mountain.

It was the first time the dono sent a chat — a simple message attached to a $200 tip. The message lingered longer than the money in his head.

It was flattering. And eerie.

Guanshan wasn't used to this kind of attention. He wasn't the hot guy with a ring light and a charming smile. His streams weren't polished. He swore too much, his lighting sucked, and sometimes he got too real about his life on air.

But whoever 69tian was... they liked it. Or him. And he may never understood why they do.

And before he knew it, Guanshan was looking forward to seeing the name in chat. He'd start streams with a glance toward his alerts tab, pretending he wasn't hoping for it.

He told himself it was gratitude. Just gratitude.

One late-night steram, Guanshan received a different type of message.

It wasn't public this time. It was a whisper — a private Twitch DM.

69tian: Hope the money helps. I'd like to ask for something in return.

Guanshan stared at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He had no idea what to reply.

DontCloseMountain: What kind of something?

There was a pause. A long one.

69tian: Nothing weird. Just say my name out loud in stream sometime.

Guanshan leaned back in his chair.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath.

He didn't respond right away. Didn't want to encourage it. But he also... didn't stop streaming. And 69tian didn't stop donating. The requests, when they came, were subtle. Harmless, almost. Compliment the chat. Show your face more. Read a comment in your real voice, not your "streamer" voice.

Harmless.

So why did it feel like hands pressing lightly against the back of his neck every time the name appeared?

It was one of those nights where the silence outside was louder than the sound in his headset.

The game music had long faded into background noise. Guanshan had played through three rounds of Valorant and rage-quit twice. His energy was low, his voice hoarse from shouting at his screen, and the lag in his internet was pissing him off more than usual.

He glanced at his viewer count: 73. Not bad for a Wednesday night. The chat, though, had slowed. People were bored. And so was he.

He yawned into the mic. "Alright, chat, let's switch it up. I'm not in the mood to shoot anymore heads tonight. Let's talk."

Messages rolled in like a tide.

Chevy19: Ayyy chill stream SpaghettiMom: Finally Jianjian: Story time? user700: Ask us stuff too

He leaned into his mic. "Okay. You can ask me anything. Just don't get weird about it."

The chat exploded.

Jianjian: Favorite food? ChickenAss: First kiss? Sheisangry: Are you single? Babygirl: What's your type tho SpaghettiMom: Don'tCloseMountain has a secret gf confirmed?

He rolled his eyes. "Single. And none of your damn business," he muttered with a grin. "Next question."

Then, from a username he recognized immediately:

69tian:Ever been in love?

Guanshan's cursor froze over his stream dashboard. He could've ignored it. Could've laughed it off. But for some reason... he didn't.

He leaned back, stared at the screen, and for a moment, he forgot the 73 people watching. Forgot the notifications. Forgot the spotlight.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean..."

The words stuck, rusty and dry. But they came anyway.

"There was someone," he admitted. "Back in high school."

The chat paused for half a beat — then flooded in again.

SpaghettiMom: OMG story time user700: Tell us more Jianjian:What happened Babygirl: Was it serious??

He let out a breath, almost laughing at himself. "Nah. It wasn't anything. Just... someone."

He kept his voice casual, tried not to let the warmth reach his ears.

"He was one of those people that made everything feel like a dare. Annoying, flirty, impossible to read. He teased me all the time — called me stupid names, tried to get under my skin. And he did. Every damn day. Thought I hated him for a while."

The memory came back stronger than expected — the smirk, the glint in his eyes, the way he said "Don't close Mountain," every time Guanshan snapped at him.

That's where the username came from. He'd typed it out as a joke once. Then it stuck.

"I didn't hate him," he said, quieter now. "I think I was... obsessed. In a dumb, teenage, confusing way. It never went anywhere. He disappeared after graduation. Haven't really heard from him ever since. But he did leave me this PC that I use up to today."

He let that hang in the air. No names. No details.

Just a fragment of something half-dead, buried deep.

The chat buzzed, but he didn't read it right away. His eyes were blurry. And then suddenly,

69tian has donated $1,000.

His heart skipped.

He sat up straighter. "What the hell?"" he muttered, lips dry.

Then came the message attached:

69tian: That was a beautiful story. Thank you for sharing it.

He stared at it. For a long time. He couldn't believe his eyes. He thought that this 69tian guy had a lot of money to waste on a low life streamer like him. It was surreal.

Guanshan couldn't shake the feeling for the rest of the night. Something in him shifted — something warm, anxious, a little sick. He ended the stream early, blaming lag, and lay awake in bed with his phone face-down on the pillow beside him.

Why now? Why this?

And how the hell did one viewer — one dono — have this much power over him?

The next day, curiosity won.

He messaged them.

DontCloseMountain: Hey. Who are you?

No response for a minute. Then:

69tian: 69tian. But you can call me whatever you want.

Guanshan scowled at the response. The way he messages really remind him of a certain someone. Someone that still kind of lives in the back of Guanshan's mind.

DontCloseMountain: Seriously. What do you want from me? You've been donating tons to me. I am thankful but I think it's too much. 69tian:I just want To hear and watch you. That's all.

Another message popped up before he could react.

69tian: Here's a number. Burner phone. Call me.

Guanshan stared at the digits on screen. Something in his gut twisted. He tapped the number into his phone. It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Click.

Silence.

"...Hello?" he asked, cautious.

There was no answer. Just soft static.

Then his phone buzzed.

Text from Unknown: Just keep speaking. I like your voice.

It was the weirdest call of his life. He hung up after five minutes. Blocked the number. Tried to shake it off.

But he didn't stop streaming.

And 69tian didn't stop donating.

One night, Guanshan was editing clips in the dim glow of his dual monitors, the only light in his apartment coming from the flickering screen and the dull hum of the city outside. His headphones hung loosely around his neck, faint echoes of audio edits playing softly as he trimmed timelines and tweaked cuts.

Then the screen flickered.

Just for a second.

A brief distortion—almost like static—ran across both monitors. He paused, brows knitting together.

Then it flickered again. Longer. Sharper.

He frowned and instinctively reached for his mouse. Nothing moved. The cursor was frozen dead center.

His stomach sank.

And then — the camera light turned on.

A sharp, green dot in the dark.

Click.

"What the fuck?" Guanshan muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stared at the light, confusion mixing rapidly with dread. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing responded. Not escape. Not Ctrl+Alt+Del. Nothing.

Suddenly, a window bloomed open on his screen.

Discord.

His Discord.

He hadn't opened it.

He hadn't touched a thing.

The app loaded itself sluggishly, almost like it was dragging something with it from the bottom of the digital abyss. And then a call launched — video.

The caller ID: 69t_backup

Guanshan's heart dropped into his stomach. His breath caught in his throat.

69t? 69tian?

No. Impossible.

And yet — there it was.

The call connected.

And the screen lit up.

Not with an icon. With an empty camera feed.

“What the actual fuck?” Guanshan whispered, his voice trembling.

No response.

Until the screen behind the video call flickered again, revealing something layered beneath the Discord window.

Photos. Screen grabs.

Of Guanshan.

From tonight.

From seconds ago.

Him editing. Him frowning. Him confused.

The final one — him staring in horror at the screen.

Guanshan’s blood turned to ice.

He didn’t hesitate — he lunged toward the plug and yanked it out from the wall with every ounce of force he had.

The monitors went black. The fan in the CPU clicked to a halt.

But then behind him, he heard a soft chime.

Bing.

From his phone.

Still lit. A message notification from a number he didn’t recognize.

Unknown number: You shouldn’t have done that, Mo Guanshan.

For the next two days, Guanshan didn't stream. Didn't even open his PC. He would sleep with one eye open if he could.

He turned off every notification, unplugged his webcam, and stuffed it in a drawer like it had teeth. He refused to touch Discord. Every time his phone buzzed with a burner number, he ignored it — until the same number texted.

Unknown number: You still drink black coffee with two sugars. Unknown number: Meet me at Wanhua Café. 9PM. I'll be at the back."

No name. No push. Just that.

Guanshan stared at it for a full minute. He had enough of this 69Tian. No amount of donations could compare to the horror he felt that night - and today, he planned to put an end to it. He brought a pocket knife with him and grabbed his coat.

Guanshan’s pulse thudded in his ears as he stepped out of the café, scanning the empty street. The night air bit into his skin, neon signs flickering dimly above the cracked pavement. His hand tightened around the knife. Each step toward the alley made his heart pound harder.

That message from the unknown number — it kept echoing in his head. He had to end this. Whatever this was.

A shuffle behind him made him spin around, blade raised.

A figure stepped out of the shadows — tall, familiar, annoyingly casual. His face was half-hidden, but Guanshan recognized that presence instantly. His chest clenched.

“Stay back. I’ve got a knife!” he warned.

The figure didn’t move.

“I said, stay the hell back.” His grip tightened.

But in one fluid motion, the man stepped forward and grabbed his wrist. The knife fell from Guanshan’s hand like it was nothing.

“Long time no see, Don’t Close Mountain,” the voice drawled.

Guanshan froze. The neon above flickered, finally revealing the bastard’s face — He Tian.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Guanshan growled, yanking his arm back. “You’re the one behind this crap? You’ve been messing with me for weeks?”

He Tian smirked, cocky as ever. “I like to think of it as… watching over you.”

“I ought to stab you with your own damn ego,” Guanshan snapped. “You think this is funny? You scared the hell out of me! You think showing up like some cryptic stalker erases whatever nightmares you planted in my head?!”

He Tian shrugged, the smirk faltering just a bit. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Guanshan muttered.

There was a pause. He Tian looked away for a second, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know how to come back. I didn’t know if I could. So I just… kept my distance. Donated to your stream here and there. It was the only way I could still see you without... crossing a line.”

“Oh, and this isn’t crossing the line?” Guanshan scoffed, gesturing wildly between himself and He Tian with the knife.

He Tian winced. “Okay, fair. But when you started talking about that love story on stream…” He exhaled. “I got greedy. I saw the opening from there. I wanted back in.”

Guanshan stared, chest tight. “You could’ve just messaged me, you moron.”

“I thought you’d ignore me,” He Tian admitted, voice quieter now. “It’s been a long time. You’ve always been good at shutting people out.”

Guanshan narrowed his eyes. “Okay, then riddle me this — how the hell did you get into my PC?”

He Tian blinked. “...Borrowed access?”

“Borrowed?!” Guanshan’s voice shot up. “You went through my personal files and you’re calling it borrowing?!”

“I didn’t snoop too much,” He Tian said quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I just wanted to see if… if I was still in there somewhere.”

“And?”

“Well…” He Tian gave a crooked smile. “You kept a folder. With my pictures. Cute ones, too.”

Guanshan’s face burned. “I don’t—! That’s—! I—God, you’re the worst.”

“I know.” He Tian stepped forward, a little softer this time. “But I’m sorry. For everything. I just... I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Guanshan stared at him, every part of him tense. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “You’re a pain in the ass.”

He Tian grinned. “But I’m your pain in the ass.”

Guanshan raised an eyebrow, trying not to let his lips twitch. “You really have no shame.”

“Zero.” He Tian leaned in, brushing their fingers together. “Can I start over?”

Guanshan looked down at their hands, then back at him. “You pull this shit again, and I will make sure you regret it.”

He Tian smiled. “Deal.”

#he tian #tianshan #mo guan shan #19days #fanfiction #oneshot

13 notes · View notes