"Oh my my my (uh), oh my my my…"
A slender body danced in front of the mirror, shoulders swaying to the rhythm. One arm lifted in a graceful wave, a flirty smile curling his lips as he admired his reflection.
Thunk.
"Ow!"
The remote hit him square on the head. He spun around, rubbing his scalp with a dramatic wince.
"What was that for?!"
"YuYu, you really need to get your head out of your fantasies," Zhao Chen said flatly, plopping a pillow onto the chair like he owned the place. "It's good for your health."
"Just you wait, Chen-ge!" Xiao Yu huffed, puffing out his cheeks. "One day I'll be singing my own songs in front of thousands of screaming fans. Selling out stadiums! Trending globally!"
He clasped his hands like a microphone and gazed up toward the ceiling, completely lost in the imaginary roar of his name:
"Xiao Yu! Xiao Yu! XIAO YU!!!"
"XIAO YU!"
The real scream snapped him out of it.
"Shit—I'm late!"
"First learn to keep your job," Zhao Chen muttered, watching as his best friend tripped over his bag, smacked into the doorframe, and ran straight into another disaster.
Xiao Yu, 21 years old and just as pretty as the color pink he adored. And speaking of pink—everything he owned was some shade of it: his clothes, his room, even the tips of his hair and the gloss on his nails.
With hazel eyes, a sharp nose, pale skin, and a teasing mole under his left eye, he looked like a BL character pulled straight from a manhua panel. And he knew it. At 180cm tall with a soft, slender frame, Xiao Yu carried himself like he was born for the spotlight.
He had the warmest personality—always laughing, always talking—a certified social butterfly. But behind that sunshine smile? A grudge-holder of Olympic proportions. They called him Petty Yu for a reason.
He loved K-pop, especially BTS, but nothing compared to his obsession with one man: Rong Xichen, the "Beauty God" of the fashion world. Xiao Yu didn't just like him—he worshipped him.
There was an entire altar in his closet. Signed photobook. A candle he may or may not light every morning. A framed screenshot of Rong Xichen eating strawberries during a live stream. A motion-detecting frame that played his Milan runway walk on loop in slow-mo. He once licked the limited-edition cereal box with Rong Xichen's face on it. He claimed it tasted expensive.
He even made a ringtone out of Rong Xichen saying "thank you for the support" and once tried to hack a billboard ad system just to put Xichen's face on it for Valentine's Day. He failed. But the effort? Iconic.
Living with him was Zhao Chen—his total opposite. Calm, grounded, and color-averse, he dressed like he was in grayscale and had the energy of a grandpa in a 23-year-old's body. With a sharp jawline, always-impatient eyes, and the aura of someone permanently done with the world, Zhao Chen was the ultimate reality check.
And yet, he was Xiao Yu's best friend, closest confidant, and emergency fangirl slap-down partner.
Today was just like any other day:
Xiao Yu woke up, slipped into a cropped pink hoodie, oversized pink pants, a glittery pink choker, and added a single star pimple patch under his left eye like it was designer. He ate cereal out of a pink bowl—with Rong Xichen's face on the box, of course—lit the altar candle while humming "Boy With Luv," practiced finger hearts in the mirror, and left for work.
Late, as usual.
Xiao Yu pedaled like hell toward the café, pink hoodie flapping behind him like a flag of war.
"Fuck—!"
He swerved as a pedestrian stepped into the bike lane.
"Watch where you're going!" the man barked.
"Fuck you!" Xiao Yu shot back, flipping him off without breaking speed. "Should've used a crosswalk, dumbass!"
Moments later, he skid to a stop in front of the café, breathless and already sweating. He burst through the door, grabbed his apron off the hook, and tied it on with one hand as he slipped behind the counter.
"Twenty-five minutes late."
Xiao Yu winced. The café manager, a short, balding man with a resting scowl, stared him down like he was about to combust. Honestly, Xiao Yu was kind of impressed he hadn't already.
"What's your excuse this time?" the man snapped.
Xiao Yu blinked, scrambling. "Erm… I was praying."
"You're an atheist."
"New me," Xiao Yu said solemnly, hands together in mock prayer.
"Xiao Yu, do you want to get fired?"
"Boss…" he purred, flashing his brightest, most disarming smile—the kind that made old ladies tip him extra and teenage girls giggle. "I'm really sorry. I swear I'll try my best to come early."
The manager faltered. His face turned red. Then he sighed like a deflated balloon.
"Just don't be late next time," he muttered, turning away in defeat.
Xiao Yu grinned. "Works every time."
He grabbed the mop and headed to clean the front like the angel of chaos he was.
Xiao Yu stood behind the counter, taking orders with his signature sunshine smile. He leaned in just a little closer than necessary as he handed over a latte, engaging in easy banter like a seasoned flirt.
"Xiao Yu, are you single?" a petite lady with dimples asked, fluttering her lashes.
Xiao Yu didn't miss a beat. He flashed a dazzling grin.
"No, I'm not," he lied smoothly. "But don't worry—you'll find someone who loves you. He just won't be as good-looking as me."
The lady laughed, cheeks pink. She took her drink and headed to her seat, still giggling.
"Xiao Yu, I'm going for a bathroom break!" one of the staff called. "Take over!"
"Got it!" he replied cheerfully, already heading toward the back—though not to the bathroom. Xiao Yu slipped into the storage room, made sure no one was watching, and ducked toward the emergency exit area for his usual mid-shift indulgence.
He pulled out his phone and opened CaoCaoTulk, a K-pop style social media app he used for one sacred purpose: stalking Rong Xichen.
"I wonder what Xi-ge's up to today…" he muttered, thumb scrolling through the newsfeed.
A few sponsored posts. A clip of someone's cat. Then—bam.
There it was. A shirtless photo of Rong Xichen at a beach shoot.
Xiao Yu stopped breathing.
His heart skipped, thudded, then went into overdrive.
His face turned bright red. Ears included.
"Xi-ge, you're too hot for my poor health," he whispered dramatically, fanning himself with his phone.
He lingered for another minute, saving the image to his private folder (labeled 'Important Work Files'), then quickly straightened his clothes and stepped back into the café like nothing happened.
Professional. Calm. Untouched by thirst.
(He fooled no one.)
When Xiao Yu returned to the counter, the café doorbell chimed.
Ding.
People gasped. Phones came out. Heads turned. Xiao Yu looked up—and his world stopped.
He didn't just walk into the café—he arrived, like a change in temperature, like a storm brewing behind clear skies.
At first glance, he seemed like any tall stranger: cap low over his brow, a plain black mask hiding the lower half of his face. But even then—Xiao Yu knew. His breath caught. His heart stuttered.
Because no disguise could ever dull that presence.
He stood at 195 cm, towering without trying, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp silhouette beneath a high-end black coat. Every step he took was measured and graceful—like a panther in human skin. He radiated cool detachment, a silent kind of authority that made people instinctively part for him without even realizing it.
His hair was jet black, softly tousled, falling just past his nape in gentle waves. A few strands curled rebelliously over his mask, as if refusing to follow rules—like him.
But it was his eyes that hit hardest. Dark, almond-shaped, and framed by thick lashes, they seemed to see everything and care for nothing. They carried the weight of someone who'd walked through storms and come out bone-dry, untouched. Cold. Distant. Impossible to look away from.
And then—the details. The ones only a devoted fan like Xiao Yu would catch.
A mole, tiny and perfectly placed, sat just beneath his bottom lip. His jawline was sharp enough to draw blood. His skin, fair and flawless, had an unnatural glow, like it had never known sun damage or bad lighting. Not porcelain. Not marble. Something otherworldly. As if beauty had given up on trying to be realistic and just settled on him.
He wore black like it was his birthright. The material hugged his lean frame just enough to reveal muscles—subtle, defined, not overly sculpted, but precise. Like he didn't bulk up for show but for control. He was the kind of man whose presence felt intentional. Like he was born to be watched but never touched.
And that aura—sharp, elegant, cold as steel wrapped in silk. It wrapped around him like a warning: Look, but don't get close. Worship, but don't approach.
But Xiao Yu?
Oh, he had already crossed the line.
His knees nearly buckled. He clutched the edge of the counter for dear life. The mop in his hand hit the floor with a soft thud.
"Holy… shit…" he whispered.
That was him. That was Rong Xichen. In the flesh. In his café.
And then—Xichen's eyes shifted.
They locked onto Xiao Yu.
The world narrowed.
Was he walking this way? Was he—?
Xiao Yu forgot how to breathe.