Yuhan and Li Hao stared at each other before turning to Zixuan again.
"How did you open it?" Yuhan asked, moving closer, genuinely confused.
"I set a password earlier," Zixuan said, faltering slightly as Yuhan stepped in closer.
"What is it?" Yuhan asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Secret," Zixuan replied quickly, moving back toward his own door.
"Of our own apartment?" Yuhan said, voice rising in disbelief. Li Hao took the bag of food from him and walked inside, looking stressed from the two of them.
"Yes, of your own house. To make it fair, why don't you learn mine too?" Zixuan offered with a grin.
"I don't want to! And what if something like this happens again?" Yuhan said, half annoyed, half flustered.
"Then I'll come running," Zixuan said, stepping closer — too close — his tall frame casting a shadow over Yuhan as their eyes met and lingered.
"H-how old are you?" Yuhan stammered, pushing Zixuan away lightly.
"You shouldn't talk to your senior like that," Zixuan teased, his voice low.
Yuhan turned back to the door and grabbed the handle — but it didn't budge.
"What's wrong with this thing?" he said, struggling.
Yuhan twisted the handle again, but it refused to move.
"What's wrong with this door?" he muttered, bending forward to try again.
"Move," Zixuan's low voice came from behind him — calm, firm, too close.
Before Yuhan could step aside, Zixuan was already behind him, his presence pressing lightly against his bent back. A hand gripped his waist, straightening him up, and Yuhan jolted from the sudden touch.
He felt the faint brush of Zixuan's arm sliding past his side, searching for the lock.
A breath escaped Yuhan's lips — short, nervous — he didn't know where to look.
Zixuan's fingers moved past his waist, their hands almost touching.
The small click of the lock was barely audible, but Yuhan's heart thundered louder. He turned abruptly.
It was too sudden — their faces nearly met, eyes locking for a second that felt far too long.
Zixuan's hand caught his arm, steadying him gently, though his gaze didn't leave Yuhan's.
"The door's open," Zixuan said softly, his voice lower than usual.
Yuhan blinked, breaking eye contact first.
"Oh," he whispered, stepping back, his pulse still quick.
"The door… yeah."
He slipped inside quickly, closing the door behind him as his back pressed against it — his face warm, his breath unsteady.
"What… was that…" he muttered to himself.
Li Hao had already unpacked the food — noodles, dumplings, and beer spread out neatly.
"I'm taking a shower," Yuhan said, still dazed. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Horny ass," Li Hao muttered under his breath, watching him go.
****
Zixuan stepped into his bathroom and turned the shower handle until the water ran cold. The chill hit his skin, chasing the day's heat but never fully quieting the burn inside him. He pressed his palms against the mirror in front of him, watching the steam blur his reflection until even he became a stranger.
When he came out, water still dripping from his hair, he didn't bother with a towel. The air felt heavy, his body warmer than before — alive, but untouched.
He sank to the floor by his bed, surrounded by mirrors that returned his every movement. The light from his laptop screen flickered to life, familiar, routine. The sounds filled the room, soft and rhythmic. The moan grew louder but no one could hear, he had made his room soundproof. He watched the trembling breath, the breaking voice of pleasure as the women couldn't even make out two reasonable words from the pleasure.
His pulse rose with theirs, but his body didn't respond. It never did. It only burned — that same hunger that no touch could quiet.
Sometimes he wondered what it felt like — the thing people on the screen cried out for. What it was like to be wanted enough to lose control.
He reached out, fingertips brushing his own reflection. Every image that stared back at him was the same — desiring, but untouched.
The room felt too large, the silence too thick when the screen went dark again.
He lay back against the cold floor, breathing shallowly, eyes tracing the ceiling mirror.
"When will this be over…" he whispered, not sure whether he meant the ache or the emptiness that followed.