Xing Yu's breath hitched quietly.
The morning light had barely begun to slip through the curtains, painting pale amber streaks across the ceiling. But he was already wide awake—not because of any noise or light, but because of the weight and warmth that now rested fully on his chest.
He slowly tilted his head downward.
Tufts of soft black hair tickled beneath his chin, and just under that was the peaceful, sleeping face of Jian—his brows relaxed, lips slightly parted, breath warm against the thin fabric of Xing's shirt.
At some point in the night, the boy had rolled over, crawled unknowingly into his arms, and plastered himself on top of him like he belonged there.
Xing's chest rose and fell with a deep, shaky breath.
He didn't dare move.
He didn't dare blink too hard.
