If Ye Chan is a piano, precise and serene, then I'm the remix—loud, unpredictable, and occasionally hitting all the wrong notes just to see him flinch.
The office hums around me like a quiet orchestra, everyone keeping the perfect rhythm. Everyone except me, of course. I lean back in my chair, feet perched on the edge of the desk, scrolling through another Mo Dao Zu Shi fan edit. Lan Wangji's expression flashes on my screen, and I swear I can see Ye Chan in it—the exact same sharp brown eyes, the same quiet, lethal calm that makes everyone else freeze.
I grin.
"Senior Ye," I call across the floor, letting my voice ripple through the hum. "Could you at least pretend to have emotions today? Or are you practicing Lan Wangji's silent treatment again?"
A few heads pop up. Some duck quickly back to their keyboards. Nobody dares speak to him like this. Nobody… except me.
His eyes flicker, slow and sharp, like blades deciding whether to cut or not. That faint crack in the perfect mask—golden. It's enough.
"You're noisy," he mutters, calm as ever, like the world itself is nothing more than a metronome.
Bingo.
I sink into my chair, smug, watching him adjust his glasses. I remember him in school: the same precision, the same impossibly neat hair, the same quiet aura that made everyone tiptoe around him. And yet, somehow, I'd always found ways to annoy him back then—running past his desk, hiding his papers, quoting lines from MDZS just to see that slight twitch in his lips.
Three years apart, and here we are again. Same tension, different floor. Only now, I have a corner office instead of a backpack, and he… still makes me want to tease him.
I glance at him as he leans over the spreadsheet I "accidentally" left open on my computer. His sharp brown eyes, narrowed in focus, make me pause. For a second, the teasing fizzles, replaced by something I haven't admitted: curiosity. Why does he still make my chest tighten, my hands fidget? It's ridiculous.
"Remember back in school," I start, leaning over my desk just enough to be noticed, "when everyone was scared of you? And I ran around quoting random MDZS lines just to annoy you?"
His eyes flick to me. The tiniest lift of an eyebrow—subtle, dangerous.
"I do not remember," he says, voice flat. But there's a hint of… something. Amusement? Irritation? I can't tell. And I like that.
I lean back, pretending nonchalance. "Right, right. You're perfect. Everyone loves perfect Ye Chan. Meanwhile, I'm still here, the chaos to your order."
That earns me a small glare, the kind that could slice through tempered glass if he tried. And yet, I catch a faint curve at the edge of his lips. He doesn't smile fully, never does, but it's there—the ghost of one.
I huff quietly, shaking my head, amused at myself. Ridiculous, I think. I'm literally comparing him to a fictional character. And somehow, it fits.
He moves past my desk, gliding through the office as though the world itself obeys his rhythm. I watch him, heart thudding, imagining the quiet piano notes of his life… and realizing I'm the remix crashing in.
Lunch hits. I grab my usual takeaway, but my gaze follows him as he steps into the small pantry. I catch a flash of the boy he once was in school—the one who used to correct me mid-sentence, who'd make me stumble with his calm logic. It's all there, hidden beneath the adult exterior, the sharp suit, the controlled voice.
And I can't help it. I step closer. "Hey, Ye Chan. Don't tell me you're seriously avoiding coffee today. Even Lan Wangji had a weak spot for tea."
His hand freezes, mid-motion. A pause, a subtle hesitation. And then… nothing. Calm resumes. He doesn't answer. But I notice—the slightest twitch at the corner of his jaw. Victory.
Later, back at our desks, I glance at him again. Something about the quiet he radiates is… hypnotic. Dangerous. I catch myself thinking of all the times I've dared him, challenged him, teased him—and a part of me wonders if he's been thinking of me too, even in the years we didn't meet.
I shake my head, smirking. "Nope. Not thinking about it. Not ever."
And yet, as he types away, as the office hums around us in perfect monotone, I can't help but feel: I've always been the remix to his piano. And maybe… that's exactly where I belong.