Chapter 5: The Reward
Wei Lin let Mei Hua steer him towards the student union building, his one sneaker and one bare foot making a slap-scuff rhythm on the tiles. The adrenaline was ebbing, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling in its wake.
“You’re a lunatic,” Mei Hua said, but she was squeezing his arm. “A magnificent, shoe-less lunatic. What even was that ‘bad karaoke’ bit?”
“It felt right in the moment,” Wei Lin grumbled, shoving his free hand into the pocket of Zhang Chen’s stupid, soft trousers. The fabric was a constant reminder. “I think I’m running on fumes and spite.”
They rounded a corner into a quieter, older section of the courtyard, where a stone walkway was bordered by overgrown jasmine. The library’s shadow loomed, cutting the warm sunlight into long, cool strips. It was there, in the dappled shade of a covered alcove, that he saw him.
Zhang Chen stood perfectly still, leaning against the mossy stone wall. In one hand, held casually by its laces, was Wei Lin’s missing sneaker.
He looked like a sculpture of impatience. Black turtleneck, dark trousers, an expression that gave nothing away. But his eyes, those deep-set, watchful eyes, were fixed on Wei Lin with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
Mei Hua’s hand tightened on Wei Lin’s arm. “Oh,” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” Wei Lin said, the words automatic. He detached himself from her. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking between Wei Lin’s forced neutrality and Zhang Chen’s silent, imposing figure. With a last concerned look, she nodded and walked away, her footsteps fading quickly.
Wei Lin waited until she was gone before he turned fully to face him. The few feet of cracked pavement between them felt like a gulf. “You followed me,” he said, not a question.
Zhang Chen pushed himself off the wall. He didn’t answer. He simply closed the distance, his movements smooth and quiet. He stopped just inside Wei Lin’s personal space, the scent of sandalwood and cooled leather enveloping him. He held up the sneaker. “You left in a hurry.”
“Yeah, well.” Wei Lin reached for it.
Zhang Chen lifted it just out of reach. His other hand came up, not roughly, but with definitive pressure, to rest on Wei Lin’s hip. The touch burned through the fine wool of the trousers, right over the sensitive, aching muscle beneath. Wei Lin sucked in a sharp breath.
“That was quite a performance,” Zhang Chen said, his voice low, a private rumble meant only for the alcove. “Defending your friend. Using your words like weapons. My little firebrand.”
There was pride in the words, but a possessive, hungry pride. It wasn’t praise for its own sake. It was the satisfaction of a collector admiring a particularly fierce specimen in his collection.
“Don’t,” Wei Lin muttered, but his protest lacked its usual heat. He was tired. His body was a ledger of everything Zhang Chen had done to it that morning, and the weight of the hand on his hip was both a brand and a anchor.
“Don’t what?” Zhang Chen asked softly. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Wei Lin’s ear. “Don’t tell you how magnificent you looked? How seeing you like that, fearless and ridiculous, makes me want to ruin you all over again?”
His hand slid from Wei Lin’s hip, curving around to palm his backside through the trousers, fingers digging in exactly where the ache was deepest. Wei Lin jerked, a choked sound escaping his throat. The mix of pain and sharp, unwanted arousal was dizzying.
Zhang Chen’s mouth left his ear, trailing down the side of his neck. He didn’t kiss. He bit. A sharp, claiming pressure that made Wei Lin’s knees buckle. He held him up, the hand on his ass pulling him flush, while his teeth worried the skin, surely leaving a mark that would bloom purple by evening.
“You belong to me,” Zhang Chen growled against his skin, the vibration thrumming through Wei Lin’s bones. “This fire. This loyalty. This mouth. It’s all mine. You can rage against the world, but you come home to me. You wear my clothes. You carry my marks. You understand?”
Wei Lin’s head was swimming. The stone wall was cool against his back, he realized dimly. Zhang Chen had maneuvered him into the shadows of the alcove. His chest heaved. He wanted to shove him away, to scream at the arrogance, the violation of this public claim. But his body, traitorously, was responding to the dark certainty in Zhang Chen’s touch, to the sheer focus of being wanted with such terrifying intensity.
“I hate you,” Wei Lin breathed, the words lacking conviction.
Zhang Chen finally released his neck, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark pools, satisfied. He gently wiped his thumb over the throbbing bite mark. “No, you don’t.” He said it like a simple fact. Then he lowered himself into a crouch.
Before Wei Lin could process the movement, Zhang Chen had taken his bare foot in one hand, lifting it. The contrast was surreal: the heir to the Zhang fortune, kneeling on dirty pavement, carefully brushing grit from Wei Lin’s sole before sliding the retrieved sneaker onto his foot. His touch was incongruously tender, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of a moment before. He tied the laces with methodical precision, double-knotting them.
When he stood, the moment of submission was over, erased. He was once again the impassive, controlled Zhang Chen. He adjusted the cuff of his turtleneck. “Your lecture starts in seven minutes. Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked away, his shoes making no sound on the stones. He didn’t look back.
Wei Lin stood rooted to the spot, his neck burning, his body humming with conflicting signals. He was dressed, shod, and dismissed. The half-burned incense stick on a nearby bench sent a thin, sweet thread of smoke into the air, the scent clashing with the ghost of sandalwood on his skin.
He touched the bite mark on his neck, his fingers coming away clean. No blood, just the promise of a spectacular bruise. A receipt. He took a deep, shuddering breath, pulled his borrowed jacket tighter around himself, and walked towards his lecture hall, each step in his now-complete shoes feeling heavier than the last.