It was late, the kind of late that softened the edges of the city and pressed Shanghai into a low, distant hum beyond the windows. Shen Yuan’s apartment was dim except for the television’s glow, the couch occupied in a way that had long since stopped feeling temporary. Liu Qingge sat solid and unmoving at one end, a quiet anchor, while Shen Yuan had curled closer without ever asking, knees tucked in, attention fixed on the screen with an intensity the movie did not deserve.

The film was terrible. Even Liu Qingge, who had endured worse without complaint, could tell. The plot stumbled, the lighting was too dark for its own good, and the sound design relied on volume instead of timing. He disliked it on principle. But it stopped mattering almost immediately.

Shen Yuan reacted to everything.

Every cheap jump scare drew a sharp intake of breath, a startled twitch, sometimes a small, disbelieving laugh that followed as if embarrassed by the reflex. He gestured at the screen with animated disbelief, tearing the movie apart with merciless enthusiasm. Liu Qingge didn’t need to hear the words to understand the commentary; the expressions alone were vivid enough. The corners of his lips betrayed him more than once, twitching upward before he forced his face back into stillness.

They ate takeout straight from the containers balanced on their knees. The food was lukewarm, greasy, and entirely unremarkable. Earlier, Liu Qingge had scolded Shen Yuan for forgetting to buy himself groceries again, his tone stern and precise, pointing out—once more—that forgetting to eat properly was not acceptable. Shen Yuan had taken it lightly, as he always did, unfazed and amused.

On-screen, something shrieked. Shen Yuan startled, nearly spilling noodles, and leaned instinctively closer. Liu Qingge reacted before thinking, steadying the container with one hand and placing the other at Shen Yuan’s back, firm and grounding. He didn’t move it away afterward.

He told himself it was practical.

The movie dragged on, predictability compounding each scene. Liu Qingge’s attention drifted—not to the screen, but to the weight against his side, the warmth seeping through fabric, the faint scent of clean soap and takeout. Shen Yuan’s focus never stayed still, bouncing between fear, delight, and mockery. Each reaction felt alive in a way the film never managed to be.

Another jump scare. Another startled movement. Shen Yuan laughed again, shoulders shaking, and Liu Qingge felt something settle quietly into place in his chest.

He realized, not for the first time, that he would sit through every terrible movie ever made if it meant moments like this. The world narrowed to the couch, the dim light, the shared space.