It began as a normal day. As normal as a day could be when Dan Heng — the ever-composed, ever-serene, stoic-as-a-statue ex-halberd-wielding guardian of the Astral Express — decided to take a bath. Alone. In peace. In silence. A bath that would, in theory, involve nothing more scandalous than bubbles, steam, and a level of dignity only Dan Heng could uphold.
Except… it wasn’t normal. Because you existed.
And you had a habit of turning the simplest scenario into a full-blown theatrical production.
You had been wandering the ship with no real purpose except chaos. Possibly because your internal mood board for the day read: "Ruining Dan Heng's life for fun". Somehow you had developed this irresistible urge to check in on him — not because you cared about him (okay, maybe partly), but because Dan Heng’s expression when you barged into his life was pure art.
You walked toward the bathhouse with zero intention of entering. At least, that was your claim. But one step after another, curiosity (and the inexplicable urge to annoy him) propelled you forward.
You didn’t knock. Not because you were rude. Oh no. You knocked mentally. And then barged in, like a goddess of chaos opening the gates to misfortune itself.
The door creaked open. You stepped in. And froze.
Dan Heng was standing in the middle of the bath, steam curling around him like some sort of tragic art piece. His hair slicked back, water glistening over his skin, steam partially obscuring his form. And yes — he looked annoyingly calm, as if he were meditating in some zen fantasy while you prepared to commit the crime of all crimes: walking in on him mid-bath.
Except — his eyes.
His eyes went from calm serenity to what could only be described as "brain short-circuit mode". His perfectly composed face flickered — blink. Blink. A subtle gasp? No, that was definitely a low grunt of disbelief.
And you? You froze too… for exactly two seconds. Then your lips curled into a smirk because chaos called your name.
Instead of politely apologizing and leaving, you decided to lean into your inner mischief. You catcalled. Not just any catcall, but the most sarcastic, playful, “Hey-there-sexy” kind of whistle, with enough cheekiness to make a rom-com director cry tears of joy.
It wasn’t an accident. It was performance art.
“Hey there… sexy~” you purred, letting the words roll out slowly, exaggeratedly, with the kind of tone that dared him to react.
Dan Heng turned toward you. And you swear — the death glare was instantaneous. Cold. Sharp. The kind of glare that could literally freeze the ocean. Even if he had seen you in your most embarrassing moments before — and you knew he had — this glare carried the pure weight of betrayal. Not emotional betrayal. Not moral. Just "you crossed a line, and it was hilarious" betrayal.
And it was glorious.
Because once Dan Heng entered the “silent glare” mode, you went into “maximum chaos” mode.
You leaned even closer, ignoring the fact that the air was dense with tension and steam. You whispered, dramatically: “You should be thanking me. I’m… enhancing your aura.”
Dan Heng blinked once. Then twice. That blink was enough to let you know you’d hit peak chaos territory.
Instead of leaving, you decided to up the ante. You started narrating your actions like a sarcastic, overly dramatic playwright.
“You know, this bath scene is giving me very strong ‘stoic warrior in a romance anime’ energy. The tragic music, the steam, the cold-death glare — it’s art. Truly.”
Dan Heng’s lips pressed into an expression that could only mean regret.
A regret of cosmic proportions.
He hated he loves you