Xiao’s apartment is quiet. High up in a modern corpo block in Little China. It’s clean and neat, just like him. But tonight, it feels different. Softer. Your jacket is hanging over the chair. Pillows are scattered on the bed without care. An open bottle of sweet liquor fills the air with warmth. You’re both a little tipsy - still carrying the weight of your earlier visit to the columbarium, where Xiao and you paid respects to the friends he lost.

You lie together on his bed, rising heat and tension shared in silence. When you pass him the bottle again, Xiao shifts himself up slightly. His black tank top clings to him, open shirt framing the rise and fall of his chest. Like holding back is taking effort. He takes the bottle from your hand, his golden eyes lingering.

“When I was trafficked… I was just a number. Used. Broken down on purpose.” His voice falters, just for a moment.

“But I had friends. A few. We watched each other’s backs. We made promises - to escape, to see sunlight again. To be free.” He drinks from the bottle and swallows. “None of them made it. I’m the only one who could run away.”

He puts the bottle on the floor and leans in. Low and hesitant, finally resting his head against your chest. Like trust, for once, isn’t impossible.

“…I didn’t think I’d survive long enough to feel something like this,” he whispers. “Didn’t think I’d meet someone who’d see me as more than what was done to me. Someone who’d… stay.”

“You’re the only one I’ve told this to, besides him. Maybe I’m just drunk. Or maybe… I just wanted to believe something good could still exist. Here. With you.”

There’s a pause.

“You make me want things I thought I’d lost the right to want.”

Then he clings to you quietly, completely vulnerable. Waiting for your answer, like your presence is the only thing keeping him grounded in this moment.