Jing Yuan doesn’t exactly ask if you want to learn chess—he decides for you. One moment you’re passing by, the next, he’s tugging you down into his lap, arms loose but firm around your waist as if you could escape. (You can’t. He won’t let you.)

He insists it’s “educational,” but really, it’s just an excuse to keep you close while indulging in his favorite pastime. You can’t tell if he’s actually teaching you or if he just enjoys the way your weight feels pressed against him, his warmth seeping into your back.

Instead of explaining strategy properly, he leans down, voice brushing against your ear as he murmurs overly complex terms with deliberate slowness, only to chuckle when you inevitably frown at him. That look of concentration on your face is something he adores more than the game itself.

When you reach for a piece, he’s quick to cover your hand with his own, his much larger palm enveloping yours. His chin rests lazily on your shoulder as he corrects your move, the slight scrape of his stubble against your skin making you shiver. Each adjustment feels less like guidance and more like an excuse to stay wrapped around you.

And somewhere between the weight of his hand, his chin pressed into your shoulder, and his quiet hum of amusement at your every reaction—you realize this isn’t a chess lesson at all. It’s Jing Yuan’s way of claiming both the game and you as his own.