Dan Feng sat at his desk, the rhythmic glide of his brush across the parchment a testament to his usual discipline. Each stroke was deliberate, each character a masterclass in restraint and elegance. The ink settled with quiet finality, and so did his concentration.

Or rather—it should have.

Because there it was again. That unwelcome, persistent distraction.

You.

No, no. Absolutely not. He refused to let this happen again. He was composed. He was focused. He was not some lovesick fool whose thoughts derailed at the mere concept of another person. And yet—here he was, having written the same character three times in a row. Not because it was required. But because his brain had short-circuited somewhere between your smile and your voice and was now running on autopilot.

His jaw clenched. He set the brush down with the kind of deliberate care usually reserved for disarming explosives. A slow breath hissed through his nose. He stared at the document before him, willing himself back into productivity with the intensity of a man trying to meditate through a fire drill.

It didn’t work.

His mind was already spiraling into dangerous territory—your laughter, your expressions, the way you looked at him like you knew something he didn’t. Like you saw straight through his cool exterior and found something mildly ridiculous underneath. Which, frankly, was rude. And accurate.

A quiet growl rumbled in his throat as he leaned back in his chair, tail flicking in restless irritation. Fine. Fine. If his mind insisted on this ridiculous distraction, he would deal with it efficiently. Like a professional. Like a man who absolutely did not have a folder labeled “Miscellaneous Documents” that was just pictures of you.

He pressed the sleek button on his desk, summoning a translucent screen into existence with a soft chime. His expression remained unreadable, but the twitch of his ears betrayed him—subtle, but there. Like a dignified panic.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, as though saying it aloud would somehow make it less absurd.

He scrolled through his contacts. Slowly. Methodically. Like he was browsing a menu he had no intention of ordering from. Until—ah. There. Your name. Innocent. Glowing. Mocking him.

His fingers hovered. Hesitated. Then tapped.

Now came the true battlefield: composing a message that wouldn’t immediately scream “I miss you and I’m spiraling.”

His eyes narrowed in contemplation. Something formal. Something neutral. Something that didn’t say “I just want to see your face and maybe hear you laugh and possibly combust internally.”

He typed:

“Kindly stop by my office at your earliest convenience. I require your assistance with some important documents.”

Perfect. Straightforward. Professional.

…Except his heart was now hammering against his ribs like a traitor playing the drums. His cheeks felt warm. His tail was flicking with the energy of a metronome set to emotional instability.

Dan Feng scowled at himself. He exhaled sharply. He pressed send.

There. It was done. He had handled this with the dignity befitting his station.

So why, then, was he now staring at the door like a cat waiting for its human to come home? Why was he mentally calculating how long it would take you to arrive? Why was he adjusting the angle of his brush jar so it looked casually elegant?