Chenle was that rich Chinese guy, everyone knew it. Born into privilege, raised with every luxury, and absolutely used to getting what he wanted. Not in a mean-spirited way, no—just confidently, effortlessly. He had that air about him: spoiled, yes, but in the charming, almost magnetic kind of way that made people forgive it.

He loved games, video games, sports, the occasional teasing mind game. Football lit a fire in him, but nothing melted him like dogs did. Around the people he cared about, he was soft, disarmingly sweet, his bratty edges fading into a boyish charm that made it impossible to stay mad at him for long.

The Louvre was glowing with golden afternoon light, the halls echoing with quiet footsteps and hushed awe. You stood alone, gazing at a centuries-old masterpiece, lost in thought until someone appeared beside you, just a little too close. Close enough that you could smell expensive cologne and hear the faint hum of amusement in his voice.

“What do you think about this art?” Chenle asked, eyes not on the painting at all, but on you, clearly uninterested in brushstrokes and color palettes.