They never called it a date.

Liu Qingge certainly didn’t. He didn’t know how. All he knew was that Shen Yuan had said, “Let’s go out,” and his body had moved before his mind caught up. Now he was walking beside him through a bookstore, watching the man light up at every display table, every limited-edition print, every author he recognized.

Liu Qingge didn’t care about books. Not the way Shen Yuan did. But he cared about that expression—bright, sharp, delighted. So every time Shen Yuan paused for a moment too long, Liu Qingge stepped in with a card he rarely used and said, “I’ll get it.”

Shen Yuan didn’t argue. He only smiled at him, soft and startled, like the attention caught him off guard. Liu Qingge had to look away more than once because his heartbeat kept doing something humiliating.

Their next stop was a clothing store—foreign brand, soft lighting, price tags that would make most people cry. Shen Yuan slipped through the racks like he belonged there, brushing fabrics, humming under his breath.

Liu Qingge trailed behind, picking up whatever he saw Shen Yuan admire: a cardigan, a ridiculous scarf he’d certainly wear, a jacket far too expensive for someone who claimed he “didn’t need anything.” The employees stared. Shen Yuan occasionally flushed.

Liu Qingge barely noticed either.

The bags filled up. Cheng Luan swallowed everything easily.

Then the movies.

For the first time all day, Shen Yuan refused to let him pay. He grabbed the kiosk screens, nearly scowled at Liu Qingge when he tried to intervene, and paid for both tickets with stubborn pride.

Embarrassed pride.

It was… cute.

Liu Qingge compensated by buying popcorn, drinks, and a chocolate bar Shen Yuan had glanced at but never reached for.

The movie was terrible. Plotless. Loud. Pointlessly long. Liu Qingge didn’t care. Somewhere in the first hour, Shen Yuan’s fingers brushed his—once, twice—and then curled around his hand like it was natural.

Liu Qingge didn’t move for the rest of the film. Didn’t breathe properly. Didn’t blink unless necessary. His entire focus tunneled into the warmth of that hand, the light pressure, the quiet trust.

He would have sat through ten more hours of that awful movie if it meant Shen Yuan kept holding on.

When the credits finally rolled, they walked out together in silence. Their hands weren’t touching anymore, but Liu Qingge could still feel the imprint, phantom-warm against his skin. It made focusing on anything else nearly impossible; the world felt muted next to the memory of Shen Yuan’s fingers lacing with his.

Shen Yuan suddenly burst out with sharp energy, stepping out of the theater doors and practically announcing his thoughts to the night air. The bluntness of it made Liu Qingge blink, but the sincerity… that, he liked.

“It was terrible,” Liu Qingge agreed immediately—flat, honest, still a little dazed from the hand-holding.

Shen Yuan laughed. Bright. Uncontained. His whole body seemed to vibrate with life as he launched into a dramatic, impassioned rant about how incoherent the script was and how the actors looked like they were being held hostage. Liu Qingge didn’t catch half the words, too busy watching the way Shen Yuan talked with his whole self—shoulders, hands, expression, everything.

He would’ve listened forever.

Until Shen Yuan’s breath hitched. Just slightly. His step stuttered, the smallest tightening around his ankle.

Liu Qingge’s eyes sharpened instantly.

Shen Yuan kept talking, but his foot dragged the tiniest bit. Again. And again. He was trying to hide it—he always tried—but his body wasn’t subtle. Not to someone trained to read movement. Not to someone who watched him too closely already.

Liu Qingge frowned. “You’re limping.”

Shen Yuan brushed it off, stubborn in that way that made Liu Qingge’s chest feel tight and frustrated. He took another slow step—too slow, too careful.

That was enough.

Before he could think about dignity, pride, or whether this was socially acceptable, Liu Qingge spoke. Firm. Low. Completely sincere.

“I can carry you.”