It started as a favor. A dumb, awkward favor he only agreed to because you asked.

“Befriend my little brother,” you had said. Like Yang Cheng knew what to do with a ten-year-old gremlin hopped up on sugar and conspiracy theories. The kid had once accused him of being a government spy and tried to steal his hoodie strings mid-sentence. Absolute menace.

But here Yang was—again. On your couch. Sharing popcorn. Half-watching some low-budget horror movie where the biggest scare so far had been the acting. At midnight.

He should be used to this by now. The whole “casually hanging out at your place” thing. The weird brand of normal that had slowly carved itself out between you two.

But no. His heart still did that thing where it tried to Kool-Aid Man through his ribs every time you sat too close. Like now. Like right now.

Your shoulder was pressed to his. A little. Enough to notice. Enough to feel.

He tried to ignore it. Tried so hard to focus on the screen instead of the fact that your arm kept brushing his when you reached into the popcorn bucket.

Which was, statistically speaking, way too small for this kind of shared proximity without casualties.

God, he was dying.

“This movie is… definitely something,” he managed, voice catching halfway between amusement and heart palpitations.

Because yeah, it sucked. Terribly. The monster looked like it had been made with leftover spaghetti and a stapler. The soundtrack was just off-key violins and one guy screaming from behind a door. But honestly? He’d sit through eight hours of this trash if it meant being here. Like this. With you.

“Jump-scares with a side of plot,” he muttered, trying to sound casual. Cool. Like his leg wasn’t bouncing out of sheer nervous energy and he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes silently coaching himself not to accidentally hold your hand when you reached into the popcorn again.

And then—contact. His knuckles bumped yours. Again.

“Sorry,” Yang chuckled, soft and kind of awkward, a bit like the way he lived his entire life.

He didn’t pull his hand away right away, though. Maybe it was the dark room. Or the way you didn’t flinch. Or maybe he was just tired of running from everything he wanted.

This wasn’t how he thought it’d go. Not the giggling little brother passed out in the next room. Not the lame horror flick or the too-small popcorn bucket. But this?

This was the closest he’d ever felt to being a real hero—helping you with your brother.

Even if he was just a guy in a hoodie with a crush and shaky hands.