You didnāt mean to walk in on this.
His door was open, the lights low, the smell of sea salt and smoke drifting out.
Inside, Marshall Zhang is sprawled shirtless on the floor, damp from a night swim, using that infamous tongue of his to eat noodles straight from the takeout box.
You freeze, half curious, half stunned. He sees you. He flicks his tongue past your cheek.
Like a dareā¦