Chapter Text
The coffee pot sputtered on the stovetop.
Lu Guang stood at the kitchen window, watching the sky pink up behind the old windmill. The Kansas spring chill had finally begun to loosen its grip on the homestead, though frost still clung to fence posts and glittered across the fields well into the morning. He could just make out Cheng Xiaoshi’s dark form making his way to the barn, hat pulled low against the morning cold, the ear flaps almost tucked into his jacket collar.
That silhouette was familiar as his own reflection now, the way those shoulders hunched against the wind, that particular swagger that even farm work hadn’t completely erased.
Lu Guang’s hands worked the crank of the old mill, grinding coffee beans for their second cups. The scent, the sound, the repetitive motion—comfort in routine. The mill was at least twenty years old, reminded him of the one his family kept during his childhood. Something from before New York. No uniforms or badges. Simpler times, simpler rules.
His eyes drifted to the calendar tacked beside the icebox. April. It’d been well over a year now since they’d narrowly escaped from New York, since blood on snow and choosing to give up everything they’d ever known—since choices that couldn’t be unmade, not that he ever would.
The back door banged open, and Qiao Ling bustled in with a basket of eggs balanced on one hip, her face pinched with annoyance. Cold air sharp as a knife rushed in with her before she kicked the door closed with her heel.
“Damn hen’s brooding again,” she announced, setting the basket on the table with a thud.
Lu Guang’s eyebrows shot up. “Again?”
“Third time since January. At this rate we’ll be completely overrun by summer.”
Lu Guang pressed his lips together, fighting the smile that threatened to break free at the thought of more chicks following Cheng Xiaoshi around the yard like his shadow, peeping and fluttering after him while he cursed a blue streak.
“Worse things than extra eggs to sell in town,” he said.
“So says the man who doesn’t have to clean the coop,” Qiao Ling shot back, reaching for her apron hanging by the stove. She tied it with sharp tugs, looking like she might snap the fabric if she weren’t five foot two and a hundred pounds soaking wet.
He got the skillet heating and cracked several eggs into a bowl. Three eggs, three people. Three slices of toast with butter.
Qiao Ling bustled around him, setting the table while he worked at the stove. Three plates, three cups, three sets of mismatched cutlery. When they’d first arrived, she’d insisted on buying a proper set of dishes—the kind with delicate blue flowers around the rim. A touch of civilization, she’d called it. Something to make this weathered farmhouse feel like the place they’d left behind.
From outside came the distant sound of Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice, sharp and irate as he argued with the mule. Something about stubborn animals and the state of the harness. Lu Guang almost snorted.
“Reverend Wallace cornered me at Thompson’s yesterday.” Qiao Ling called over her shoulder as she folded a napkin into thirds. “He asked after your tutoring services.”
Lu Guang went still. “Oh? What did he say?”
“Don’t worry. It’s good,” she said. “The Miller boy’s doing well in arithmetic. Word’s getting around, should be good for business.”
The back door creaked and slammed shut again. Familiar sounds washed over Lu Guang—Cheng Xiaoshi’s heavy footsteps crossing the porch, boots being kicked off, the pump creaking, water, a muttered curse when cold water hit skin.
“Jesus, it’s freezing!” Cheng Xiaoshi declared as he entered, rubbing his hands together, nose pink and eyes watery against the stinging cold. “My fingers are so numb I could pick my own pocket and not feel a damn thing.”
Lu Guang’s eyes were firmly planted on the eggs when he felt the ex-mobster’s presence at his back. A small hum, a breath on the back of his neck. And ice cold hands snaking around his waist, slipping beneath his untucked shirt.
“Goddamn it, Xiaoshi—” Lu Guang hissed.
“What’s wrong, baby? Too cold for you?” Cheng Xiaoshi murmured against the shell of his ear, the word soft as a secret between them. “And here I thought I was the delicate one in this arrangement.”
Lu Guang’s heart stuttered. Even now, even when his intention was to get under his skin—it was that word, it was those hands, and it was a constant. Whenever the two of them were in the same room, when the rest of the town was far away, Cheng Xiaoshi inevitably ended up right next to Lu Guang, his hands always found skin, always seeking him out even when he didn’t realize it.
“Eggs are almost done,” Lu Guang managed. “Coffee too. Damn menace.”
“My hero,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmured warm against his skin, then pulled back. “See, sister? This is how you treat a man who’s been up since before God.”
“Is that right?” Qiao Ling made a sound like she might stab him with a fork. “Well, seeing as your hands aren’t too frozen to function, make yourself useful and pour the coffee.”
“So hostile so early in the morning,” Cheng Xiaoshi lamented, letting his palms slide away from Lu Guang’s waist. “City girl at heart—no appreciation for the noble farmer’s plight!”
“Keep it up and I’m feeding your breakfast to the pigs,” she snapped.
There was no real heat behind their words, just the comfortable rhythm of familiar bickering. Like two cats sniping at each other in an alley.
Lu Guang turned from the stove with the skillet, sliding the eggs onto each plate before taking his seat. The coffee pot gave one final sputter as Cheng Xiaoshi poured three cups, that rich swirling scent filling the kitchen.
“Post comes today,” said Qiao Ling, reaching for her cup. “Lucas—you taking those lesson plans into town, or should I?”
“I was hoping to ask one of you to join me,” he said. “I need to check if that book order arrived.”
Cheng Xiaoshi glanced up, something warm and wicked flickering in his eyes. “Planning to corrupt the youth of Shawnee with more of that Joyce fellow’s filth?”
“It’s Milton,” said Lu Guang, correcting him as he plucked his fork off the table. “And it’s for the Williams boy, who’s smarter than half the town put together.”
“Perfect for a life of crime,” Cheng Xiaoshi said with satisfaction. “I could use a protégé.”
Qiao Ling’s cup clattered against the table. “Charles Novak, you stay away from that boy. We don’t need you teaching another child to pickpocket!”
“Only joking, Jo dearest.” Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand found Lu Guang’s thigh beneath the table. Troublemaker. “Not that our Lucas here would ever allow it, would you, dear?”
The new names had finally become comfortable in their mouths. Lucas Hayes, Charles Novak, Josephine Finch. The war-scarred veteran, his charming friend, the widow who’d lost her husband to the war. It was a story cobbled together from half-truths. Bits and pieces from the newspapers and barflies they’d happened upon during their journey west. Fiction built upon fact, somehow become real enough to touch.
Lu Guang’s eyes flitted to Qiao Ling’s—Jo’s—elegant hand as she reached for her coffee again.
“At any rate,” she said, glancing at Lu Guang, “Mrs. Johnson asked after you yesterday as well, Lucas. Said her boy needs help with his letters.”
“Another student?”
“Another admirer,” Cheng Xiaoshi muttered into his coffee cup. “Woman’s been making eyes at you across the church pews since Christmas.”
Lu Guang’s brows furrowed.
“Her son can’t read,” said Qiao Ling, cutting back in. “And she offered cash instead of barter.”
“Absolutely not.” Cheng Xiaoshi set his cup down with enough force to slosh coffee onto the table.
“And why not, pray tell?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Because, Lucas Hayes needs his rest,” Cheng Xiaoshi declared, suddenly all concern. “He’s already teaching the Miller boy twice a week, and the Williams children on Thursdays. That’s three times a week! Three! Adding more could raise suspicions. People might wonder why a man with damaged lungs is suddenly taking on so much work.”
Lu Guang opened his mouth to object, but Cheng Xiaoshi was already barreling on.
“Besides,” he continued, waving his fork for emphasis, “that Johnson woman is about as subtle as a freight train. Last Sunday she practically tripped over herself bringing you a slice of that sad excuse for an apple pie.”
“It was quite good, actually,” Lu Guang said mildly.
“Oh, I’m sure it was.” Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile was all teeth. “She probably spent all day on it, hoping to catch the attention of our dashing, mysterious tutor with his tragic war history and his stormy eyes.”
Qiao Ling snorted. “This from the man who had half the ladies at the winter social competing for a dance.”
“That’s different,” Cheng Xiaoshi said with a dismissive wave.
“Is it? Because as I recall, Anna Baker was very impressed by how you helped her hang those lanterns. What was it she said? ‘Such strong, capable hands.’”
“I was being neighborly!”
“You were showing off,” Qiao Ling countered, lifting her coffee to her lips with a pointed look. “Just like you do every time we go into town.”
Lu Guang watched them bicker, something warm unfurling in his chest. Their arguments had become a kind of comfort. The familiar rhythm of Cheng Xiaoshi’s indignation, Qiao Ling’s dry rebuttals—it made this weathered farmhouse feel more like home than any place he’d lived, even in childhood.
“If you’re so concerned about Lucas,” Qiao Ling was saying, “why don’t you make the boy come here for his lessons?”
“Fine,” Cheng Xiaoshi snapped. “But I’m not leaving them alone. I’m going to properly supervise and make sure Mrs. Johnson doesn’t try to steal our tutor away with her feminine wiles.”
Lu Guang nearly choked on his coffee.
“I’m sorry,” he managed once he’d caught his breath, “are you two arguing over my virtue?”
Both siblings turned to stare at him as if they’d forgotten he was there.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Qiao Ling said.
“I’m being practical,” Cheng Xiaoshi insisted at the same time.
Lu Guang bit back a smile. The idea of these women setting their sights on him was absurd—he’d never looked at a woman that way in his life—but Cheng Xiaoshi didn’t need to know how amusing his jealousy was.
“If it helps,” Lu Guang said, reaching for his coffee, “the boy can come here for lessons. I’ll send word with Reverend Wallace on Sunday, unless I happen upon Mrs. Johnson in town today.”
“Well then,” Cheng Xiaoshi said, stiffening, “Then I suppose I’ll be your chaperone! Make sure everything stays above board.”
“Unlike your little chats with Emily Baker,” Qiao Ling muttered.
“That woman has a genuine interest in literature!”
“Is that what the youth is calling it these days?”
Outside, the sun had crested the horizon, turning frost to diamond dust across the fields. The day stretched before them, full of ordinary tasks and quiet rituals. Mending fences. Tending gardens. Teaching arithmetic to farm children whose parents paid in eggs and nickels. Newspapers brought word from the city sometimes—corruption trials, scandal, politics as filthy as ever. Names they recognized appeared less and less as the months passed. Soon, perhaps, they’d stop looking altogether.
Perhaps this could be forever.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Cheng Xiaoshi said, breaking into Lu Guang’s thoughts. “I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
“He’s probably mentally preparing for Mrs. Johnson’s marriage proposal,” Qiao Ling said with a smirk.
Lu Guang snorted, straightening in his seat. “I think I can handle one overzealous woman.”
“That’s what I said about Esther Wilson last month,” Cheng Xiaoshi warned, “and now she’s knitting me socks.”
“Just smile and be polite,” said Qiao Ling.
“But not too polite,” Cheng Xiaoshi added.
“Well, you can still be rather polite.”
“Sound advice from a woman who beat the eligible young Joseph Scott off the property with a broom when he asked if she was looking to remarry.”
“That was different,” Qiao Ling sniffed. “Man’s wife isn’t even cold in the ground.”
In the space between one breath and the next, Lu Guang was gone again.
Suddenly he was in the back of Pops' truck, bumping down the mountain road with Cheng Xiaoshi's weight against his side. The smell of hay and horse blankets. The creak of wooden slats beneath them. Beth standing in the doorway, her silver braid caught by the bitter wind, her face solemn as the truck pulled away. Her voice carrying on the mountain air behind them: "Write when you're settled. Don't forget."
The memory was so vivid he could feel the icy air burning his lungs, taste the metal tang of fear on his tongue. His body remembered Cheng Xiaoshi's skin burning too hot from lingering fever, the rasp of his breathing irregular against Lu Guang's chest. The truck had rattled and groaned beneath them, every pothole sending jolts of pain through Lu Guang's cracked ribs.
But despite the condition of the roads, Pops had driven steady. He'd pushed that rickety Ford through mountain passes where the snow drifted higher than the hood. The engine had whined in protest as they crept along switchbacks where one wrong turn meant plummeting into darkness.
West Virginia first. Then Kentucky. That's where you'll find your sister waiting.
When every crossroads looked the same and it felt the driving might never end, that's what Lu Guang would repeat to himself.
The journey felt like a lifetime ago, so distant now that it happened to someone else. Lu Guang's hands tightened on his coffee cup. Warmth seeped into his palms.
They'd only truly stopped that drive down the Adirondack mountains once, when Cheng Xiaoshi's fever had spiked so high that his teeth were chattering despite the sweat pouring off of him. They'd needed to find a place to wait it out.
"He's strong," Beth had told Lu Guang before they'd left, pressing a small pouch of aspirin into his hands, dark eyes hard as flint. "But that bullet tore him up good and those doctors tore him up even worse. Watch the stitches, and don't let the fever climb too high."
Beth was a no-nonsense kind of woman, so the urgency in her voice had been enough to jolt Lu Guang to the core.
Pops knew about a hunting cabin out there in the mountains. They spent several days there, with wind whistling through gaps in the log walls, making the flame in the oil lamp dance and flicker. Lu Guang had curled up beside Cheng Xiaoshi, forcing aspirin down his throat every four hours while Pops kept the fire going, the crack and pop of the pine logs were the only sound besides Cheng Xiaoshi's ragged breathing and Lu Guang's murmurs.
The hours had blurred together in an endless haze. Cool cloths. Whispers. A barely lucid Cheng Xiaoshi as the fever raged. His dark eyes would open, unfocused and glassy, fixed on some point past Lu Guang's shoulder. Sometimes he'd mutter words and names Lu Guang didn't even recognize, other times he'd reach for Lu Guang's face, fingers tracing his features like a blind man trying to remember what it was like to see.
And once, in the darkest part of night, with frost feathering across the cabin's single window, Cheng Xiaoshi had grabbed Lu Guang's wrist with sudden strength, eyes clear for the first time in days.
"If I die," he'd said, voice raw and cracked, "if I die, you leave me behind, you hear me?"
"You're not going to die," Lu Guang had lied.
Cheng Xiaoshi's laugh had been a terrible, broken sound. "No, promise me," he'd insisted, grip tightening until Lu Guang could feel his pulse hammering against those desperate fingers. "Promise me you'll keep going. That you won't get lost out here. That you won't try to go back."
"I promise," Lu Guang had whispered, pressing his lips to Cheng Xiaoshi's burning forehead. "I promise, alright? Now shut up and rest."
Cheng Xiaoshi had dozed off again, leaving Lu Guang rattled, unable to sleep anymore. Pops had been laying on the sofa, his back turned to them. At the time, Lu Guang suspected he'd been awake and heard the outburst, but never found the courage to ask.
Cheng Xiaoshi's fever broke soon after, and when he was lucid enough to travel, Pops got them moving well before dawn. Frost thick on the ground, the sky a deep and endless black above the treetops.
"Goddamn fool," Pops had muttered as they'd loaded Cheng Xiaoshi back into the truck, the air white with their frozen breath. "Took a bullet and still insisting he can walk to the car himself." But there'd been grudging respect in his voice, and his hands had been gentle as they'd helped Cheng Xiaoshi up the wooden slats.
They wove through rural back roads of West Virginia, avoiding major thoroughfares that might have state police. Towns with names Lu Guang couldn't remember, diners where Pops had brought them greasy food that Cheng Xiaoshi could barely keep down. Filling stations where attendants glanced at their tired faces and bloody bandages with the careful blankness of people who knew better than to ask questions and never called the cops.
But they'd made it.
They reached Lexington in just over a week. Pops dropped them off at a roadside motel with a list of addresses and phone numbers—places to write to and call when they got settled or something went wrong.
And then he was gone, driving off into the night, leaving them with their bag and a wheelchair they’d stolen from Bellevue Hospital.
The night clerk watched them with uninterested eyes as Lu Guang approached the desk. The man's gaze flicked between them, lingering on Cheng Xiaoshi and the way he slumped in the wheelchair.
"Room 14," Lu Guang said, sliding a bill across the scratched counter.
The clerk pocketed the money without breaking eye contact. “Ain’t nobody in 14," he said, voice flat as an old record. "But a little lady left this." He produced a folded slip of paper from beneath the counter. "Said some fellers might come looking."
Lu Guang's fingers closed around the note, his heart tightening. They'd come all this way, only to find a dead end?
The motel room was sparse and stale—a pair of twin beds, yellowed blinds that didn't quite close, a bathroom with rust-stained fixtures. The radiator clanged and sputtered, pumping out just enough heat to take the edge off the January chill.
Cheng Xiaoshi let out a low groan as he sank onto the bed. The sheet beneath him went taut as he leaned back against the headboard, his dark eyes following Lu Guang's movements.
"What's it say?" he asked, nodding toward the note still clutched in Lu Guang's fist.
Lu Guang unfolded it, smoothing the creases with his thumb. Qiao Ling's handwriting was neat and economical.
Had to move. Check the Bluebird Diner at East End. Ask for Marlene.
"Christ, she loves her codes," Cheng Xiaoshi muttered, head falling back against the headboard with a thunk. "Though I guess we're not exactly low-profile after our little adventure in the big city, huh, gorgeous?"
Lu Guang moved to the window, parting the blinds with two fingers. The motel's neon sign bathed the empty parking lot in sickly blue light. No suspicious vehicles, no lurking figures. Just the endless night and the distant rumble of trucks on the highway.
"It's past midnight," he said. “Not a chance we’re getting there at this hour.”
“Well, ain’t that just peachy.” Cheng Xiaoshi drawled, voice dry as dust. “Another night up in smoke.”
"You need the rest anyway," Lu Guang said, checking the lock on the door a second time before crossing to the other bed. His own ribs still ached with each breath, a constant reminder of Qian Jin's handiwork.
“Rest?” Cheng Xiaoshi scoffed, eyes narrowing on Lu Guang. “That’s all I’ve done—lounging in the dark, twiddling my damn thumbs while you grind yourself to dust playing hero.”
"You're hurt worse," said Lu Guang, glancing at him. "Your stitches—"
"Are as healed as they're gonna get in this lifetime," Cheng Xiaoshi cut him off. “And don’t think I haven’t clocked you babying those ribs. Bet you haven’t touched those bandages since we crawled out of the damn mountains.”
Lu Guang looked away. No point lying now. Cheng Xiaoshi had seen every mark Qian Jin had left, had traced them with gentle fingers while Lu Guang slept in the mountain cabin.
"We're running low on gauze," he said instead.
Cheng Xiaoshi's jaw clenched. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
Lu Guang ignored him, pulling off his coat. The weight of the gun in his pocket dragged at the fabric, and he set it carefully on the nightstand between the beds, within reach. Just in case.
The bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in. Lu Guang stared at his reflection in the mirror as he splashed cold water on his face. Dark circles beneath his eyes, stubble on his jaw—he barely recognized himself anymore. The clean-cut officer who'd chased a mobster through New York's streets was gone. But he wasn't the broken man from Qian Jin's basement either. He was something in between, something still taking shape.
When he returned to the room, Cheng Xiaoshi had managed to strip down to his undershirt and was struggling with his trousers, his movements stiff and uncoordinated.
"Let me," Lu Guang said, moving to his side without waiting for an answer.
Cheng Xiaoshi went still under his hands. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional metallic groan from the radiator. Lu Guang focused on his task, sliding the fabric over slim hips, careful not to disturb the bandages still wrapped around his torso. One leg, then the other. His hands worked with firm movements, never lingering too long on bare skin.
"I've been thinking, handsome," Cheng Xiaoshi said suddenly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made heat pool in Lu Guang's gut.
Lu Guang's hands paused on the cuff of Cheng Xiaoshi's trousers. "Dangerous pastime," he murmured, not looking up.
"It occurs to me that in all the time we've known each other, we've only made love twice. Well, twice and a half, if you count that fever-dazed tangle up in the mountains."
Lu Guang’s ears went scarlet. That memory hit like a gut punch—Cheng Xiaoshi’s burning skin, those trembling hands dragging him closer until sleep won the tug-of-war.
"That doesn't count,” he muttered.
"My point exactly," Cheng Xiaoshi's fingers caught Lu Guang's wrist, his thumb finding his pulse. "And now here we are. Alone. In an actual bed."
"You're still recovering," Lu Guang said, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears. "And I wouldn't call this an 'actual' bed."
"Christ, you sound like a broken record." Cheng Xiaoshi's grip tightened. "I'm not going to shatter. I've been healing for weeks."
"Badly," Lu Guang countered, finally meeting his eyes. "Your fever only broke again days ago. The stitches are holding, but—"
"I won't die from a little physical exertion," Cheng Xiaoshi cut him off, eyes flashing. “Hell, it might even be good for me. Vital signs and all that. Let’s call it...doctor’s orders.”
"That's not—" Lu Guang broke off, frustrated. "I don't want to hurt you. You've been through enough."
“And what about you, hm?” he murmured, voice low, coaxing. His hand slid slowly up Lu Guang’s arm, fingers tracing the seam of his sleeve. “Feels to me like we’ve both been chewed up and spit out. Maybe we’ve earned a little comfort.”
Lu Guang swallowed, caught in that dark gaze. How many nights had he laid awake in Pops' cabin, listening to Cheng Xiaoshi's ragged breathing, wanting nothing more than to cross the space between them? How many times had he caught himself reaching out, only to pull back at the last moment?
“Careful, officer,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmured, his hand finding the back of Lu Guang's neck, fingertips brushing the short hairs there. “Think too hard and you might pull a muscle.”
“Xiaoshi—”
But the mobster had already leaned in, close enough for his breath to stir the air between them. “Just for tonight. No chases, no orders. Just us.” His mouth quirked in a slow, dangerous smile. It was Cheng Xiaoshi all over. “What do you say, sweetheart?”
The sound of that pet name in that voice did something to Lu Guang, broke something loose inside his chest. He surged forward, closing the distance between them. Their mouths met with a hunger that surprised even him, weeks of wanting and waiting compressed into a single kiss. Cheng Xiaoshi made a sound against his lips—not pain, but something closer to victory—his arms coming up to wrap around Lu Guang's neck. The sudden movement pulled at his bandages, and Lu Guang felt him tense, a small hiss escaping between kisses.
"Careful," Lu Guang murmured, pulling back just enough to get the words out. "Told you—"
“Shut up and kiss me,” Cheng Xiaoshi growled, fingers twisting in Lu Guang's shirt.
Lu Guang couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, rough and unexpected. "Planning to order me around all night?"
“You gonna keep second-guessing us all night, or are you finally gonna kiss me like we didn’t burn the whole damn world for this?” Cheng Xiaoshi’s fingers fisted in Lu Guang’s shirt.
So Lu Guang gave into it, letting his hands skim up Cheng Xiaoshi's sides, relearning the plains and valleys of a body he'd spent weeks watching over but rarely touching. The neon light from the motel sign filtered through the blinds, painting Cheng Xiaoshi's skin and the ribs of his undershirt in rippling bands of sickly blue. It caught in the hollows beneath his collarbone, his jawbone, between his lips, turning familiar terrain into something completely foreign and beautiful.
There was a weight under Lu Guang’s hands now that hadn't been there before—the cost of too many near-misses, too many nights spent wondering if this would be the one where fever or infection finally took Cheng Xiaoshi from him. The cost of staying was very nearly Cheng Xiaoshi’s life.
He eased himself down onto the bed, careful not to jostle them, not to make the frame creak too loud, trailing his lips from that clever mouth to the long column of that graceful neck. His heartbeat was loud in his ears—and the damn ringing was back again—but he stayed focused on the delicate flutter of Cheng Xiaoshi’s breathing. His hand slipped beneath the hem of the undershirt, fingertips grazing bare skin and the ridges of fresh scars, knuckles brushing the fabric. The textures of him—ones Lu Guang hadn’t let himself feel, let himself want.
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass, sweetheart,” Cheng Xiaoshi said, voice rough with desire as Lu Guang’s hand found his hipbone. It was a different kind of roughness than the fever had brought—deeper, richer, catching on the syllables like boots on gravel. “I’ve survived worse than a little enthusiasm.”
“Quiet,” Lu Guang murmured against his skin. "Let me do this my way."
"Of course you'd say tha—ah...” Cheng Xiaoshi's laugh was breathless, turning to a gasp as Lu Guang's teeth scraped across his collarbone. The sound rippled through the quiet room like a stone dropped in still water. "Even in bed, you're always giving orders."
Lu Guang's lips quirked against Cheng Xiaoshi's throat. "And you're always finding ways to undermine them."
“Call it a force of habit.” Cheng Xiaoshi's hands slid down Lu Guang's back, finding the ridge of bandages beneath his shirt. "Though I must say, I sorta miss the handcuffs. Made things interesting."
The memory hit Lu Guang with unexpected force—Cheng Xiaoshi spread beneath him on his bed back in New York, wrists bound above his head, dark eyes wild with want. The heat of it, the raw intensity. The image sent a jolt of need through him, and he had to pull back to steady himself.
Cheng Xiaoshi's smile turned wicked. "Don't worry, handsome. When we're somewhere safe, when we've both healed up, I expect you to make good on that fantasy."
"Is that right?" Lu Guang asked, eyebrow raising as his hands worked the buttons of Cheng Xiaoshi's shirt. "Been thinking about it a lot, have you?"
"Only every night for the past month. Though these days, I’m not picky. I’ll take you any way I can get you."
Lu Guang looked up to find those dark eyes watching him, tracing his features.
"You have me," Lu Guang said simply. "You know you do."
Cheng Xiaoshi’s expression shifted—gone was the grin, the bite, the banter. He just looked at him, head tipped back against the pillow, pupils wide, mouth slack with breath and want. Lu Guang didn’t need to be told. He felt it in his ribs, in his gut, in the sudden ache of stillness between them.
"Prove it," Cheng Xiaoshi whispered.
So Lu Guang gave himself over to it—the slide of tongue on tongue, of skin on skin, to the way that lithe body moved beneath him, so alive and warm under his hands. He didn’t rush—wouldn’t, couldn’t—not with how close he’d come to being too late.
His tongue found the place where Cheng Xiaoshi’s neck and shoulder met, that hollow where fever-sweat had gathered during those terrible nights in the Adirondacks. The skin there tasted of skin again. He traced Cheng Xiaoshi like that, with his hands and his tongue, learning his new shapes and relearning what the man sounded like as he lost control. When Lu Guang traced a nipple with his tongue, he felt Cheng Xiaoshi suck in air through his teeth. When he kissed the spot beneath Cheng Xiaoshi's ribs, that mobster let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, wasn't quite a moan. His head fell back, throat working, neon light sliding across the movement like water. Lu Guang watched, hungry for the sight of him.
All the while, the world passed by beyond the window. Through the thin walls came sounds of the highway—big rigs on the distant interstate, the occasional door slamming as other travelers tucked in for the night while Lu Guang took his time mapping the mobster’s body.
Their clothes came away in stages and breaths, not discarded but eased aside, like each layer was Lu Guang asking for permission and Cheng Xiaoshi granting it. And he kept asking until nothing remained between them but the mess the world had made of them. Bandages. Scars. Nearly-healed bruises.
He braced himself over Cheng Xiaoshi, careful with this angle, with the weight. Kissed down his stomach, then lower. Cheng Xiaoshi's breath caught, his fingers tangling in white-blond hair as Lu Guang's mouth moved lower, lower, until he sank his teeth into one pale thigh.
Cheng Xiaoshi gasped. “Jesus, Lu Guang—"
The sound was ragged, scraped out of him, like he hadn't meant to say it aloud. His hands tightened in Lu Guang's hair, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away—just holding on, like it might somehow anchor him to the bed. The sound of his name in that voice sent heat surging through Lu Guang's veins. He looked up, meeting those dark eyes now blown wide with desire.
"Need…you," Cheng Xiaoshi managed, words catching in his throat as Lu Guang's hand slid up his inner thigh. "Now. Inside me. Please.”
Lu Guang's pulse jumped, a hot flush spreading up his neck like whiskey hitting his bloodstream. His mouth went dry at the sight of Cheng Xiaoshi sprawled beneath him, half in shadow, half bathed in that blue light. Something in his chest squeezed tight, making it hard to breathe.
He hesitated, glancing around the sparse motel room. "I don't think…we have anything for—"
"Side pocket," Cheng Xiaoshi said, voice trembling as he nodded toward their discarded bag. "Medical kit."
Lu Guang reached for the bag, and the small tin of petroleum jelly among the gauze and bandages. The same tin they'd been using to treat their injuries.
"Not exactly what we bought it for," he said, unscrewing the lid.
Cheng Xiaoshi's lips quirked. "Neither were those handcuffs of yours."
Lu Guang huffed, just once—low and humorless—as he slicked his fingers. Then leaned back in, hand settling at Cheng Xiaoshi's thigh, grounding him.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Lu Guang murmured. “Though it’s probably—”
“Mm, too late for that,” said Cheng Xiaoshi.
Lu Guang wished he could make that mouth go slack, take the words right out of that slender throat. He watched that boyish face as he touched him, slow, insistent, fingers easing past tight muscle. The heat of him was staggering. The mobster’s lips parted on a gasp, hips shifting.
“Breathe,” said Lu Guang, stilling him with a tight grip, brushing one hipbone with his thumb.
"I am," Cheng Xiaoshi managed, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. "You're the one…holding your damn breath."
He was. Lu Guang let it out slowly, his chest tight with the effort of holding back, of doing this right. He moved his fingers again, adjusting his position, adjusting to every twitch and shiver and sound that slipped out of Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat. Moving his fingers just so, stretching him. Preparing him. Slowly, that lithe body began to give way. His breathing went heavy and his limbs went loose beneath Lu Guang.
Only then did Lu Guang remove his fingers and press even closer, angling their bodies carefully. He parted those pale thighs and bent those knees just so. Held him firm.
Their breath mingled.
Neon blue light flickered once, twice. Shadows jumped across the cheap wall paint.
“Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You won’t.”
So Lu Guang reached down, lined himself up with Cheng Xiaoshi’s entrance, and pressed forward—slow and steady, with the kind of control that made his spine ache with it.
A raw sound tore out of Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat and his back arched.
Lu Guang’s eyes fluttered shut for a suspended moment as heat surged up his spine, just long enough to feel Cheng Xiaoshi adjust around him. The world narrowed to this—to the slickness. The slide of them together, to the press of skin on skin, to the sound of Cheng Xiaoshi's breath hitching with each movement. To the way the bed frame creaked beneath them in rhythm. To that neon blue painting shifting patterns across skin.
He paused when he was completely buried inside him, savoring his burning heat and the way Cheng Xiaoshi’s features were struggling to stay even.
"Don't..." Cheng Xiaoshi growled, fingers digging into Lu Guang's arms. "Don't you dare stop now."
"Quit moving,” Lu Guang warned, jaw tight. "I swear to God, you're going to pull something."
"I'll live," came the reply, already breathless, already shifting under him, trying to draw him in deeper, faster. "C'mon, handsome. Give it to me. Make me feel it for days."
“Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang said, trying not to hiss the word through his teeth. Doing his best not to let the ex-mobster get under his skin. "I told you we're doing this my way, so shut your mouth and lay still.”
“I’ll beg,” That voice had gone honeyed despite the unrepentant grin on his face. "Just a little rougher? For me, pretty please?”
He was beautiful. “You're unbelievable."
"You knew that going into this, gorgeous."
He did. Christ, he did.
But Lu Guang couldn’t stop now. Cheng Xiaoshi was too slick, too hot, too alive under him, and Lu Guang's control—solid and hard-won—shuddered at the edges. He adjusted his grip, one hand bracing Cheng Xiaoshi's thigh, the other sliding up to catch his jaw, thumb brushing across parted lips.
"Fine," he said, low and sharp. "But you shut your mouth.”
Cheng Xiaoshi blinked up at him, dazed and a little triumphant. The blue neon caught in his eyes, making them spark like struck flint. "Or what?"
Lu Guang shoved two fingers into his mouth.
"Bite me and I swear to God," Lu Guang muttered.
Cheng Xiaoshi moaned around his fingers, the vibration traveling up Lu Guang's arm and settling at the base of his spine. His hips bucked up to meet the next thrust, and that—that sound made something unravel inside of Lu Guang, a knot of tension he'd been carrying since that night on the roof. His teeth found the inside of his own cheek, bit down just hard enough to ground himself as he let the pace quicken. Not fast enough to hurt—just enough to punish them both.
Each thrust was deeper now, pushed just to the line of what either of them could stand. The bed creaked under the rhythm of it, and Cheng Xiaoshi's mouth stayed full, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, one arm flung up over his head, the other locked tight around Lu Guang's waist. Lu Guang’s arm trembled as he held himself upright, muscles burning with the effort. Every time he shifted his weight, a sharp pull lit up his ribs. He gritted his teeth and bore it—what was a little pain, compared to this?
He was still healing. They were still healing. But right now, Lu Guang couldn't stop—not with the way Cheng Xiaoshi was shaking under him, not with the way he kept swallowing around his fingers, not with the way their bodies kept catching and slipping and catching again.
Not with the way it felt like pure survival.
When he came it was with Lu Guang's name on his lips, fingers digging into the thin sheets. Lu Guang followed him soon after, burying his face in the crook of Cheng Xiaoshi's neck to muffle his own sounds.
They lay tangled together afterward, breathing slowly returning to normal. The mobster's eyes were closed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Now that,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, “…that was worth waiting for.”
Lu Guang huffed a laugh against his shoulder.
"Mmm." Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes opened, finding Lu Guang's in the dim light. "Though I have to say, I'm looking forward to when we're both healed up. Got all sorts of ideas for you.”
"I'm sure," Lu Guang said dryly, swallowing the grin threatening to break out across his face.
Cheng Xiaoshi shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his stitches. Lu Guang immediately tensed, but Cheng Xiaoshi waved off his concern.
"Don't you start," he warned. "I'm alright. Better than alright.” He settled more comfortably against Lu Guang's side, head resting on his shoulder. "In fact, this is the best I've felt since New York."
"Fine." Lu Guang's arm tightened around him, an unconscious response to the memory of Cheng Xiaoshi bleeding out in the snow. "Let's get you cleaned up, then you need rest. We're finding your sister tomorrow, and we're getting the hell out of here."
"Somewhere else, where no one knows us," Cheng Xiaoshi murmured, voice already growing heavy with sleep.
Lu Guang gazed at him, unwilling to get up just yet. "We'll be strangers," he agreed.
"We can start over?"
"Yeah. Start fresh."
"M'holding you to it, handsome."
Lu Guang watched as Cheng Xiaoshi's breathing began to even out, his features softening.
Only then did he let himself shift carefully onto his back—and immediately regretted it. The pain in his ribs kicked like a mule, violent and sharp, making his breath stutter.
Beside him, Cheng Xiaoshi stirred. One eye cracked open, hazy with sleep and smug satisfaction. "That's what you get for giving in to temptation, officer."
"Christ, I was suckered," Lu Guang groaned.
Cheng Xiaoshi smiled, eyes drifting shut again. "Not my fault you're easy to trick."
Lu Guang scoffed, full of disbelief, before easing himself out of bed, legs stiff. There was still running water at this hour, thank God. Cold, but clean—and better than hauling buckets through pitch-black snow in the goddamn Adirondacks.
He wetted a cloth and returned to tend them both—quick, quiet work, made a little clumsy by the ache in his own muscles. Cheng Xiaoshi barely stirred. When he was done, Lu Guang slipped back under the covers of his own bed, settling into a shape that would give his ribs a little relief.