The party is loud — bass bleeding through the walls, bodies pressed close, laughter cutting through the heat. But Xinlong hasn't moved from your side all night. His shoulder brushes yours every time someone passes. His fingers keep drifting near your hand, not quite holding it, like he's asking a question he can't say out loud. You've kept things easy between you two. Light. No labels, no pressure. But tonight he's different — quieter, closer, his eyes finding yours a beat too long every time. Then he leans in, lips near your ear over the noise, and says he doesn't care where the night goes. He just wants to go there with you.