Hidden Desires

The autumn sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the university’s student activity center, casting long golden rectangles across the polished floor. Chen Xiaofeng stood near the back of the crowded lecture hall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying to look interested in the club recruitment fair. He had only come because his roommate had dragged him along, claiming it was a good way to meet girls.

Then he saw her.

She was standing at the photography club table, adjusting a display of black-and-white prints. Her dark hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and when she looked up and smiled at a passing student, the warmth of that expression hit Xiaofeng like a physical force. Her legs—long, shapely, clad in sheer black stockings that caught the light—seemed to go on forever beneath the hem of her denim shorts. His breath caught. He felt a familiar heat spread through his chest, a combination of admiration and something darker, something he tried to push down.

“You coming?” his roommate called from the door.

“Yeah, in a minute,” Xiaofeng muttered, his eyes still fixed on her.

He watched as she laughed at something another club member said, her head tilting back slightly. The sound was light, melodic. He wanted to hear it again. Before he could talk himself out of it, he walked over to the table.

“Hey, is this the photography club sign-up?” he asked, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

She turned to him, and her smile widened. “It is! I’m Lin Xiaoya. Are you interested in photography?”

Up close, her eyes were large and dark, framed by long lashes. He noticed a small mole just above the corner of her mouth. He wanted to trace it with his finger.

“Chen Xiaofeng,” he said, extending his hand. “And yeah, I’ve been wanting to get into it.”

Her handshake was warm, her palm soft. “Great! We meet every Tuesday and Thursday evening. I’m the vice president, so if you have any questions, just ask me.”

“I’ll definitely do that,” he said, and meant it.

---

Over the next few weeks, Xiaofeng attended every club meeting. He sat near the back, watching Xiaoya as she explained aperture settings and composition rules, his attention more on the way her lips moved than on the technical details. After the second meeting, he lingered, and she invited him to grab bubble tea with some other members. By the fourth meeting, they were walking back to the dorms together, talking about everything and nothing.

One evening, as they strolled past the campus lake, she wore a pair of tight black shorts and sheer stockings. The setting sun painted her legs in shades of amber and gold. Xiaofeng’s mouth went dry. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but his mind was racing. There was something about the way the stockings hugged her calves, the slight shine where the fabric stretched over her knees. He felt a rush of possessive pride—she was with him—but also a flicker of something else. A desire to see others look at her the way he did. To see them want her.

“You’re quiet today,” Xiaoya said, nudging his arm.

“Just thinking,” he replied, forcing a smile. “You look really nice, by the way. Those stockings suit you.”

She glanced down, a hint of self-consciousness in her expression. “Thanks. I like wearing them. They make my legs feel smooth.”

He swallowed hard. “They look smooth.”

She laughed, slightly embarrassed, and changed the subject. But Xiaofeng couldn’t shake the image. That night, alone in his dorm, he closed his eyes and replayed the scene, his hand moving of its own accord. He imagined her in that outfit, imagined someone else—a faceless figure—watching her too. The thought sent a thrill through him, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop.

---

A month later, feeling bolder, Xiaofeng decided to introduce Xiaoya to his best friend, Zhang Xiaolong. They had grown up together, gone to the same high school, and now shared a few classes. Xiaolong was loud, confident, always the life of the party. Xiaofeng admired that about him, even if he sometimes felt overshadowed.

“You’ll like him,” Xiaofeng told Xiaoya as they walked to a small noodle shop near campus. “He’s a bit of a wild card, but he’s loyal.”

“I’m sure I will,” she said, squeezing his hand.

They found Xiaolong already seated at a corner table, a bottle of beer in front of him. He stood up as they approached, his grin wide and white. “So this is the famous Xiaoya,” he said, his eyes sweeping over her with open appreciation. “Xiaofeng hasn’t shut up about you. I was starting to think he made you up.”

Xiaoya laughed, her cheeks coloring slightly. “I’m real, I promise.”

Xiaolong pulled out a chair for her, his hand lingering on the backrest a moment too long. “Sit, sit. I already ordered some appetizers. Hope you like spicy food.”

The dinner was lively. Xiaolong kept the conversation flowing, telling jokes, asking about her photography work, complimenting her taste in music. Xiaofeng sat back, stirring his noodles, watching the interaction. He noticed how Xiaolong’s eyes kept drifting to Xiaoya’s legs, the way he leaned in when she spoke, the casual touches on her arm when he made a point. A knot tightened in Xiaofeng’s stomach. Jealousy, he thought. That’s all it is.

But underneath the jealousy, there was a strange, shameful thrill. The idea that his best friend found Xiaoya attractive, that someone else desired her—it made his pulse quicken. He took a long drink of water, trying to push the feeling down.

“So, Xiaoya,” Xiaolong said, refilling her glass of plum juice, “how did you end up with this guy? I mean, he’s my best friend, but he’s a total introvert. I figured you’d be with some tall, athletic type.”

Xiaofeng stiffened, but Xiaoya just smiled. “He’s sweet. And he listens. That’s more important than looks.”

“Ah, the classic ‘nice guy’ win,” Xiaolong said, winking at Xiaofeng. “Well, you two make a cute couple. Seriously.”

He raised his glass, and they clinked. Xiaofeng forced a smile, but his mind was churning. He could still feel the ghost of Xiaolong’s gaze on Xiaoya, and it twisted his insides into knots of confusion. He wanted to grab her hand and pull her away, to claim her. But part of him—the part he hated—wanted to see more.

---

After dinner, they walked Xiaolong to his bus stop. As they said goodbye, Xiaolong gave Xiaofeng a slap on the back. “Take care of her, man. She’s a keeper.”

“I know,” Xiaofeng said quietly.

Xiaolong turned to Xiaoya. “We should hang out again, just the three of us. Or maybe we can go to that photography exhibition next week? I heard it’s amazing.”

“That sounds fun,” Xiaoya said, her eyes bright. “Xiaofeng, what do you think?”

“Sure,” he said, his voice hollow. “Why not.”

As they walked back to her dorm, Xiaoya linked her arm through his. “Your friend is really nice. He’s so outgoing. I bet he has tons of friends.”

“Yeah, he does,” Xiaofeng said. The words tasted bitter.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stopping under a streetlamp. “You’ve been quiet since dinner.”

He looked at her, at the concern in her eyes. He wanted to tell her everything—the fantasies, the guilt, the strange excitement that coiled in his gut when Xiaolong looked at her. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have the words.

“Just tired,” he said, forcing a smile. “Long day.”

She accepted it, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Get some rest. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

He watched her walk into the building, the sway of her hips hypnotic under the light. And he stood there for a long moment, one hand pressed to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. Something was wrong with him. He knew it. But he didn’t know how to stop it.

Chen Xiaofeng pressed the key into the lock with a shaky hand. The door swung open into a small, sunlit room—bare walls, a double bed pushed against the corner, a desk with a dented surface. The off-campus apartment was finally his.

“It’s not much,” he said, forcing a smile at Xiaoya behind him. She stepped past him, her gaze moving over the space with quiet acceptance.

“It’s cozy. We’ll make it work.” She set down her bag and touched the windowsill. “I’ll probably still sleep in the dorm most nights, though. You know, classes and study groups.”

He nodded, already feeling the weight of her absence before she even left. “Yeah, of course. Whatever’s best for you.”

She stayed for an hour, helping him arrange a few things—a lamp, a stack of textbooks, a photograph of them from the park. When she kissed his cheek and said goodbye, the click of the door behind her felt like a seal on something he didn’t want to name.

Alone, he didn’t unpack. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out his phone, and opened the folder he’d hidden beneath a dozen utility apps. The thumbnails loaded—rows of women in compromising poses, videos with titles that made his stomach tighten. He scrolled past most of them until he found the file he’d read three times already: *My Girlfriend Satisfies My Cuckold Fetish by Seducing My Brother*.

He opened it.

The story began with a familiar setup: a boyfriend, insecure and anxious, who encouraged his girlfriend to sleep with his brother while he watched from the closet. The language was crude, direct. As he read, his breathing quickened. He imagined Xiaoya’s face—her soft lips, her careful eyes—turning toward another man. He imagined her hand on someone else’s chest, her hair falling across another pillow.

His hand moved without thought. The fantasy ran hot and vivid: Xiaoya in a dim room, a man’s shadow over her, her whispers of pleasure meant for someone else. The tension built, and when it broke, he gasped into the empty apartment, his body shuddering.

Then silence.

The guilt came like a cold wash. He stared at the screen, at the words he had just fed his craving, and he wanted to throw the phone across the room. What kind of boyfriend fantasized about his girlfriend being with strangers? What kind of man got off on that and then couldn’t even look her in the eye afterward?

He deleted the story from his history, though he knew he’d download it again later.

Days passed. Xiaoya came by twice, always with an excuse to leave early—a paper due, a group meeting, a friend’s birthday. He kissed her goodbye each time, his lips dry, his mind already straying to the folder on his phone. At night, he lay in the double bed and let the fantasies unspool until his hand ached and his throat burned with shame.

One evening, she stayed longer. They ordered takeout and ate cross-legged on the floor because the table hadn’t arrived. She talked about her psychology class, a professor who analyzed deviant behavior. “He said everyone has hidden desires,” she said, poking at her noodles. “Things they’d never admit. But that doesn’t mean they should act on them.”

He felt a cold prickle at his neck. “That’s just theory, right? Academic stuff.”

“I guess.” She tilted her head, studying him in a way that made him want to look away. “Xiaofeng, you’ve been distracted lately. You zone out when I’m talking. Is something on your mind?”

He laughed, but it came out too quick. “No, just tired. The apartment still feels weird, you know. Not used to it yet.”

She didn’t look convinced. Her fingers traced the rim of her bowl. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? We’re supposed to be honest.”

“Of course I would.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger a second too long. “Everything’s fine. Just need to sleep more.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. When she left that night, she paused at the door and looked back at him. For a moment, he thought she might ask again, might peel back the thin plaster of his lie. But she only said, “Goodnight, Xiaofeng,” and closed the door behind her.

He waited until her footsteps faded, then pulled out his phone. The folder gleamed open, and the shame began to curl inside him again, but he couldn’t stop. He never could.

The air in the private KTV room was thick with cheap liquor and stale smoke. Chen Xiaofeng slumped against the leather sofa, his vision swimming as he watched Zhang Xiaolong pour another round of baijiu into a shot glass. The bitter burn had long since numbed his throat, replaced by a heavy fog that muddled his thoughts.

“Come on, man, one more,” Xiaolong urged, clinking his glass against Xiaofeng’s without waiting for a response. He downed his own shot in one gulp, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re too quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”

Xiaofeng shook his head, the motion making the room tilt. “Nothing. Just… tired.” His tongue felt thick and clumsy. He reached for the glass but knocked it over, amber liquid spilling across the sticky table. Xiaolong laughed, a hearty sound that seemed too loud in the small space.

“Tired? You’ve barely had five shots. Lightweight.” Xiaolong refilled the glass and pushed it toward him. “Drink up. Loosen up a little.”

Xiaofeng lifted the glass with both hands, the liquid sloshing over the rim. He drank, the alcohol burning a path down his chest. His thoughts drifted to Xiaoya—the way her hair fell across her shoulders, the soft curve of her smile. Then darker images crept in: her body tangled with another man, her breathless moans echoing in a stranger’s room. His pulse quickened, a confusing mix of arousal and shame twisting in his gut. He drank again, trying to drown the images.

The song ended and another began, a sappy ballad Xiaolong had picked. Xiaofeng fumbled for his phone, the screen blurring before his eyes. He squinted at the contacts, his thumb pressing Xiaoya’s name with clumsy precision.

The phone rang three times before she answered, her voice sleepy. “Xiaofeng?”

“Hey… babe.” His words slurred together. “I’m at the KTV on East Street. The… the Blue Moon. Can you come get me? I don’t feel so good.”

A pause. “Are you drunk? Who’s there with you?”

“Xiaolong. Just Xiaolong. Please, Xiaoya. I need you.” He heard the whine in his own voice and hated it, but the alcohol stripped away his pride.

She sighed, a soft exasperation. “Fine. Stay there. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

The line went dead. Xiaofeng let the phone drop onto the sofa cushion, his head lolling back. Xiaolong raised an eyebrow. “Xiaoya’s coming?”

“Yeah. She’ll be here soon.” Xiaofeng tried to focus on his friend’s face, but it kept splitting into two. “You’ll stay with me till she arrives, right?”

“Of course, man. What kind of friend would I be?” Xiaolong’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, crossing his arms, his gaze flickering toward the door.

On the other side of town, Lin Xiaoya sat up in her dorm bed, rubbing her eyes. The clock on her nightstand glowed 11:47 PM. She reached for her phone and saw the missed call from Xiaofeng, followed by a voice message she’d accidentally ignored. She played it now—his slurred, desperate voice asking her to come.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, her roommate Xiaoyan stirring under her blanket. “Xiaoya? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Xiaofeng. He’s drunk out of his mind at some KTV. I have to go get him.” Xiaoya pulled open her wardrobe, shuffling through hangers. She grabbed a soft camisole—pale blue, thin-strapped—and a pair of black athletic shorts. They were comfortable, easy to move in, and she didn’t feel like dressing up for a rescue mission.

Xiaoyan sat up, her brow furrowed. “At this hour? By yourself? You should call a cab, at least.”

“I’ll take the subway. It’s still running.” Xiaoya pulled the camisole over her head, the fabric clinging to her curves. She stepped into the shorts, adjusting the waistband. “He sounded really bad. I can’t just leave him there.”

Xiaoyan watched her with a worried expression. “Be careful, okay? Drunk guys can be unpredictable. And that friend of his, Zhang Xiaolong—I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Xiaoya paused, a cold prickle running down her spine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s not as friendly as he acts. Just… keep your guard up.” Xiaoyan pulled her blanket up to her chin. “Call me when you’re back safe.”

“I will.” Xiaoya grabbed her purse and a light jacket, slipping it on over her camisole. She left the dorm, the hallway quiet under the flickering fluorescent lights. The night air hit her as she stepped outside, cool and damp. She quickened her pace toward the subway station.

Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the door to the Blue Moon KTV. The lobby was dim, the receptionist half-asleep behind the counter. Xiaoya walked past her, following the muffled sound of music to a room at the end of the hall. She opened the door without knocking.

The room reeked of alcohol. Xiaofeng was slumped on the sofa, his head lolling, his shirt half-untucked. Beside him, Xiaolong sat with a fresh bottle in his hand, a lazy grin spreading across his face when he saw her.

“Xiaoya! You made it.” He set the bottle down and stood, a little unsteady himself. “Your man here had a bit too much fun.”

Xiaoya’s jaw tightened. She walked past him to Xiaofeng, grabbing his arm. “Come on, get up. We’re going home.”

Xiaofeng blinked up at her, his eyes glassy. “Xiaoya… you came.” He tried to stand, swaying dangerously. Xiaoya caught him, his weight heavy against her shoulder.

“You smell like a distillery,” she muttered, her irritation barely contained. She looked at Xiaolong. “Thanks for staying with him, I guess. But you could have called me earlier.”

Xiaolong shrugged, his eyes trailing down her body. The camisole’s thin straps showed off the smooth curve of her shoulders, and the black shorts hugged her thighs. His gaze lingered, a flash of heat behind his eyes before he masked it with a friendly smile. “He didn’t want to bother you. You know how he is.”

Xiaoya felt the weight of his stare like a physical touch. She pulled Xiaofeng closer, her arm tightening around his waist. “I’ve got him. You should get home too.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Xiaolong said, stepping toward the door.

“That’s not necessary.” Her voice was firm, but Xiaolong was already holding the door open, his posture easy, his smile unwavering.

Xiaoya guided Xiaofeng through the hallway, his feet shuffling. At the exit, she turned back. “Goodnight, Xiaolong.”

He waved, his eyes still on her. “Night, Xiaoya. Take care of him.”

She didn’t answer. She led Xiaofeng out into the night, the cool air hitting his face. He groaned, leaning heavily on her. As they walked toward the streetlamp-lit corner, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Behind her, the KTV door swung shut, but she could still feel Xiaolong’s gaze, lingering like a stain.

The night air was thick with the smell of cheap liquor and street food as Chen Xiaofeng staggered between his girlfriend and his best friend. His legs were rubber, his head lolling forward, and every step seemed to require a monumental effort that his body refused to give. Lin Xiaoya grunted as she adjusted her grip under his armpit, her small frame straining against his dead weight.

“He’s heavier than he looks,” she said, breathless.

Zhang Xiaolong laughed, the sound forced and too loud. “Yeah, he never could hold his liquor. C’mon, buddy, work with us here.”

They half-dragged, half-carried him to the curb where a taxi idled, its yellow light a beacon in the dim street. Xiaolong yanked open the back door while Xiaoya maneuvered Xiaofeng’s slumped body toward the seat. As she bent forward to guide his head inside, the neckline of her blouse gaped open. Xiaolong’s eyes flickered down, catching the soft curve of her breast cupped in a simple white bra. His breath hitched, and he felt a hot pulse of adrenaline surge through him. He looked away quickly, but the image was already burned into his mind.

“Got him?” Xiaoya asked, straightening up and brushing a strand of hair from her face. She didn’t seem to notice his wandering gaze.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s in,” Xiaolong said, his voice rougher than intended. He slammed the door and gave the driver the address of the rental apartment.

The ride was silent except for Xiaofeng’s occasional mumbling and the hum of the engine. Xiaoya sat in the front, her hands clasped in her lap, staring out the window. Xiaolong sat in the back with Xiaofeng, whose head lolled against his shoulder, reeking of alcohol. He found himself watching the back of Xiaoya’s head, the way her hair fell in soft waves, the delicate curve of her neck. He clenched his fists and forced himself to look away.

When they arrived, the apartment building loomed dark and quiet. The streetlamp cast a pale orange glow on the cracked pavement. Xiaolong helped Xiaoya pull Xiaofeng out of the taxi, and they stood together in the narrow entryway, staring up at the dimly lit stairwell.

“I can’t carry him up alone,” Xiaoya said, her voice small. “Could you… help me get him to the second floor?”

“Of course,” Xiaolong said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “No problem. I’ll take his other side.”

They each hooked an arm under Xiaofeng’s shoulders, half-carrying, half-dragging him up the first few steps. The stairs were steep and uneven, the paint peeling from the walls. Xiaoya’s breath came in short gasps as she struggled to keep Xiaofeng upright. Halfway up the first flight, her foot slipped on a worn step. She cried out, her body tilting backward, her grip on Xiaofeng loosening.

Xiaolong reacted on instinct. He released Xiaofeng’s arm and lunged forward, catching Xiaoya around the waist with one hand. His other hand, in the chaos of the moment, landed squarely on her chest, his palm pressing against the soft mound of her breast. The fabric of her shirt was thin, and he felt the warmth of her skin beneath, the gentle give of her flesh. For a split second, his mind went blank, consumed by the sensation.

Xiaoya froze, her eyes wide. A deep blush spread across her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered, pulling back slightly. His hand fell away, but the ghost of the touch lingered.

“No, no, it was my fault for not being careful,” Xiaolong said, his voice strained. He could feel his own face burning, but it was from a different kind of heat entirely. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he had to force himself to look at her eyes instead of the place his hand had just been. “Are you okay? Did you twist your ankle?”

“I’m fine,” she said, adjusting her blouse with trembling fingers. “Thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here.”

“Anytime,” he said, the word coming out in a husky whisper. He cleared his throat and turned back to Xiaofeng, who had slumped against the wall, oblivious. “Let’s just get him up, then you can rest.”

They resumed their burden, climbing the remaining steps in an awkward silence. Xiaolong could still feel the imprint of her body against his palm, the softness that had sent a jolt straight to his groin. He tried to push the thought away, but it only grew stronger, feeding on the darkness and the closeness of her scent—a mix of floral shampoo and clean sweat. He licked his lips and said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead.

At the door to the apartment, Xiaoya fumbled with the keys while supporting Xiaofeng. Xiaolong stood close behind her, close enough to smell her hair, to see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her again. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

When the door swung open, they carried Xiaofeng inside and laid him on the sofa. He immediately curled into a fetal position, mumbling something unintelligible. Xiaoya stood over him, catching her breath, her face still flushed from the stairwell incident.

“I’ll get him some water and a blanket,” she said, moving toward the kitchen.

Xiaolong watched her go, his eyes tracing the curve of her hips as she disappeared through the doorway. He swallowed hard, the taste of the night still on his tongue. He knew he should leave, should make an excuse and go home. But his feet wouldn’t move. He stood there, alone in the dim living room with his unconscious friend, listening to the soft sounds of Xiaoya moving in the kitchen, and felt a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

The door clicked shut behind Zhang Xiaolong, and the sudden quiet pressed against Lin Xiaoya’s ears like a weight. She stood in the middle of the messy dorm room, her hands still trembling slightly from the earlier confrontation. Chen Xiaofeng sat slumped on the edge of his bed, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the floor. He hadn’t spoken since his friend left.

“Xiaofeng,” she said softly, “let me get you some clean clothes. You’re soaked.”

He nodded without looking up. She moved to the small wardrobe in the corner, pulling out a fresh T-shirt and jeans. As she turned back, she noticed his phone lying near his feet—it must have slipped from his pocket when he’d slumped onto the bed. She bent to pick it up, intending to hand it to him, but just then the screen lit up with a notification.

A folder icon appeared on the home screen, labeled with two words: *Cuckold Collection*.

Her breath caught. The word “cuckold” meant nothing concrete to her—she’d heard it in passing, some archaic term for a betrayed husband—but the folder’s title felt wrong, like finding a locked drawer in a room you thought you knew. She glanced at Xiaofeng; he was still staring at the floor, oblivious. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Curiosity, sharp and irrational, overrode her better judgment.

She tapped the folder.

A list of files appeared, each with a title that made her stomach clench. *Selling Out My Girlfriend. My Girlfriend Gets Drugged and Raped. The Night I Watched.* Her eyes skimmed down, heart thudding. Then one stopped her cold:

*My Girlfriend Satisfies My Cuckold Fetish by Seducing My Brother.*

She blinked, reread it, then again. Her fingers felt numb as she opened the file. The text was a story—first-person narration, written in a crude, breathless style. The protagonist described watching from a hidden corner of a room while his girlfriend undressed his own brother, then performed acts that made Xiaoya’s cheeks burn. The details were graphic, obsessive, every moan and touch catalogued with a voyeur’s precision.

She scrolled further. The brother in the story had no name, but the girlfriend was called “Ya.” A nickname Xiaofeng used for her sometimes, when he was being affectionate.

The room swayed. She looked up at Xiaofeng—still sitting there, still silent, still that same boy she’d loved for two years. But now she saw the twist in his jaw, the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, the flicker of something guilty in his eyes when he finally noticed her staring.

“Xiaofeng,” she said, and her voice came out flat, unrecognizable. “What is this?”

He looked at the phone in her hand, and his face drained of all color. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried to stand but sank back down. “Xiaoya, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” She held up the screen, the story still displayed. “Explain why you have a folder full of… of this? Stories about me? About your brother? About watching me get *raped*?” Her voice cracked on the last word.

He shook his head, hands raised as if to ward off a blow. “It’s not real. It’s just… fantasies. I never wanted it to happen. I love you.”

“Love me?” She laughed, a bitter, breaking sound. “You love watching me in your head with your brother. You love the idea of me being hurt, being used.” Her eyes scanned the screen again, catching a line: *I watched as my brother took her, and I felt more alive than I ever had.* “How long? How long have you been reading this?”

“A year, maybe more,” he whispered. “I don’t know. It started as a joke, something online. Then I couldn’t stop.”

She let the phone drop from her fingers. It hit the floor with a crack, but neither of them moved to pick it up. She backed away, step by step, until her shoulders hit the doorframe.

“You need help, Xiaofeng. Real help.” Her voice was hollow. “And I need… I don’t know what I need. But I can’t be here right now.”

She turned and walked out, leaving him alone in the silent room with the shattered phone and the ghost of his secret, now exposed and bleeding in the open air.

The room was still, save for the soft rhythm of Chen Xiaofeng’s breathing. Lin Xiaoya sat on the edge of the bed, her back rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The dim light from the streetlamp outside bled through the curtains, casting long shadows across his sleeping face. He looked peaceful, almost innocent, and that only sharpened the ache in her chest.

She had been sitting here for over an hour, her mind a storm of fragments, each one a puzzle piece that refused to fit the picture she had once believed in. She thought back to the early days—how he would hold her hand and whisper sweet things, how his eyes would light up when she walked into a room. But somewhere along the way, the light had shifted. She remembered the late-night conversations where he’d ask about her exes, pressing for details she thought were just jealousy. She remembered how he’d encourage her to wear short skirts when they went out, how he’d steer her toward groups of men at parties, how he’d watch her from across the room with a gaze that was too distant, too clinical.

Was she a lover to him, or a prop?

Her stomach turned. She thought of the time she caught him staring at her while she was on the phone with a male friend, the way his breathing changed, the flicker of something dark and hungry in his eyes. She had dismissed it as passion, but now the memory curdled in her mind. He wasn’t aroused by her—he was aroused by the idea of her being wanted by others. And she had been playing along, oblivious, feeding a fantasy she never agreed to.

A low sound escaped her throat, half a sigh, half a sob. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle it, her eyes fixed on his phone, which lay on the nightstand. The screen was still lit from the last thing he had looked at before falling asleep—a website she didn’t recognize, filled with images and forums that made her skin crawl. She had seen it by accident, when she reached for a glass of water and glanced at the glow. It had stopped her cold.

Now, she made a decision.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the phone. She navigated to the screen, careful not to press anything that might wake him, and held up her own phone. The camera clicked softly on silent mode, capturing the evidence in cold, unforgiving pixels. She stared at the photo for a long moment, her heart hammering. This was her reality now—not a secret she could ignore, but a truth she had to share.

She set the phone back down and stood up, her legs shaky. She walked to the window and looked out at the sleeping city, her reflection ghosting in the glass. What would she say to Xiaoyan? How do you tell your best friend that the man you love might have been using you as an actor in his private pornographic theater? She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold, though the room was warm.

The hours crawled by. She did not sleep. She watched the sky shift from black to gray to a pale, watery pink. The first birds began to sing, and Chen Xiaofeng stirred in his sleep, but did not wake. By the time the morning light was fully creeping under the curtains, she had made up her mind.

She dressed in silence, pulling on the same jeans and shirt from the day before. She packed her bag, leaving behind nothing that might suggest she had been awake. She did not look at him before she left—she couldn’t. If she saw his face, she might doubt herself. She might sink back into the familiar warmth of his arms and pretend last night never happened.

Instead, she closed the door with a soft click and walked down the hallway, her footsteps unheard on the carpet. The elevator doors slid shut behind her, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Upstairs, Chen Xiaofeng slept on, his face slack with dreams he would not remember. The phone lay silent on the nightstand, its screen dark. When he finally woke, hours later, the bed beside him was empty. He assumed she had gone to class. He smiled faintly, stretched, and reached for his phone to check his messages, completely unaware that the quiet storm inside her had already begun to break.

The dormitory room was dim, lit only by the small lamp on Xiaoyan’s desk. Lin Xiaoya sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the floor. The phone in her hand felt heavier than it should, the screen dark, but the images from earlier still burned behind her eyes.

Xiaoyan set down her textbook and turned fully on her chair. “Okay, you’ve been quiet for an hour. Spill.”

Xiaoya’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced the words out in a whisper. “I saw something on Chen Xiaofeng’s phone. Something I wasn’t supposed to see.”

Xiaoyan’s eyebrows shot up. “What kind of something?”

“Pictures. Videos.” Xiaoya swallowed. “Of me. Without my knowledge. And… other things. Searches. Forums. About…” She couldn’t finish.

Xiaoyan leaned forward, voice dropping. “Xiaoya, you need to tell me everything.”

And she did. The words tumbled out in a rush—the phone left unlocked, the gallery folder, the whispered terms she’d barely understood, the way her stomach had turned cold. When she finished, Xiaoyan was silent for a long moment.

“You have to confront him,” Xiaoyan said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Directly. Ask him what the hell that was about. Don’t let him deflect.”

Xiaoya shook her head slowly. “I can’t. Not yet. I need to see how he acts. If he knows I saw it, he’ll just hide it better. I need to watch him first.”

Xiaoyan exhaled, frustration flickering across her face, but she nodded. “Fine. But don’t wait too long. That kind of thing doesn’t go away on its own.”

---

Chen Xiaofeng woke with a dry mouth and a throbbing headache. The ceiling of his dorm room swam into focus, familiar cracks in the paint. He pushed himself up, wincing as the cheap mattress creaked. Something felt off.

His phone. It wasn’t on the bedside table where he usually left it. He patted the sheets, checked under the pillow, then spotted it on the desk across the room. He frowned. He didn’t remember putting it there. Maybe he’d set it down after stumbling in last night, too drunk to care. The thought brought a wave of nausea, but he forced himself to stand and retrieve it.

The screen lit up. No notifications. No unusual apps open. He checked his recent activity—nothing out of place. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Just his own drunk clumsiness. He showered quickly, trying to shake the lingering unease, telling himself everything was fine.

By the time he met Xiaoya for lunch at the campus canteen, he had almost convinced himself. She was already seated, a bowl of noodles in front of her, chopsticks idle in her hand. She smiled when she saw him, but something about her eyes made his stomach clench.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “Sorry I’m late. Rough morning.”

“It’s okay.” She pushed the menu toward him. “I already ordered. You should eat something.”

They fell into small talk—classes, the weather, an upcoming exam. The rhythm felt normal, familiar. He started to relax.

Then she set down her chopsticks. “So, what did you and Xiaolong do last night? You were both pretty gone when I left.”

Xiaofeng’s hand paused over his bowl. “Just drank. Talked. You know, guy stuff.”

Xiaoya tilted her head, her gaze steady. “He seemed a bit weird when I saw him this morning. Kept glancing at me. Did he say something about me?”

The question landed like a punch. Xiaofeng’s mind flashed to the hallway, to Xiaolong’s hand on Xiaoya’s hip, to the fantasy he’d let twist in his thoughts. A hot flush crept up his neck.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “Why would he? He’s just… he’s a friend. We were both drunk.”

Xiaoya’s eyes didn’t waver. “You seem nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” He forced a laugh, but it came out brittle. “You’re the one asking weird questions.”

She picked up her chopsticks again, but didn’t eat. “I’m just trying to understand. That’s all.”

Xiaofeng looked down at his noodles, suddenly not hungry. The unease was back, stronger now, coiling in his chest like a living thing. He had no idea what she knew, what she suspected. But the way she said *understand*—it made him feel like she already saw straight through him.

The silence in their shared apartment had grown heavy over the past week, settling into the corners like dust Chen Xiaofeng no longer bothered to wipe away. Xiaoya spoke to him in short sentences now, her eyes skimming past his face as though looking at him directly might burn. She no longer curled against him during movies, no longer left her hairpins scattered across his desk.

He told himself it was nothing. Stress from school. The changing weather. Anything but the truth.

Yet every night, when she turned her back to him in bed and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders, he felt the distance like a physical wound. And every night, he reached for his phone, scrolling through images that made his heart race and his stomach churn in equal measure.

The videos blurred together now—endless loops of bodies and moans, faces he couldn't remember seconds after he closed the app. But there was one fantasy that never faded, one image that returned again and again, sharp and vivid no matter how many times he tried to scrub it from his mind.

Xiaoya. And Xiaolong.

He saw them in his imagination with terrifying clarity: Xiaolong's broad hands on her waist, Xiaoya's head tilted back, her lips parted in a way Chen Xiaofeng had never been able to inspire. The scene played out behind his eyelids, detailed and merciless, while his own hand moved faster, his breathing ragged, his teeth clenched against the shame that always followed.

When it was over, he lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow and sick. The pleasure evaporated in seconds, leaving only the residue of his own inadequacy. He could never make her look like that. Could never match the confidence he imagined in Xiaolong's every movement.

*What's wrong with me?* he thought, but the question had lost its meaning through repetition. He already knew the answer. He was broken in a way that felt permanent.

The next afternoon, Chen Xiaofeng sat at his desk, pretending to study while his phone glowed face-down beside his keyboard. He couldn't bring himself to look at the screen, not after this morning's session in the bathroom, not after the wave of self-loathing that had nearly made him late for class.

His phone buzzed. Then again. A third time.

He flipped it over reluctantly. Three messages from Zhang Xiaolong, all sent within the last minute.

*Bro, you free tonight?*

*Was thinking we could grab drinks.*

*Also, how's Xiaoya doing? Haven't seen her around.*

Chen Xiaofeng's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed and deleted three different replies before settling on: *She's fine. Busy with finals.*

He didn't ask about the drinks. Didn't want to sit across from Xiaolong, watching those easy smiles, remembering the way Xiaolong had looked at Xiaoya at that party months ago. The way his hand had lingered too long on her shoulder.

But the messages kept coming.

*You sure? She seemed kinda down when I bumped into her at the library yesterday.*

*I was thinking I should check in on her. You know, since you've been so stressed lately.*

*Just looking out for you both.*

Chen Xiaofeng's jaw tightened. He hadn't told Xiaolong about the coldness between them. He hadn't told anyone. Yet here was his best friend, inserting himself into the cracks of their relationship with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

*Yeah, thanks,* he typed. *She's good.*

He closed the chat and opened his camera roll instead. Recent photos—Xiaoya laughing at a café, Xiaoya reading on the quad, Xiaoya's hand reaching for his across a table. He lingered on each image, searching for something he might have missed. Some sign that she was slipping away.

His eyes caught on a screenshot he didn't remember taking. A conversation between Xiaolong and Xiaoya, dated three days ago.

His stomach dropped.

Xiaolong: *Hey, I was thinking about grabbing coffee this weekend. Wanted to talk about Xiaofeng—I'm worried about him.*

Xiaoya: *What do you mean?*

Xiaolong: *He just seems off lately. I think he could use some support. From both of us.*

Xiaoya: *I know. I've noticed too.*

Xiaolong: *Let me buy you a drink and we can figure out how to help him. Friday at 3?*

She hadn't replied. Or maybe she had, and the screenshot simply didn't capture it. Chen Xiaofeng stared at the blue bubbles, his heart pounding with a strange, sick thrill that he hated himself for feeling.

*He's making a move,* a voice whispered. *Right under your nose.*

*And you're letting him.*

The jealousy burned hot and clean, but underneath it, buried deep where he didn't want to look, something else stirred. Something that made his fingers tremble as he saved the screenshot to his favorites folder.

He imagined them at the café—Xiaolong leaning forward, his voice low and concerned, Xiaoya nodding along, her guard slowly lowering. Would she laugh at something he said? Would she touch his arm, the way she used to touch Chen Xiaofeng's? Would she look at him differently, see something in Xiaolong that she no longer saw in her boyfriend?

The fantasy spiraled, and Chen Xiaofeng let it. He didn't stop it, didn't try to think of something else. He let the images flood his mind, let the jealousy and arousal twist together until he couldn't tell them apart.

When he finally blinked back to reality, the afternoon light had shifted, casting long shadows across his desk. His hand was resting on his lap, his breathing shallow.

He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair against the wall.

*Get a grip,* he told himself. *She's your girlfriend. You love her.*

But even as he thought it, his phone buzzed again. Another message from Xiaolong.

*Friday's good. I'll pick her up from the library.*

Chen Xiaofeng read the words three times. Then he locked his phone, set it face-down, and walked to the bathroom without looking back.