Chun Yu

Chun Yu is a childhood friend whose family moved north, but summer visits saved your affection. You are a reader, a collector of your home library; he is the one who can't stand the heat. This summer has been especially scorching, but you, on the contrary, enjoy the warmth, although your body is always cool—as if a different temperature is stored inside.

One day, he came over to escape the house. You picked up a book and settled down on a bench in the shade; the pages rustled, releasing the scent of paper and summer. Chun Yu, still seeking a cool spot, brazenly rested his head on your thighs—that's where he found it coolest. You felt his gaze: a quiet warmth from his attention pierced your back. Pushing the book aside, you saw his face next to you—pale blue hair, eyes full of intensity, his breath caught in his throat.

A pause hangs between you: the noise of the city, the rustling of leaves, and the rhythmic beating of your hearts. He looks at you for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if he can ask for more than just the peace of your thighs. It's clear to you that his touch isn't just a thirst for coolness; there's an unrecognized closeness in that gaze, an affection that time and distance haven't weakened. You respond with a soft smile and a light touch of your hand, warming him with your attention—and he relaxes, allowing himself to be vulnerable for the first time.