Bo Yu · Chat

You withdraw your hand but don't back away. He just lies there on your sofa, his shirt collar wide open, the cold white of his skin from the collarbone down contrasting sharply with the black leather of your couch. Despite being the one who was picked up, the way he looks at you is like he's appraising a piece of goods delivered to his hand. "Yours," he says. It's not a question; it's a statement. You pause for a moment, then realize—he's talking about the hand you just used to touch him. The hand that supported him, held his waist, and finally reached for his nape was the same right hand. He hadn't opened his eyes the whole time, yet he remembered everything. "I was afraid you'd fall," you say, keeping a straight face. "Afraid I'd fall," he repeats, his voice low and flat, "or afraid I'd run?" You don't answer. You get up to pour a glass of warm water and push it across the coffee table. He looks at the glass but doesn't take it. You aren't in a hurry either, leaning against the TV cabinet opposite him with your arms crossed, openly studying him. He is perfectly composed, not shying away from your gaze. He even slowly props himself up on the sofa. A few strands of black hair fall over his forehead; he doesn't brush them away, just keeps his eyes half-closed like a prickly cat that just woke up. "Bo Yu," he suddenly speaks. You raise an eyebrow. "My name," he says. "Since you picked me up from the entrance of my bar, you ought to know who you picked up." *My bar.* Those two words are deliberate—he's telling you two things: first, he knows where he came from and isn't some masterless thing; second, that bar is his territory, and since you picked him up on his turf, he's noted the debt. You aren't surprised. From the moment he opened his eyes, you knew this man was high-level. "My surname is X," you say, not giving your full name. He looks up at you. It's a brief glance, but you're certain he reads the equivalent message in your reservation—you don't want to show your full hand in this relationship first either. "Fine, Mr. X," he finally takes a sip of the water. His Adam's apple bobs, and after finishing, he sets the glass down, the bottom clinking softly against the table. "Tell me, then. What did you hope to gain by picking me up?" Blunt enough. You don't bother pretending either. "I thought you were good-looking." He shows no expression, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "Family's pushing for marriage," you add. "If you were an Omega, I could have brought you back to satisfy them." It's not a particularly decent thing to say, and you know it. But you say it on purpose to see his reaction. How would a Top Alpha who can disguise himself as an Omega react to such words? With rage, or a cold sneer? He smiles. It's not a sneer, nor a genuine smile. It's an expression somewhere between playful and dangerous, a mere twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Then you're out of luck," he says. "You picked up an Alpha." "Not that bad." You reply so quickly that his brow twitches slightly. You see something flash in those narrow eyes—not surprise, but a re-evaluation. He tilts his head, the side of his neck forming a beautiful line. You notice his gaze slide from your face to your shoulders, your arms, your posture, and finally back to your eyes. He's measuring your weight. "Mr. X," the way he says your name changes, his tone deepening like silk being pressed into deep water, "aren't you afraid I'll turn on you?" "Try it and see." The air is silent for three whole seconds. Then he leans back against the sofa, resting the back of his head on the leather and looking up at you, exposing his entire throat and collarbone. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes haven't softened one bit. "Interesting," he says. "You're much more interesting than those useless bastards at tonight's marriage meeting." You know that sentence isn't a compliment; it's a declaration of war. "Tell me about the marriage alliance?" you follow up. He lowers his eyes, his fingertips tapping twice on his knee in a slow rhythm. Eventually, he speaks, but keeps it minimal: "The family wanted to trade me for three secret business lines." You don't press for details. Tonight isn't the time; you aren't close enough for that. But you remember it—he doesn't want to be married off, just like you. Neither of you wants to be arranged. "So what do you plan to do?" you ask. "Go back to your family to be pressured, or stay here for a while?" The question is a test and an invitation. You regret it as soon as you say it—it sounds too eager, as if you're afraid he'll leave. But Bo Yu doesn't mock you for it. He just stays silent for a few seconds, then does something you didn't expect. He picks up the glass of water and finishes it. Setting the empty glass back on the table, he circles the rim with his fingertip. "I'll stay for a bit," he says. "After all, you owe me breakfast." "I owe you?" "You picked me up from a bar," he looks up, his tone matter-of-fact. "Made me sleep on the sofa without even giving me a blanket. Doesn't that count as a debt?" You're almost amused by his logic, but you don't argue. Because as he speaks, the blanket you had dug out later is folded right there on the arm of the sofa. He clearly saw it but chose not to use it, just so he'd have an excuse to say you didn't take care of him. You suddenly feel that this man isn't just high-level; he's petty. A petty Alpha is troublesome, but once a petty Alpha gets serious, they might actually be easier to handle. "Fine," you say. "Porridge or a sandwich?" He tilts his head, thinking, as if he's actually taking this multiple-choice question seriously. Finally, he says: "Porridge. Not too thick." As you turn to go into the kitchen, you hear him murmur behind you, not loud, as if talking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. "X... interesting. Won't even give a full name." You don't look back, but the corner of your mouth twitches. Today's porridge, you plan to make it a bit thick.