Chapter 4 – What Am I Wearing?

Sunday, 3:45 AM

It began in warmth.

Not just the kind that kissed her skin, but the kind that curled low and slow in her belly. It was an ache wrapped in silk, pulsing like a whispered invitation beneath her ribcage.

Lin Yue didn't usually dream like this.

Not vividly.

Not viscerally.

But tonight, something felt different. Too real. Too close. As if her subconscious had peeled open something it wasn't supposed to.

She was lying on her back, the room washed in soft moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains. The glow painted her body in silver and blue, every inch of her skin haloed in light.

She wasn't alone.

There was someone at the edge of the bed, emerging from the shadows, all warmth and broad shoulders and quiet gravity.

Familiar.

Undeniably him.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. A low sound. Barely there. But her body noticed before her mind could catch up.

Then his hand found her waist.

Firm. Certain. Like it always belonged there.

His fingers moved in a slow, deliberate sweep, trailing upward, molding the curve of her body as though he was relearning it from memory... like her skin was a page he'd once studied in silence.

When his thumb brushed beneath her breast, her back arched before she even realized it. Her breath hitched. Her pulse stuttered.

"Yue..."

His voice was soft. Almost reverent. A plea and a promise wrapped in velvet.

And gods—how could his voice alone make her spine go weak?

He leaned in, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breath warm against her skin. She shivered beneath him. Not from cold—but from everything else.

Her eyes fluttered shut again when his lips grazed her ear.

Heat bloomed beneath her skin, delicate and sharp.

Her body felt like jelly.

She was melting under his mouth, his hands, the scent of him pressing around her like fog.

His mouth found the slope of her neck next, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. Wet. Lingering. Intimate.

Every part of her body burned under the weight of his presence.

Slow and heavy heat curling in her belly like smoke.

His hands moved lower, past her hips, down her thighs.

And then...

A slow, deep squeeze across the curve of her ass.

Lin Yue gasped.

Her toes curled. Her legs tensed. A shiver chased the arch of her spine.

Her breath quickened as his hands returned to her thighs, stroking upward again with maddening gentleness.

A whisper of sensation between her legs. Just a trace of friction, his skin sliding against hers.

Wait.

What am I wearing?

Lace? Silk? That ridiculous lacy thing buried in the back of her drawer?

Why would I dream in this?

Her body didn't care. Not when his fingers brushed the edge of her underwear and slipped beneath, touching, teasing, coaxing.

She moaned aloud this time.

Desperate. Breathless. Open.

"Chen Rui..." she gasped again.

And when he whispered, "Look at me," she tried.

She opened her eyes, vision blurred, pulse wild.

And she saw him, not fully, not clearly. Just shadows, warmth, intent. But it was him.

Still him.

Still hers.

Her climax tore through her. Fierce. Shuddering. Absolute.

And just as he pressed his body flush against hers again—

Just as her hips lifted in perfect sync, just as he guided himself to her entrance—

The dream shattered.

The heat broke.

And she woke.

⸻

Tuesday, 4:00 AM

The ceiling greeted her in cold silence.

Her heart thundered. Her chest heaved. Her skin burned with a phantom touch that refused to leave her.

Her thighs were tangled in sheets. Her body flushed, trembling.

And between her legs—

Wet.

A vivid echo of everything her body remembered but never truly had.

"Oh my god," Lin Yue whispered hoarsely, dragging a hand over her face.

"That was illegal," she groaned to the ceiling.

Then it hit her.

The shirt.

The oversized button-down she'd tugged on after laundry the night before.

Chen Rui's shirt.

She looked down at herself.

You've got to be kidding me.

She buried her face in the pillow with a sound that could only be described as a high-pitched whimper of mortified defeat.

"This is emotional sabotage," she mumbled. "I'm being psychologically attacked by cotton."

She flopped over dramatically.

"You don't get to dream about someone absolutely ruining you and then wake up in their shirt like it's normal. That's not fair."

Her pulse refused to calm. Her thighs still trembled. Her body still sang from the dream, like a haunting melody that refused to end.

She flailed weakly and cursed the very idea of dreams.

Then her phone buzzed.

No.

No, no, no.

She picked it up, already cringing.

Chen Rui: Hope you slept better today. Did the soup help?

Lin Yue stared at the message like it had fangs.

"I swear to god, sir," she whispered, "you were literally inside me ten minutes ago."

Metaphorically. Subconsciously. Spiritually.

She tossed the phone onto the bed like it had betrayed her too.

Her hands covered her face again. "This is a crisis."

She tried to type back.

"Thanks. The soup was comforting."

Cringe. Delete.

"Thank you again. I'm feeling better today."

Too boring. Delete.

"Soup was amazing. You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did."

Slightly better.

Still hovering on send.

Lin Yue stared at it like she was solving a national crisis.

Finally, she sent a completely neutral reply: Thanks again. I'm good now. Hope your morning's going well too.

Safe. Graceful. Dignified.

She promptly flopped face-first into her mattress again.

"This is exhausting," she moaned into the sheets. "This isn't even dating and I'm already exhausted. Emotional performance art at its finest."

Eventually, she rolled out of bed, peeling herself away from the chaos.

She glared at the shirt, stripped it off, and tossed it into the hamper with unnecessary force.

"Traitor."

Then, she stood under the faucet, letting cold water run over her face like it could reset her hormones. It did not.

She moved through her skincare routine like she was cleansing away the sin of dreams past. Toner. Serum. Eye cream. Sunblock. Dignity.

She dressed in her favorite robe and shuffled to the kitchen. Milk-heavy coffee. No questions.

She sipped slowly, gazing at the morning skyline beyond her glass windows.

Elegant outside. Deranged inside.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Chen Rui: Glad to hear that. I'll bring a better soup next time. Or something sweet?

Her entire brain short-circuited.

"Sweet," she echoed weakly.

Sweet?

Sir, your fingers were inside me fifteen minutes ago. Again—metaphorically. Subconsciously. But STILL.

She set her mug down gently.

"I need therapy," she muttered, staring into her coffee.

Then louder, resigned, "But also... maybe something sweet would be nice."

And in the echo of that thought, in the aftermath of her breathless spiral, she knew—

This wasn't going away.

Not quietly.

Not cleanly.

Not anymore.

⸻

(づ_ど)

Note:
Yes. That happened. 😳
- Z 💙