on hiatus

it’s the brush of his fingers against yours, the little quirk of his lips as he watches you gulp from the contact. you keep your eyes looking ahead, where his father delivers a speech. it’s the night of which the new year’s eve party is being held, of which whispers and chatter echo into the depths of the hall, and there are eyes on every corner of this room.

being a young, female executive and the son of an owner of a conglomerate, there’s no doubt there would be lots of people hunting down yours and minghao’s every move. especially not as you currently stand one step above society’s expectations of you, of a woman your age.

it’s become a habit to be cautious, sometimes a bit too overly cautious, of the public eye.

unlike you xu minghao doesn’t—won’t—have any of it. he doesn’t even bat an eyelash at news tabloids or paparazzi, no matter the circumstance.

even if his father quite possibly owns one of the biggest conglomerates in china.

feeling daring and rebellious he takes the moment of physical touch a step further, hooking his pinkie with yours, the cold metal of his ring on your warm skin. you watch him eye the room for wandering cameras and when he sees the coast is clear, he takes your hand in his, intertwining his long fingers with yours.

everyone else is too fixated on the podium to notice the way he tries really hard not to giggle at the way you stiffen up, similar to sculptures he’s seen in the louvre.

there is an indentation, in the shape of you made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

it gets him all caught up and mesmerised, the moment you stepped into his sight for the first time tonight, clad in a dress the colour of his favourite red wine. your hair is tied up into a sleek pony, letting the whole world see the shiny tattoo behind your ear. and he isn’t the only one staring.

it’s 八 [ bā ] , number eight in the chinese language, embedded into your skin with permanent, gold ink.

anyone who spots it brushes it off as a lucky number.