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The hoodie wasn’t even meant to stay with Shen.
Xiong greeted him with a grin, “You found it. I was wondering where that went.”
He reached out, easily, to take it — and something in Shen rebelled.
“Oh, uh, it’s not dry yet,” he lied, heart stuttering. “Washed it, but I’ll give it back later.”
Xiong laughed, brushing off the excuse. “Alright, don’t let it disappear.”
And he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Now the hoodie hangs on the back of Shen’s chair like a ghost. The scent never faded, even after weeks. Sage, honey, daisy. Something sweet, grounded, and warm, the kind of scent that felt like sunlight filtered through old film.
He told himself it was curiosity. He told himself he’d just wash it, fold it, and hand it back.
But that night, when he should’ve been asleep, Shen lay in bed with the hoodie pressed to his face, breathing it in until it almost hurt.
And that was how the spiral began.
That smell followed Shen like a ghost. He caught it whenever Xiong walked past, subtle and warm, the air bending around him. In the hallways, during practice, even when Xiong leaned close to show him something — Shen forgot the world, chasing that one familiar note of cologne.
He started recognizing it everywhere: on the back of Xiong’s neck, on the sleeves of his shirt, on the shared pencils and music sheets that passed between them. It didn’t just smell good. It smelled like safety. Like him.
Shen doesn’t wear it much at first. He just… keeps it close. When the air turns cold, he pulls it on and the scent clings to him like a memory that refuses to let go.
Sometimes he catches himself leaning into it, greedy — breathing deeper than he should. It feels like drowning in something heady and golden. Like the air itself thickens with Xiong’s warmth. He hates how much it messes with his head.
He still sees Xiong everyday, of course — hanging out with the rest of the group, during dance practice sessions. Every time they’re near, Shen feels the same invisible hook tug behind his ribs. The scent again — faint but unmistakable, threading through the air. He wonders if Xiong can smell it too, the ghost of himself clinging to Shen’s skin.
“Hey,” Xiong greets him one evening, smiling that easy smile. “You still have my hoodie, don’t you?”
Shen freezes for a moment too long. “Yeah. I, uh… keep forgetting to wash it.”
“That’s fine.” Xiong laughs softly. “You can keep it a little longer. It fits you better anyway."
It shouldn’t make Shen’s heart ache like this. He nods, pretending to check something on his phone just so Xiong doesn’t see the flush creeping up his neck.
Their friends joked about how close they were.
Shen laughed too loudly each time, pretending he didn’t know why it stung.
Because the scent was changing. Fainter.
Xiong must’ve gotten a new bottle — or worse, switched to something else. Shen found himself inching closer in every conversation, pretending to reach for something just to breathe him in again.
Once, in the recording studio, Shen stood behind him, helping adjust the microphones. The sunlight hit the back of Xiong’s neck. He leaned in before he could stop himself, close enough to catch the soft blend of sage and honey again. Xiong turned slightly, smiling over his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Shen croaked, stepping back. “Just— dizzy.”
Xiong chuckled. “Then sit down, idiot.”
Shen didn’t sit. He stood there memorizing the smell of that moment instead.
On a certain night, the rain starts again — soft and relentless. Shen sits by the window in the dark, wearing the hoodie. The room smells like Xiong, and the sound of rain blends with the faint hum of his heartbeat. It’s almost cruel, how much comfort and longing can exist in something so simple.
Then, a message lights his phone:
Xiong: You awake?
Shen: Yeah. Why?
Xiong: Power’s out in my dorm. Mind if I crash at yours?
Minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
When Xiong steps in, damp and smiling, the scent multiplies — raw and intoxicating. Shen’s head swims with it. He offers a towel, mumbles something about how Xiong should warm up. They end up sitting together on the couch, lights still out, the rain growing heavier outside.
“Thanks,” Xiong murmurs, his voice almost drowned by the storm. “You always make things feel better.”
“Do I?” Shen says softly.
Then suddenly–
“You smell nice,” Xiong teases — half-asleep, unaware of how the words twist the knife deeper.
Shen laughs under his breath, but it cracks halfway through.
The air between them tightens.
Shen turns his head. The scent of Xiong’s hair — rainwater and cologne — hits him again, dizzying. He’s not sure who leans in first, only that they do. The kiss is slow, uncertain, tasting like honey and thunder.
It feels like inhaling Xiong — every breath, every heartbeat.
The storm swallows the rest.
The storm doesn’t end; it just grows quieter, like it’s run out of rage.
By the time they drift off, the couch is too small for both of them, but neither moves. Shen feels the warmth of Xiong’s body pressed along his side, and hears the faint hitch of his breathing. The faint scent of sage, honey, daisy — his scent — sinks into every corner of the room. It’s heavy, like it wants to stay forever.
At some point, the thunder fades into silence. Shen dreams of nothing — just warmth and smell, like the world has narrowed to one familiar heartbeat.
When he wakes, the sky is pale and blue-gray, the kind that belongs to the hour before dawn. He doesn’t move at first. Xiong is there, curled up against his chest, hair mussed, his hand fisted gently in Shen’s hoodie.
And there — that scent again. Fainter now, but still there, threaded through the soft mess of Xiong’s hair. Shen inhales without meaning to, slow and deep. The cologne is different in the morning — softer, mixed with warmth and skin. Addictive. Dangerous.
Shen’s fingers hover just above Xiong’s back before brushing against the fabric of his shirt, careful not to wake him. “Still smells like you,” he murmurs into the quiet.