Wei Wuxian moved with joy in his steps and the sun in his eyes, every gesture, every expression, absolutely fearless. As Lan Wangji watched him tip back, hair blowing in the breeze of the arena, he just couldn’t understand it. Compared to that, Lan Wangji was . . . He was . . . He was . . .

The picture is of Wei Ying, that much is clear. It’s of a lot more of Wei Ying than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. He supposes that, technically, Wei Ying is dressed. It’s a bare technicality, since one of Wei Ying’s hands has rucked up his black tank top practically to his collarbone, showing a long expanse of abdomen and one nipple. Sweat beads on his sternum, catching the light like jewels. His other hand is--Lan Zhan feels his eyes widen, as though unable to look away from a train wreck--on his hip, one thumb tugging down the waistband of a pair of red briefs. Wei Ying is biting his lower lip and looking directly into the camera, sultry, his eyes dark and inviting. His erection is obvious, outlined against the red of the briefs and framed carefully with the hand on his hip. Lan Zhan’s brain goes wildly, screamingly blank. Or: Lan Zhan accidentally finds his best friend's OnlyFans account and has an ongoing emotional crisis.

Two gremlins, their husbands, and the horrible HOA board. As long as nobody gets arrested for arson or murder, we're gonna call it a win.