Xiao Xingchen’s other hand comes to rest on Xue Yang’s shin above the one already rubbing circles into his skin. “Ah,” he says, low and pleased and pitched for Song Lan’s ears as well as Xue Yang’s. “He likes you, little fox.” The sharp thing in Xue Yang’s chest settles warily. He does not, for the moment, ask what would your boyfriend not liking me look like? or: sometimes a gremlin goes out to get laid and picks up more than he bargained for