Xuye Cheng’s heart sank as a grave realization struck him.
Shit. In this state—with his changed appearance and voice—how could he possibly let Zheng Wenxuan call his name?
If he spoke now, he’d be exposed for sure.
What to do? What to do?
Panic flashed across his face as he peered through the bed curtain. Faintly, he saw Zheng Wenxuan sit up.
Another jolt of fear. He lay back down slowly, movements careful.
Better not make a move…
But his bladder was screaming.
Discomfort tightened his features. He tugged the thin AC blanket over his exposed legs, seeking a sliver of false security.
The urgent need made him press his thighs together. He listened—Zheng Wenxuan was getting out of bed.
His heartbeat hammered faster with every second.
Xuye Cheng swallowed hard. Footsteps approached his bed.
“Still asleep?” Zheng Wenxuan muttered to himself.
Xuye Cheng felt him stop beside the bed…
Then—a touch on his calf. Zheng Wenxuan gripped his leg through the mosquito net and shook it gently.
“Wake up, my sweet Cheng. Breakfast first—health matters most.” His voice was soft.
Panic surged. Xuye Cheng yanked his leg free, rolled over, and burrowed deeper under the covers.
“What time did you even sleep last night…?” Zheng Wenxuan paused, voice low.
Xuye Cheng dared not utter a sound.
*If you don’t leave right now, twenty years of celibacy for you…*
He cursed viciously in his head.
His cheeks burned crimson. The desperate need to pee warred with the revulsion flooding his body after that touch. Panic clawed higher.
“Why so quiet?” Zheng Wenxuan pressed, concern thick.
*Talk? Talk my ass off!*
Xuye Cheng seethed inwardly. Why this sudden care? Get a hobby.
He bit his lip, tension coiling tight.
“Want me to bring you breakfast?” Zheng Wenxuan offered.
A tear slipped down Xuye Cheng’s cheek.
*Bro, just go. This fake warmth is killing me.*
“I’m asking—yes or no?” Zheng Wenxuan tapped the bed frame.
Rustling erupted. The mosquito net parted slightly. A slender, pale hand shot out from under the curtain, flipped him off, then vanished.
“Damn ungrateful bastard,” Zheng Wenxuan huffed. “I’ll go alone.”
He turned and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Xuye Cheng exhaled shakily. But Zheng Wenxuan was still *in the room*…
He curled into himself, feeling utterly at his limit.
Why this torture?
He almost wished this body was less… noticeable. At least he could’ve covered his face and dashed to the bathroom.
Zheng Wenxuan squeezed toothpaste onto his brush, humming. The calm morning lifted his mood.
He grinned at his reflection.
*Looking sharper today.*
But then he recalled gripping Xuye Cheng’s calf—
Since when were his legs that slender?
And that pale, delicate hand flipping him off… Why had he never noticed how pretty it was?
A chill ran down Zheng Wenxuan’s spine. Lately, Xuye Cheng just felt… off.
*Shit. It’s me. I’m the problem. I’m actually starting to like looking at him.*
*Hallucinations next. No way—I’m not into guys. He’s not some androgynous doujinshi character… or a cross-dresser. Why’s my blood boiling?*
*Gotta find a girlfriend. Any girl. As long as she’s not terrifying.*
Time crawled for Xuye Cheng.
His mind screamed one thing: *Toilet. Now.*
A heavy ache pulsed in his lower belly.
Finally—the door clicked open and shut. Zheng Wenxuan was gone.
Xuye Cheng bolted upright, then froze. Kneeling on the bed, he parted the curtain just enough to confirm the room was empty. Only then did he slip down carefully.
His slippers dragged—he’d shrunk, feet lost in the familiar pair.
He sprinted to the bathroom, yanked down his clothes—and fumbled.
Panic spiked. The situation was critical.
Like a sniper lining up a shot…
Thankfully, Xuye Cheng reacted fast.
Legs apart. Deep breath…
Relief washed over him.
As the urgency faded, shame crashed in.
He stared at his legs. The feeling was alien—like being forced to walk on all fours when you’re human.
This body handled basic needs *differently*.
It reminded him of wetting the bed at age seven: that warm, damp shame spreading below.
So weird!
No one was watching. He wasn’t living in *The Truman Show*.
Yet Xuye Cheng felt so damn cringey.
But emptying his bladder *was* refreshing—just like that volleyball ace said.
Face burning, he grabbed tissues. His palms grew hot.
*He was a guy. He knew the basics.*
*What’s wrong with touching yourself?*
He scolded himself for hesitating like a coward.
Minutes later, he stood at the sink, face still flushed.
*It’s just a mask,* he told himself. *No matter how real it feels—it’s fake.*
He’d touched what needed touching. Seen… well, he hadn’t actually looked.
He’d watched those “action movies” with Zheng Wenxuan. He *knew* the anatomy.
Theory was one thing. Practice? His hands refused.
A strange guilt coiled inside him.
He hated his own cowardice. All those adult fantasies he’d imagined—now within reach—he couldn’t bring himself to act.
He felt utterly pathetic.
