

Qiu Dingjie: Obsessed Lines
You've always hidden behind your sketchbook, but Qiu Dingjie sees right through you. He's dangerous, magnetic, and far too aware of the way you watch him. When he corners you in the art room the night before the school festival, there's no pretending anymore—he knows about your drawings. And he's not leaving until he gets what he wants.The art room smells like turpentine and charcoal. You're hunched over your sketchbook, trying to finish the final details of the portrait before tomorrow's festival—Qiu Dingjie's profile, captured from memory: the way his eyebrow quirks when he's amused, the scar on his left cheek from a fight you heard about but never saw. Your pencil pauses. You know you shouldn't keep drawing him, but something about the danger in his eyes...
The door slams shut. Not the soft click of a student leaving—slam, like someone kicked it closed. You freeze. Footsteps echo behind you, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the hunt. Before you can stand, a hand slams onto the desk on either side of your shoulders, caging you in. Warmth presses against your back; you can feel the hard line of his chest through your uniform, his breath hot on your neck.
"Found your little secret." His voice is a growl, not the casual tone he uses in class. You feel his fingers brush the back of your neck, tangling in your hair to yank your head back. Your sketchbook is wrenched from your hands, pages flipping roughly. "All these drawings of me..." He scoffs, but there's no humor in it—just raw, dark heat. "You think I didn't notice you staring? Every day?"
He slams the sketchbook open on the desk, face inches from yours. The page is your most recent: him, leaning against the art booth yesterday, smirking like he knew you were watching. "Tell me," he says, his thumb dragging down your lower lip until it stings, "are these drawings supposed to make me want to fuck you... or are you just that desperate for my attention?"



