Late Calls / Cat Excuses—Chen’s Pov

POV: Arthur Chen

Arthur Chen didn’t forget her.

Not the fans, not the stage lights, not the press — her.

Three months ago, in the middle of a chaotic fan event at a crowded bookstore, she walked into his day like a plot twist. Not screaming. Not giddy. Just… real.

He remembered how she cornered him outside the bathroom and said, “Reject me. My friend wants your number, but I know you won’t give it, so just reject me gracefully and I’ll accept it.”

She didn’t ask for a photo. She didn’t gush. She didn’t even care about his group — she was just trying to save her friend’s ego.

He laughed about it later. Not in a mocking way — more in a what just happened kind of way.

And then he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

So, once he got back to the dorm, he asked his team to find her — subtly. No stalking, nothing weird. Just enough to satisfy curiosity.

It didn’t take long. She had a public Instagram account, and the bookstore had tagged her in a blurry group story. From there, it was easy.

Her name: Annie.

Her profile: a mix of sarcastic captions, chaotic selfies, cats, and memes about tea addiction.

And, oddly enough, her phone number — listed right in her bio. Like a tiny dare for the universe to mess with her.

He didn’t call.

Not at first.

For five days, he just… scrolled. Every morning. Every night. She became part of his routine — a quiet habit he didn’t talk about, not even with the other guys.

But curiosity isn’t patient.

And one random night — five days after the bookstore — at exactly 9:03 p.m., lying in bed with a hoodie pulled over his head like a teenager hiding from homework, he stared at the number and hit Call.

Just one ring.

Annie (frustrated): “Whoever this is, I don’t have time for this, okay? Seriously.”

Arthur blinked.

Arthur: “Annie. It’s Chen. Arthur Chen.”

A pause. He could hear her blinking.

Annie (surprised): “Arthur Chen? I didn’t expect you to call me.”

Arthur: “Well… yeah. Can we meet up? Are you busy or something?”

Annie (rushed): “Actually, yeah. Sorry. I’m looking for a cat. Billie’s cat. Again. Can I call you later?”

Click.

She hung up.

On him.

A global pop star.

No flinch. No breathless pause. Just: “I’m busy.”

Arthur (thinking): What kind of woman brushes off a celebrity because of a missing cat?

He didn’t know whether to laugh or be impressed.

So he texted her:

Arthur: Send me a picture of the cat. Just in case I spot her.

When the photo came through — a blur of white fur, half-shadow, demon-like glare — he turned to his assistant.

Arthur: “I need that cat. Found. Now.”

Assistant: “Is this code?”

Arthur: “No. Literal cat. Billie’s. Very fluffy. Possibly part goblin. Go.”

Twenty minutes later, he was standing in a dark hoodie and baseball cap at the edge of a quiet park with a very displeased cat zipped inside a designer pet bag. The kind of thing he used to carry snacks in for long rehearsals. Catniss, the escape artist, was not happy.

But Arthur was. Because this gave him the perfect excuse.

He texted her again.

Arthur: Found her. Park, ten minutes. Just you.

⸻

She came. Of course she did.

A quiet, tree-lined corner of the park, with barely any people around. The sky above them was dark velvet, stars barely peeking through, and there she was — hair tied up loosely, eyes searching until they met his.

“Chen?” she said cautiously.

“Surprise,” he replied, smiling.

“You actually found her?” Her jaw dropped. “Wait — how?”

Arthur shrugged like he did this all the time. “Piece of cake. You don’t know me yet.”

She kneeled to unzip the bag, and the cat sprang out with full diva energy. In the process of grabbing the creature mid-launch, her hand brushed against his — fingertips catching his in a quick, clumsy tangle.

A pause.

They both stilled.

Something flickered.

A spark. Electricity. Whatever they call it in movies.

She looked up. So did he. Two, three seconds. Long enough for the moment to fold inward like a secret.

He swallowed.

“So,” she said, breaking the tension, “I should probably take her back before Billie has a heart attack.”

“Right,” Arthur said, but neither of them moved. They just stood there awkwardly, side by side.

And then — as they both stepped in the same direction — they bumped shoulders. Again, too close. Again, too aware.

“I owe you,” Annie said, adjusting the cat bag. “Big time.”

He tilted his head. “I’ll take payment in sarcastic commentary and an honest conversation.”

She gave him a look. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Wouldn’t dream of calling it that,” he said coolly. “More like a… mutually agreed coincidence with seating.”

They sat on the park bench, the cat growling softly like background jazz.

“Okay, real question,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How did you find Catniss so fast?”

Arthur smirked. “Let’s just say I had help. And motivation. But mostly motivation.”

“You’re acting all smooth right now. But I’m still suspicious.”

“You should be. I used a missing cat as an excuse to meet you.”

She blinked, amused. “You admit that?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back, watching her. “You left an impression, Annie.”

“Famous boy’s line.”

“No, seriously. I’ve never met anyone like you. You weren’t impressed. You didn’t try to impress me. You just… were.”

“You make it sound like I didn’t brush my hair that day.”

“I remember your hair. You did.”

She laughed, surprised by herself.

He laughed, too. And then watched her laugh.

That part was his favorite.

⸻

As she stood up to leave, the cat finally calm in her arms, they both stepped closer to say goodbye — and neither of them stepped back.

They were close.

Like… close-close.

Breath hanging in the air. Her hand half-raised. His jaw tilted. Eyes locked.

Two or three seconds passed.

They blinked.

And in perfect sync, both of them said at the same time:

“Wanna date?”

Silence.

They stared.

Then both laughed.

And Arthur, with a rare full smile, said, “Glad we’re finally on the same page.”

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