The Audacity Of Appetite

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Author's Note

Hey everyone! Welcome to the first chapter of The Audacity of Appetite! I'm so excited to finally share this story with you. This is my first attempt at a shameless, food-obsessed, gay disaster of a main character, and honestly? I'm already in love with Lin Feng. He's the kind of person who would sell you your own shoes back to you and make you thank him for it.

Posting Schedule: Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 8 PM EST. I'm committing to this schedule, so hold me accountable!

Follow for updates, Like if you enjoyed the chapter, and Comment below—I live for your reactions! Reviews on the main page are also deeply appreciated and fuel my writer's soul (and my caffeine addiction).

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Chapter 1: The Mouse and the Marble Statue

The crystal chandelier suspended above the dining table was roughly the size of his entire dorm room at Qinghua University. Lin Feng knew this with the same certainty he knew his own name—or rather, the name he'd given himself after the orphanage director had found him on the steps one freezing November morning, wrapped in a threadbare blanket and stuffed into a cardboard box. Twenty-two years later, Lin Feng still had a keen eye for measurement, a skill honed by years of calculating exactly how much rice could fit into a single bowl, how many hours of tutoring he could squeeze into a day, and—in this very moment—how many thousand yuan each of those crystal teardrops dangling above his head must cost.

He did the mental math. The result was so astronomical it made his temples throb. He immediately abandoned the calculation in favor of something far more productive: the roast duck.

This was a skill he'd perfected over a lifetime of survival. Lin Feng was a master strategist, a tactical forager in a world that had never handed him anything for free. His chopsticks moved with the surgical precision of a man who understood that the crispiest pieces of duck skin were a finite resource, and that hesitation was the enemy of satiation. He piled them onto his plate in a glistening, amber-hued mountain, the fat rendering down into a pool of savory goodness that made his mouth water with a fervor usually reserved for religious experiences.

To his left, Zhao Lei—his impossibly wealthy roommate, his savior, his golden ticket to this feast—was narrating an epic saga about their Economics professor, a man whose monotone voice could cure insomnia and whose fashion sense appeared to have been frozen in 1997. Lei gestured wildly with his chopsticks, nearly knocking over a crystal water glass that probably cost more than Lin Feng's entire wardrobe, including the borrowed suit jacket he was currently wearing.

Lin Feng tuned him out. The duck was more interesting. The duck was always more interesting.

This was a dream. A magnificent, improbable, almost-offensively-luxurious dream. Lin Feng, an orphan who had survived on partial scholarships, part-time jobs, and the occasional pity-meal from the university canteen ladies who had taken a shine to his "tragic backstory" and "charming smile," was sitting in the palatial home of the Zhao family. The ancestral Zhao family. The "we-have-a-helper-for-each-helper" Zhao family. The "our-summer-home-is-bigger-than-your-entire-neighborhood" Zhao family.

He was eating food that cost more per bite than his weekly earnings from doing pedicures for the drama club girls and manicures for the overstressed law students. His fingers were still faintly stained with the purple gel polish he'd removed from the dean's daughter earlier that week. She'd tipped him generously and told him he had "magic hands." Lin Feng had smiled and said, "That's what they all say, darling," and pocketed the money without a second thought. Magic hands paid the bills. Magic hands kept him fed. Magic hands were currently holding a pair of ivory chopsticks and committing grand larceny against a plate of braised abalone.

He'd been 'fabagasted,' as he'd later tell Lei. He'd meant to say 'flabbergasted,' but his mouth had been too full of the exquisite appetizers Lei's mother had insisted he try. "Eat, eat, you're skin and bones!" she'd exclaimed, pressing another dumpling into his hand. Lin Feng had been raised by nuns and orphanage matrons who believed in strict portion control and the virtue of restraint. He had no intention of being virtuous tonight. Restraint was for people who could afford to be picky.

The Zhao family, from the stoic patriarch Zhao Weimin to the doting matriarch Chen Lihua, had welcomed him with such unexpected warmth that it made his chest ache in a way he didn't have time to analyze. He was a charity case, a stray Lei had brought home like a wet kitten, and yet they'd treated him like a guest of honor. It was disorienting. It was terrifying. It was also the best free meal he'd ever had, and Lin Feng had never, ever said no to a free meal in his entire life. He wasn't about to start now.

He finished the duck and moved on to the abalone with the focus of a man possessed. Then came the sea cucumber, the scallops, the lobster steamed with ginger and spring onions. Each dish was a revelation, a new frontier of flavor that he catalogued in his mind for future reference. He made mental notes: The scallops were slightly overdone. The lobster was perfection. The abalone could have used more sauce.

And then came the pastries.

Golden, flaky, stuffed with red bean paste and lotus seed and something that tasted suspiciously like custard. Lin Feng's eyes widened. This was the final course, the grand finale, the dessert that would make everything else worthwhile. He had a system for moments like this: one piece for tasting, two for savoring, and a few extra for later—because the future was uncertain, and a man needed contingency rations.

With the practiced subtlety of a career pickpocket, he waited for a lull in the conversation. Lei was now regaling the table with a story about Lin Feng's legendary "mouth incident" during their Economics midterm—how Lin Feng had told the professor, to his face, that his syllabus was "about as exciting as watching paint dry on a rainy Tuesday." The table erupted in laughter. Chen Lihua clutched her pearls. Zhao Weimin's mustache twitched with suppressed amusement.

In the chaos, Lin Feng struck.

His hand slid to the dessert tray with the fluid grace of a magician performing a sleight of hand. His napkin obscured the movement. In one seamless motion, he wrapped three of the most decadent pastries—the ones with the custard, the ones that glistened with a sugar glaze—and deposited the bundle into his suit jacket pocket. The jacket was borrowed, but Lin Feng had standards. He'd chosen the best-fitting one from Lei's closet, a charcoal grey Armani that made him look like he actually belonged in this world of crystal chandeliers and braised abalone.

He adjusted the jacket, smoothed the fabric, and reached for another pastry to eat openly. Just to maintain the illusion of innocence.

That's when he felt it.

A prickle at the back of his neck. A laser-focused beam of attention that was vastly different from the polite, curious glances of the rest of the family. It was the kind of attention that made his skin prickle with awareness, that made his internal alarms blare in warning. He ignored it. He was shameless, yes, but he wasn't rude. He was simply... resourceful. He reached for the mango pudding instead.

The feeling intensified.

It was like being studied under a microscope. No, that wasn't quite right. It was like being a mouse caught in the act of stealing cheese, while a cat watched with cold, predatory amusement. The cat was patient. The cat was amused. The cat was also—and this was the unsettling part—in absolutely no hurry to pounce.

Lin Feng's self-preservation instincts warred with his appetite. The mango pudding was delicious, creamy and sweet with chunks of fresh fruit that burst on his tongue. But the attention was making his scalp tingle. Finally, curiosity—and a healthy dose of indignation—won out over his survival instincts.

He looked up from his pudding, chopsticks still poised in mid-air, his mouth slightly open, and his soul promptly exited his body through his ears.

Jesus H. Christ.

Seated at the far end of the table, positioned slightly apart from the others in a sleek, motorized wheelchair, was the most exquisite being Lin Feng had ever encountered in his twenty-two years of existence. The man looked to be in his late thirties, with a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw that spoke of stubbornness and control, and eyes so dark and deep they seemed to hold entire galaxies within their depths. His hair was jet black, swept back from his face in a style that was both effortless and intentional. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit—not flashy, not ostentatious, but obviously expensive in the way that truly wealthy people wore their clothes. The wheelchair was sleek and modern, all matte black metal and silent motors, but it didn't diminish him. If anything, it added to his aura of untouchable power, like a fallen king who had simply chosen a different throne.

And he was staring directly at Lin Feng.

Not with disgust. Not with simple curiosity. But with an unnerving intensity, as if Lin Feng were a particularly fascinating specimen of a lower life form that had somehow stumbled into his habitat. The man's lips were curved in a faint, enigmatic smile—the kind of smile that suggested he knew something Lin Feng didn't, and was thoroughly enjoying the disparity in their knowledge.

Lin Feng's heart stuttered. His brain, usually so quick with a cutting remark or a shameless retort, short-circuited completely. All coherent thought abandoned him, replaced by a single, overwhelming impression.

Who is that angel in disguise as a human?

The thought was so loud, so all-consuming, that his mouth opened before his brain could intervene. And, in his shock, he said it out loud.

"Who is that angel in disguise as a human?"

The words hung in the air, crystal-clear and utterly damning. They seemed to echo off the vaulted ceiling, bouncing off the crystal chandelier and the antique paintings and the thousand other trappings of old money that surrounded them.

The chatter around the table died instantly. It was like someone had pressed a mute button on the entire room. Every head snapped towards him—the patriarch, the matriarch, Lei's older sister Zhao Meiling, her investment banker husband, a cousin Lin Feng hadn't been properly introduced to, an aunt who had spent the entire dinner eyeing him suspiciously. They all stared at him with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and—in the aunt's case—a faint trace of smug satisfaction, as if she'd been waiting for the charity case to embarrass himself all along.

Lin Feng felt a flush creep up his neck, hot and unwelcome. His cheeks burned. His ears, which he'd always been slightly self-conscious about, felt like they were on fire. But Lin Feng was a professional. He wasn't just shameless; he was a master of recovery, a connoisseur of saving face. He'd survived twenty-two years as an orphan by knowing exactly when to deflect, when to charm, and when to double down on his own audacity.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, taking his sweet time about it. He dabbed at the corners of his lips with the deliberation of a man who had all the time in the world and absolutely zero embarrassment about the situation. Then, with the casual nonchalance of someone who owned the entire house, he waved a dismissive hand.

"Don't mind me," he said, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright. "Just go on eating. The duck is exceptional. Don't let my appreciation of beauty interrupt your digestion."

The matriarch's mouth twitched. It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but Lin Feng caught it. She was suppressing a smile. The patriarch's eyebrows shot up to his receding hairline, and his mustache quivered with what might have been shock or might have been suppressed laughter. Zhao Meiling let out an undignified snort, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Her husband looked like he'd swallowed a frog. The aunt looked absolutely scandalized, which Lin Feng counted as a victory.

The silence was deafening. It stretched on for an eternity, broken only by the soft hum of the wheelchair's motor and the distant crackle of a fireplace in the adjoining room.

Then, from the far end of the table, came a low, rumbling chuckle.

It was a sound that seemed to vibrate through the air, rich and dark and utterly mesmerizing, like expensive chocolate melting on the tongue. It was the kind of laugh that promised secrets and danger and something infinitely more interesting than roast duck.

The man in the wheelchair's smile widened, and his eyes—those impossibly deep eyes—now held a spark of genuine amusement. It was like watching a marble statue come to life, a portrait stepping down from its frame. The cold, analytical assessment was replaced by something warmer, more human. And somehow, that was even more terrifying.

Lin Feng's heart, which had stuttered before, now began to beat a frantic, excited rhythm against his ribs.

Suddenly, Zhao Lei was tugging at his sleeve, his face pale as a ghost's. His fingers were cold, his grip almost desperate. "Feng!" he hissed, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. "What are you doing? Stop it! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Lin Feng shook him off, his eyes still locked on the man at the end of the table. "Don't embrace me, Lei," he whispered back, his voice dreamy and completely unrepentant. "There's an angel to admire. I'm having a religious experience. Don't interrupt my spiritual awakening."

Lei's grip tightened, his fingers digging into Lin Feng's sleeve with painful intensity. "That's my youngest uncle," he whispered frantically, his eyes darting around the table to make sure no one was listening. "Zhao Yichen. He had an accident a few years ago. A car crash. He's been confined to that wheelchair ever since. His behavior is unpredictable, Feng. Unpredictable. Please, for the love of God, don't interact with him. He's dangerous. He's—"

"Handsome?" Lin Feng interrupted, finally tearing his gaze away from the man to look at Lei's terrified face. "Devastatingly attractive? A gift from heaven sent to test my self-control?"

"Dangerous," Lei repeated, his voice cracking with desperation. "I mean it, Feng. He's not like the rest of us. He's... he's different. After the accident, he changed. He doesn't like people. He doesn't like anyone. He doesn't even like family dinners. I don't know why he's here tonight. He usually stays in his wing of the house. I've seen him make grown men weep. I've seen him destroy people with a single word. Please, just—"

Lin Feng looked back at the man. Zhao Yichen was swirling a glass of dark red wine, his eyes never leaving Lin Feng's face. The wine caught the light of the chandelier, gleaming like liquid rubies. His fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a pianist or a surgeon, and they moved with a slow, deliberate grace that was hypnotic to watch. He looked powerful. He looked lonely. And he looked like he needed someone by his side.

Lin Feng had never been good at following warnings. It was a character flaw, he knew. Orphans with survival instincts were supposed to be cautious. They were supposed to read the room, assess the threat, and back away slowly. Lin Feng had read the room. He'd assessed the threat. And he'd decided that the threat was far too beautiful to ignore.

He reached for another pastry, his fingers closing around a flaky golden bun. His eyes never left Zhao Yichen's face.

"I'm going to interact with him," he said calmly, taking a bite of the pastry. The custard exploded on his tongue, sweet and rich and utterly decadent. "I'm going to charm him. I'm going to make him smile at me again. And then I'm going to ask him for his number."

Lei made a sound like a dying whale. His face cycled through several shades of horror before settling on a pale, sickly green. "You can't. He doesn't—he's not—Feng, he's not like you. He's not like—"

"I'm not like anyone," Lin Feng said cheerfully, dusting the pastry crumbs from his fingers. "I'm a unique treasure. A priceless gem. An angel in my own right, really. And I'm about to have a conversation with the man who looks at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen in years. Watch me work."

Lei rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw the back of his own skull. But Lin Feng wasn't paying attention. He was already planning his next move. He was already cataloguing the information Lei had given him: youngest uncle. Wheelchair. Accident. Changed. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

None of that was a deterrent. If anything, it only made the man more intriguing. Lin Feng had never been attracted to easy. Easy was boring. Easy was the drama club girls who swooned when he did their nails, the law students who blushed when he winked at them. Easy was predictable. Easy was safe.

Zhao Yichen was not safe.

Lin Feng could feel it in the air between them, an electric tension that made the hair on his arms stand on end. He could see it in those dark, dark eyes, in the way the man held himself in that chair with the posture of a warrior who had simply changed his battlefield. He could hear it in the low, rumbling chuckle that still echoed in his ears like a promise.

This Christmas was going to be very, very interesting.

Lin Feng smiled. It was his shameless smile, the one that had gotten him free meals and extra tips and more second chances than he deserved. The one that said, I know I'm a disaster, and I don't care. In fact, I'm going to make it your problem.

He picked up his wine glass—a delicate crystal flute filled with something pale and bubbly—and raised it in a toast toward the far end of the table.

"To angels," he said, his voice carrying across the stunned silence of the room. "And to the most interesting Christmas I've ever had."

Zhao Yichen's eyes glittered. His smile widened. And slowly, deliberately, he raised his own glass in return.

The mouse had just invited the cat to play.

And the cat, it seemed, was very, very interested.

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Author's Note (Continued)

And there you have it! Chapter 1 of The Audacity of Appetite is officially launched into the world. I hope you're all as obsessed with Lin Feng and his complete lack of self-preservation instincts as I am. Writing this chapter was an absolute joy, and I can't wait to dive deeper into this world and these characters.

A few behind-the-scenes thoughts:

· Lin Feng's voice is one of the most fun things I've ever written. He's unapologetic, he's hungry (in more ways than one), and he has absolutely zero filter. His internal monologue is chaos, and I love him for it.

· Zhao Yichen is going to be a challenge to write. He's complex, damaged, and utterly magnetic. I have BIG plans for him, but you'll have to wait and see.

· The Zhao family dynamics are going to be explored more in future chapters. Trust me, there's a LOT going on beneath the surface.

This story will explore themes of class, trauma, found family, and of course, the complicated journey of two people from very different worlds learning to see each other. There will be humor. There will be angst. There will be so much food that you'll need to have a snack handy while reading.

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Jc Snow