Between The Lines
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised]
Zhan stepped out of the terminal, arms wide like he was greeting an old lover.
“Singapore, baby! This city looks like it charges for oxygen. I love it.”
Yibo didn’t say a word.
He just blinked once—slow, unimpressed—and kept walking.
Zhan, unbothered as ever, dragged his suitcase with one hand while waving to a stranger with the other.
“I like it. It suits me,” he said cheerfully.
Yibo didn’t even glance at him. “Could you not talk for five minutes?”
“No promises, Mr. Wang,” Zhan chirped.
By the time they got into the car that had been arranged by Mr. Qiao,
Zhan had already managed to charm the driver with two wildly dramatic stories that may or may not have been true—and now the man was laughing like they were old friends.
Yibo sat in silence, trying very hard not to show how much this man was getting on his nerves.
And even harder not to show how something about Zhan—loud, ridiculous, impossible—was starting to feel dangerously familiar.
But once they reached the regional office and started going through the logistics of the factory conflict, Zhan shifted.
Instantly. Professionally. Brilliantly.
Yibo watched as Zhan navigated the local boardroom with sharp words and smoother charm.
He restructured the contract discussion like he’d been doing it for years, poked holes in the opposition’s argument and pitched an alternate plan that got immediate approval.
Yibo has to admit—again—he is good.
Too good.
After the meeting, the driver took them to the hotel.
Two separate suites had been booked, and they slipped into their rooms without another word—worn out from the long journey.
Sometime later, as Zhan stepped out of his suite wearing a loose black t-shirt and faded jeans.
He caught sight of Yibo standing by the common balcony just at the end of the hallway.
The city lights cast a silver glow against his frame.
It was the first time Zhan saw him out of a suit.
A plain white full-sleeve T-shirt, loose charcoal joggers.
And hair slightly damp from the shower.
Zhan stopped. For a moment, he just stared.
Yibo looked… real. Beautiful.
Not like the icy, unreachable man he presented to the world.
Not like the heir to an empire.
Just… human.
Zhan felt something twist in his chest.
He quickly looked away and whispered to himself, “No. Focus!”
He approached Yibo casually.
“Mr. Wang, you’re really going to stand here and admire the skyline alone? Come on, let’s go for a walk. The city won’t wait forever.”
“I have emails to answer,” Yibo said flatly.
“You always have emails. Come be a real person for ten minutes.”
Despite his reluctance, Yibo ended up walking beside Zhan through the narrow street lined with lanterns and the soft hum of city nightlife.
Neither of them said it out loud, but maybe—just maybe—they both wanted this walk more than they’d admit.
Zhan glanced at him sideways.
“Do you ever take a break from being serious, or is this just your natural state?”
Yibo gave him a look. “Is that a serious question?”
“What’s your favourite color?”
No answer.
Zhan chuckled. “You don’t make it easy, Mr. Wang. But I think I like the challenge.”
Yibo kept walking, completely unbothered.
“Okay,” Zhan said, undeterred.
“Dogs or cats?”
“Neither.”
“You’re impossible, Mr. Wang.”
“And you don’t know when to quit,” Yibo replied, his tone flat but final.
Zhan grinned, enjoying himself far more than Yibo thought he should.
They turned a corner and the street became quieter, less crowded—washed in dim yellow lights and framed by the flicker of old signs.
It felt more secluded, a soft hush falling over their steps.
Ahead, tucked beneath a striped awning, was a tiny ice cream shop glowing like a childhood memory.
Zhan stopped at the storefront, eyes lighting up like a kid.
“You want one? They’ve got Sea salt caramel and Butterscotch—pretty solid choices.”
Yibo shook his head. “No.”
Zhan shrugged. “Ok, more for me.”
He walked into the shop and returned a minute later with a cone of his favorite—Sea salt caramel, already starting to melt a little at the edges.
Yibo kept walking, steps steady, hands in his pockets.
And thoughts came quietly and uninvited.
It should’ve been annoying.
Zhan should’ve driven him insane by now.
But instead… Yibo found himself listening.
Not out of obligation, but because some part of him wanted to.
And that scared him more than he’d admit—even to himself.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Zhan is a few steps behind, licking his ice cream, humming something tuneless, smiling to himself.
Yibo didn’t know why—but seeing that made him feel… Lighter.
And that’s when it happened.
Out of nowhere—a shout.
A sharp sound.
A blur of movement.
The peace shattered like glass.
Two men emerged from the shadows, fast and wild-eyed—one with a blade, the other clearly after a quick robbery.
It all happened in a blink.
A desperate grab, a flash of intent.
Yibo turned just as two men lunged from the alley.
He barely registered the flash of a blade before one of them swiped at him.
He dodged, mostly, but not fast enough.
The pain hit him seconds later—his hand, sliced.
His lip, cut from the blow.
But before he can fully react, Zhan is already there.
He tossed the ice cream cone aside without a second thought and sprinted toward Yibo.
Fast. Dangerous.
His expression shifted in an instant—the lightness gone, replaced with something sharp, fierce.
He tackled one of the attackers to the ground, twisted the knife out of his grip and slammed him against the wall hard enough to leave a mark, he fell unconscious.
The second guy bolted.
Zhan didn’t chase.
He turned back to Yibo, breathing hard.
He rushed to his side and immediately pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, tying it tightly around Yibo’s forearm to stop the bleeding.
His hands moved fast, but carefully.
“Yibo,” he breathed, voice shaking.
“God… are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
His eyes darted from the gash on Yibo’s forearm to the blood tracing his lip.
The softness in his voice, the panic just under the surface—it isn’t just concern.
It is something deeper.
The care in his voice made Yibo freeze.
Zhan’s brows were furrowed, his expression unreadable but intense.
Yibo felt a strange twist in his chest, startled more by the way Zhan said his name than the pain throbbing in his arm.
Yibo nodded once, jaw tight, blood trickling down his lip.
“I’m alright,”
He said quietly—though his voice was low, still shaken.
He isn’t reacting to the pain as much as he is to the way Zhan has looked at him.
That concern. That urgency.
The sound of his name from Zhan’s mouth.
It only tangled the confusion already brewing inside him—and made whatever he is feeling even harder to ignore.
Zhan grabbed his arm.
“Come on. Let’s go back—it’s not safe here, and it’s getting dark.”
As they walk back to the hotel, Zhan’s mind races.
It isn’t just adrenaline.
It isn’t just duty.
Yibo is the one bleeding, but Zhan feels the pain like it’s his own.
With every step, he keeps glancing over, jaw clenched tighter than he realizes.
He has no idea when it started feeling this personal.
Minutes later, they’re in the hotel room.
Zhan drops a small first-aid kit on the table, opens it quickly, and kneels in front of Yibo.
He reached for Yibo’s forearm, then paused, noticing the long sleeve of his white T-shirt.
“You’re going to have to take this off, Mr. Wang” Zhan said, nodding at the T-shirt.
Yibo hesitated, eyebrows twitching with discomfort.
“It’s fine. Just treat it through the sleeve.”
Zhan tilted his head.
“Sure. I’ll just call the lady from the hotel’s medical team. I’m sure you’ll love taking off your T-shirt in front of her.”
Yibo gave him a deadpan look, then sighed.
He tried to pull the sleeve off himself, wincing slightly, struggling with one hand.
“Here,” Zhan said quietly, scooting closer.
He gently helped Yibo out of the T-shirt.
Movements slow, careful not to hurt him further.
As the fabric slipped away, Zhan’s eyes caught on it.
Yibo’s lean, muscular frame.
Subtle lines and sculpted strength always hidden beneath layers of suits.
Zhan stared for a heartbeat too long before pulling his thoughts back under control.
Because he couldn’t afford distractions.
Yibo, meanwhile, shifted uncomfortably.
Sitting shirtless in front of someone for the first time in years.
He isn’t used to being this exposed—not physically, not emotionally.
Zhan worked without speaking.
Cleaned the cut on Yibo’s hand, bandaged it gently.
Yibo watched him in silence.
His eyes following every movement.
There is a strange calm that settles around Zhan when he focuses—precise, steady, almost too gentle for someone so loud outside these moments.
And for reasons he can’t explain, Yibo felt… safe.
He isn’t used to that.
But sitting there, quietly watching Zhan care for him, made something in his guarded chest loosen a little.
Zhan reaches for a cotton swab, dips it in antiseptic, and leans in.
“This might sting a little, Mr. Wang,” he said quietly.
“Please, hold still.”
He wipes the blood from Yibo’s lip slowly, carefully.
The air between them thickens.
Neither of them moved.
Zhan’s face is close. Too close.
Yibo’s breath hitches—just once.
But he doesn’t pull away.
That unspoken thing between them tightens like a wire.
Yibo’s gaze flickers—downward, lingering on Zhan’s lips.
And when Zhan looks back, he doesn’t look away.
The cotton swab halts mid-air—forgotten, as breath mingles with silence.
It isn’t about the injury anymore.
Neither spoke.
It is like something unseen is pulling them closer—magnetic, reckless, silent.
And then, just as suddenly, Zhan blinked, pulled back quickly and tossed the swab aside.
His eyes searched for an escape—floor, window, ceiling—anything but Yibo’s face.
“You’re fine, Mr. Wang. Just a scratch,” he said lightly.
Though the shift in his voice—low, taut—betrayed the tension still lingering in the air.
Yibo blinked, as if coming back to his senses.
His gaze dropped for a moment, a subtle tension in his posture.
He hadn’t even realized what he was doing a moment ago—what they were doing.
Zhan cleared his throat quietly and stood.
“I’ll get you a shirt,” he said, walking over to Yibo’s suitcase.
He pulled out a soft grey button-down shirt and brought it over.
“Here. Arms up.”
Yibo hesitated for a second but complied, still feeling the weight of that strange tension lingering in the room.
Zhan helped him slip into the shirt.
His fingers brushing lightly against Yibo’s skin as he buttoned it up one by one.
Each button brought them face to face again—close, too close.
Another breathless silence.
And just like before, they pulled away without a word.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
Zhan stepped back and smoothed the front of the shirt one last time before turning away.
“I’ll order something to eat in my room,” he said, heading toward the door.
“You should do the same, Mr. Wang.”
He paused at the doorway.
“Goodnight.”
Yibo just nodded, not trusting his voice.
And just like that, Zhan was gone—leaving the room quiet, heavy with something neither of them wanted to admit.
Zhan walked down the hallway, jaw tight.
“Whatever this is… it is dangerous.”
That night, sometime after midnight, Zhan’s phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
He was already awake. Waiting.
He checked the screen, then answered.
“Wait there. I’m coming,”
He said flatly, his voice low, cold.
His expression darkened as he hung up.
Quietly, he stepped out into the hallway and paused by Yibo’s door.
For a second, he just looked—no sound, no movement—just confirming that all is still.
Then he made his way down to the parking lot, where two men are waiting beside a black car.
As soon as Zhan approached, he didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed one of them by the collar and slapped him hard across the face.
Before the man could recover, Zhan slammed him against the hood of the car, gripping his throat.
His voice was ice. “How dare you make him bleed?”
The man choked out, “Zhan—I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to go that far. The blade—he moved too fast—it was an accident.”
Zhan’s grip didn’t loosen.
“You don’t get to hurt him. Not even by accident.”
His hand stayed clenched around the man’s collar, knuckles white.
His voice cut through the stillness.
“The deal was just to scare him. No harm. No blood.”
The second man stepped forward quickly.
“It was a mistake. We didn’t mean to hurt him—it just happened, we swear.”
Zhan loosened his grip slowly, letting the first man slide down from the hood, gasping.
Zhan’s eyes were cold, sharp.
“If either of you touches him again, I swear—I’ll use my gun. And you both know I won’t hesitate.”
They said nothing.
“Now get the hell out of my sight.”
The two men scrambled into the car and drove off without a word.
Zhan stood there alone for a moment, jaw tight, fists clenched.
Then his phone buzzed again.
A message.
Don’t be reckless. Not now. Meet tomorrow. 10:00 AM. Clarke Quay, Pier C.
Zhan stared at the message for a long second, feeling the eyes of something—or someone—always watching.
He typed back a single word:
Understood.
And turned to walk back inside.
The next day, Zhan knocked once on Yibo’s suite door before stepping in briefly.
Yibo was mid-call, speaking with the regional heads, his voice cool and controlled.
Zhan gestured lightly toward the bandaged forearm.
“How’s the arm, Mr. Wang?”
Yibo gave him a quick nod and mouthed, “Fine.”
Zhan didn’t press.
“I have to step out for a bit. Just need some air. I’ll check in soon.”
He left the room without waiting for permission.
An hour later, Zhan arrived at a quiet tea house at Clarke Quay.
A woman waited at the table—graceful, composed, eyes sharp as ever.
He took the seat across from her, silent but watchful.
Tension etched into every line of his face.
“You weren’t supposed to let them get that close,” she said softly.
“I didn’t. I gave specific orders. Scare him, nothing more,” Zhan replied, his jaw tight.
“But he was hurt. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Zhan looked away, jaw clenched.
She leaned in slightly, voice sharper now.
“Do you even realize what could’ve happened if things had gone worse last night? One wrong move, and the entire plan could’ve collapsed. Do you understand the kind of fallout you’d be facing from Wang Corps? They would’ve come down on you like fire—and you wouldn’t walk away untouched.”
“And your response last night? It wasn’t calculated. It was emotional.”
“You’re getting too involved…,” she continued, her tone sharpening.
“And I don’t have to remind you how to keep your emotions separate from your mission. I didn’t prepare you to be like this, Xian. This isn’t what we agreed to.”
Zhan didn’t respond.
She sipped her tea and watched him quietly.
“Why does he matter so much to you now? You were supposed to stay in control. Don’t forget—he’s a weapon. We don’t get emotionally attached to the blade we’re sharpening for destruction.”
Still no answer.
He stared down at the untouched cup in front of him.
Knuckles pressing against the edge of the table.
The woman’s voice dropped even lower.
“You’re slipping. I can see it in your face.”
Zhan met her eyes at last.
But said nothing.
The silence between them said more than words ever could. Finally, she said.
“He’s not ready yet. But you’re running out of time.”
Zhan looked down at the cup between his hands.
His fingers tightened around the porcelain.
“Then I’ll make sure he is,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
The woman tilted her head.
“Even if it means breaking him first?”
Zhan’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t answer.
She stood to leave, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Be careful, Xian. You’re not the only one watching him.”
Zhan sat there long after she was gone.
The untouched tea cooling beside him.
Something in his eyes had shifted.
It isn’t just doubt—it is a tangle of confusion, frustration and something dangerously close to guilt.
He has a misson… a plan. A clear path.
But somehow, every time Yibo is near, that path blurred.
And it is getting harder and harder to silence his own mind.
Zhan exhaled slowly.
And in that moment—made a decision.
Whatever is brewing in his mind for Yibo… it has to end.
He will finish what he comes here to do.
No distractions.
No weakness.
He returned to the hotel just after noon.
As he stepped into the hallway, Yibo was waiting by the lounge area outside their rooms.
“Mr. Qiao booked our return tickets,” Yibo said.
“The factory’s sorted. We’re flying back tonight.”
Zhan just nodded. “Alright, Mr. Wang.”
That was it.
No more questions.
No commentary.
Nothing else.
Zhan turned and walked into his suite, leaving Yibo standing there slightly puzzled.
He had expected a flood of thoughts, chatter, something—Zhan was never this quiet.
The ride to the airport was quiet. So was the flight.
Yibo didn’t say anything, but the silence felt heavier than it should have.
Like something had been pulled away.
When they landed, Zhan pulled his suitcase from the belt and gave Yibo a polite nod.
“Mr. Wang,” he said.
“I’ll see you in office tomorrow.”
Yibo barely had time to respond before Zhan turned and walked off.
He booked a taxi and disappeared into the city.
Yibo stood there, watching him go.
For a man who always claimed to enjoy silence, he hated this kind—the kind that came from Zhan walking away.
Why does it bother him so much now?
Why does Zhan’s silence feel louder than all his chatter ever did?
Back in his small apartment, Zhan stood in the doorway for a while before stepping in.
The silence welcomed him back like an old friend.
Tossed his keys on the counter.
He moved in slow, heavy steps and dropped onto the couch.
Head tilted back, eyes closed.
The room was quiet—too quiet.
But silence never stopped his thoughts.
It only made them louder.
Whatever exists between him and Yibo—it is a liability.
And he knows exactly what feelings cost.
So he’ll bury them.
Bury Yibo.
And bury himself with it—if that’s what it takes.
From now on, it should stay buried.
No matter what it costs.
But a part of him already knew—
Some things don’t stay buried. Not when they never truly left!
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 