The Breaking Point
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes, NSFW mature/adult content, explicit scenes (18+ only). Reader discretion is advised.]
Back at the office, Zhan gave Yibo a brief nod, all professional.
He offered a casual smile, like nothing happened in Singapore—like he hadn’t stood too close, felt too much or watched Yibo under those dim lights with a heart he kept trying to silence and lost sleep trying to forget.
As if he hadn’t spent night after night reminding himself that feelings had no place in the mission.
And if there was tension in the air, Zhan pretended not to notice it.
But Yibo did.
He noticed—the way Zhan’s gaze lingered a little less, the way his smiles felt rehearsed, and how that invisible thread between them had started to fray at the edges.
He never mentioned it.
Never asked.
But the silence between them grew louder with every passing day.
“Morning, Mr. Wang,” Zhan said, holding a clipboard.
“You’ve got three meetings today, two back-to-backs, and a lovely spreadsheet nightmare by noon. I suggest coffee. Lots of it.”
Yibo didn’t even look up from his screen. “Noted.”
Zhan smiled like it didn’t sting.
He’d trained himself to act like normal.
To suppress everything that threatened to distract him from his plan.
Zhan quietly continued with his own plans.
He’d already started laying the groundwork, subtly nudging Yibo toward doubts, feeding his frustrations, turning his silence into suspicion.
If Yibo had started to pull away, Zhan would be the one to guide that distance—subtly steering it toward doubt, toward resentment, until Yibo’s loyalty began to shift away from his father and closer to the truth Zhan wanted him to see.
Little by little, Zhan began to plant seeds.
“Mr. Wang, why doesn’t the Chairman ever run his plans by you first?” he’d ask innocently during coffee breaks.
“Strange, isn’t it? Someone else pulling strings in a company you’re supposed to inherit.”
Nothing direct. Nothing obvious.
But enough to spark thought.
Enough to leave an echo in Yibo’s mind.
And meanwhile, Zhan was slowly pulling away from Yibo.
Not just physically—but emotionally, too.
He thought that keeping his distance might make things easier between them.
Might quiet the storm of wanting something he was never allowed to reach.
If he could just stay neutral, stay professional—maybe the lines wouldn’t blur so painfully.
Maybe he’d stop feeling so much.
And maybe—just maybe—Yibo would too.
He started making excuses not to work from inside Yibo’s cabin.
“The desktop’s glitching again,” he said one morning.
“It’s like a haunted relic from 2005. I’ll set up out here till IT fixes it.”
He switched to a cubicle outside, away from that shared air, that stolen closeness.
He used to stay late nights at the office with Yibo.
Now he finished by 6 p.m., citing personal tasks or offering to log in from home if something is urgent.
It isn’t distance.
It is survival.
But Yibo noticed every excuse, every subtle shift—the way Zhan kept finding reasons to stay away, to avoid their usual closeness.
And it hurt.
More than he cared to admit.
Some nights, he couldn’t sleep—replaying every word, every look, wondering what had changed, and why Zhan wouldn’t just say it out loud.
Yibo just got quieter. Colder.
One day, Yibo walked past Zhan chatting casually with a woman from marketing team, laughter in the air—Zhan smiling in a way he hadn’t smiled at him in weeks—and something inside him snapped.
It wasn’t just the laughter. It was the ease.
The way Zhan leaned in slightly, eyes warm and unbothered, like Yibo’s absence had never mattered.
That moment didn’t just sting.
It broke something.
But as Yibo turned and walked away, Zhan did notice.
He watched Yibo’s back retreat down the hallway, and something in his chest clenched too.
It hurt more than he let on.
But this… this distance is necessary.
If seeing him laugh with someone else made Yibo start pulling away, then maybe it would make things easier.
Maybe it would protect them both from a fall neither of them could survive.
Even if it tore Zhan apart, too.
————————————————————————
That evening, Yibo left office early.
Zhan noticed him leaving.
But Yibo didn’t even glance toward the cubicle where he sat.
Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look back.
Just walked out, like Zhan had become invisible.
And didn’t inform him where he is going.
The next day, Zhan found out from Mr. Qiao that Yibo had flown to Shanghai for an urgent two-day business trip.
Mr. Qiao adjusted his glasses, looking at Zhan curiously.
“Strange you didn’t know. I thought he informed you about everything these days.”
Zhan said nothing.
But it hit him harder than he expected.
The entire day, he drifted through work like a ghost—answering emails, reviewing documents, sipping cold coffee he forgot he made.
All just to get through the hours.
Because somewhere deep down, Yibo’s absence still affected him.
And that realization stung more than he cared to admit.
————————————————————————-
He came home, as usual, changed out of his work clothes, and powered up his laptop.
He opened the hidden folder, attached the day’s surveillance logs, and sent the encrypted email to the same anonymous ID.
Just as he closed the lid, his phone buzzed.
For a moment, Zhan’s heart skipped—thinking, hoping it might be Yibo.
A flicker of happiness sparked in his chest before he even realized it.
But then he saw the number on the screen.
It is her.
He answered without a word.
“How did you miss this?” Her voice was low, but pointed.
“You didn’t know he is in Shanghai. That’s not like you.”
Zhan gritted his teeth. “I’ve been careful. He left without informing anyone.”
“Not anyone. He just didn’t inform you. Don’t get comfortable, Xian. You’re here for a reason—not for feelings.”
He said nothing.
“There won’t be second chances,” she warned.
“Be vigilant. Stick to the plan. And don’t let this get personal.”
Zhan hung up, slowly lowering the phone onto the table.
He poured himself a drink.
And didn’t sleep that night.
—————————————————————————
When Yibo returned, it was just in time for a chaos to unfold.
A quotation error in a major tender submission had cost the company a critical deal.
The loss was public. Embarrassing.
And the blame fell squarely on Zhan.
He stood in Wang Zheng’s office, head bowed, as the older man tore into him.
“Do you even understand how costly this mistake is? This wasn’t a typo—it was sabotage-level incompetence!”
Zhan didn’t flinch.
He said all the right things: that it was his fault, that he’d take responsibility, that he would resign if needed.
As the Chairman continued his scolding, Mr. Qiao was also present, standing beside Zhan.
He glanced at his phone, typed a quick message to Yibo, and then looked back up calmly.
Moments later, Yibo walked in—his eyes scanning the room, not yet knowing what awaited.
His gaze landed on the tense scene and his father’s sharp expression.
The moment Wang Zheng mentioned the tender error, something in Yibo’s face shifted—surprise, disbelief.
He had reviewed that file himself. Twice.
He had approved it.
And he knew Zhan—whatever else he is, he isn’t careless.
Still, Yibo said none of that out loud.
Not yet.
He stepped forward with calm authority and everything cracked.
“That’s enough,” Yibo said sharply, stepping between them.
“I reviewed that file myself before it was submitted. If there was a discrepancy, it’s on both of us—not just him. Mr. Zhan only acted on the last set of instructions I gave him.”
Mr. Qiao blinked in mild disbelief.
“Mr. Yibo… are you suggesting that you made a mistake? That seems nearly impossible.”
Wang Zheng narrowed his eyes.
“Or are you taking responsibility for his error? Risking your credibility to protect him—for what, exactly?”
“I’m stating facts, Dad.”
Wang Zheng’s expression darkened.
“Nobody asked for your facts.”
Yibo’s patience snapped.
His voice was lower, but razor-sharp.
“Yes, I know. Nobody asks me anything. I’m just here to clean up the mess. The mess I didn’t create. I’m just another employee—your heir-in-training, a perfect little machine programmed to inherit your empire. Not your son.”
For a beat, no one spoke.
Even with his head bowed, Zhan could feel the tension crackling through the room.
And somewhere deep inside, he smiled.
The venom he’d injected into Yibo was starting to work.
Wang Zheng said nothing more.
Yibo turned toward him again, his voice calm but firm.
“Mr. Chairman, going forward—if my Personal Assistant causes any trouble or inconvenience, I would appreciate it if you’d inform me directly first, rather than questioning him in my absence. I believe that’s a fair request with regard to team structure and responsibility.”
Yibo turned to leave, but before stepping out, he glanced over his shoulder at Zhan.
“Come with me.” he said quietly.
Zhan nodded once and followed him.
Behind them, the Chairman stared at the door, fuming.
And just outside the hallway, Zhan let his head drop slightly.
But as he followed Yibo down the corridor, he lifted his gaze.
Yibo is walking a few steps ahead, silent, composed.
Zhan’s eyes drifted back toward the Chairman’s office.
One glance.
Then he turned forward again—his lips curving into a vicious smile.
No remorse. No regret.
Just satisfaction.
He had driven the first wedge.
And it had gone exactly as planned.
A flash of memory surfaced—Zhan late in the office a few nights ago, hovering over the final tender file.
One swift edit. A few digits altered.
Just enough to raise flags without setting off alarms.
He knew Yibo would check it.
He also knew Yibo trusted him enough to skim past it.
Everything that followed was inevitable.
The rift between father and son had officially begun.
Zhan caught up with Yibo near the elevators.
“Mr. Wang,” he started, “about the quotation issue—”
Yibo didn’t even look at him. “We’re done here—with this matter.”
He didn’t wait for the elevator.
He took the stairs.
Zhan stood there a moment, watching the stairwell door swing shut.
Even though everything had gone exactly as he planned… something didn’t feel like a win.
Yibo had looked genuinely hurt.
He had taken the fall, defended Zhan in front of everyone—even his father.
And that small part of Zhan—the one he kept buried—twisted painfully.
Maybe this was how it felt to win… and lose at the same time.
————————————————————————
Back in his cabin, Yibo walked in without a word.
He tossed his blazer over the chair with more force than necessary, the silence ringing louder than any outburst.
He sat down briefly, unfastening his cufflinks with mechanical focus, then folded his sleeves up to his forearms.
The tension in his jaw said more than any words.
He walked to the window, staring out at the skyline, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to quiet the storm inside him.
Anger burned in his chest, frustration twisted in his gut—and somewhere beneath it all, a quiet sadness lingered.
Everything with his father felt like a war he never asked for.
And with Zhan… it felt like he is losing something he never fully had.
He doesn’t know which hurt more.
A few minutes passed.
Then he walked over to his desk phone and pressed a button.
“Tell the driver to bring the car around.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
He ended the call.
And moments later, Zhan looked up from his cubicle just in time to see Yibo passing by—leaving without a glance, without a word.
But in that split second, Zhan could see it—Yibo’s stormy expression.
And somewhere deep down, Zhan knew he was the reason.
He felt it in the pit of his stomach—the guilt, the ache.
He hadn’t meant to push him this far.
But maybe… this distance is what he wanted.
Even if it hurt just as much.
————————————————————–
Later that evening, Zhan casually struck up a conversation with Yibo’s driver, using his usual charm to coax out the details.
The driver hesitated at first, but eventually said Yibo had gone to their penthouse nearby—the one he only visited when he needed quiet, when the world became too loud.
Zhan was about to leave for the day, packing up the last of his things, when Mr. Qiao met him in the office.
“Mr. Zhan,” he said, “The Chairman wants dinner to be delivered to the penthouse. And he asked specifically for you to take it.”
Zhan didn’t respond right away.
Mr. Qiao paused, reading his silence. “That boy’s always followed his father. Today was the first time he stood against him—and it was for you.”
Zhan’s eyes flickered.
“So the least you can do,” Mr. Qiao continued gently, “is make sure he eats. And don’t get on Mr. Zheng’s bad side. That’s a war you won’t want.”
Zhan nodded slightly.
The driver was already waiting by the car.
On the way, Zhan stopped by a quiet restaurant and picked up Yibo’s favorite dinner.
Soon after, he stood at the door of the penthouse.
He paused there, hesitation tightening in his chest.
For a moment, he almost turned away.
Then, swallowing the weight in his throat, he reached up—and rang the doorbell.
It took a while, but the door opened.
Yibo stood there, barefoot, hair slightly messy, a glass of something in his hand.
He looked tired.
And surprised.
And very, very done.
He clearly hadn’t expected Zhan to show up at all—and for a second, that surprise flickered across his face before he quickly masked it.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Zhan?” he asked, voice low.
Zhan held up the food, his voice quieter than usual.
“Chairman Wang wanted you to have dinner. He made it clear I should be the one to bring it to you.”
Yibo didn’t answer.
Just walked back inside, leaving the door open.
Zhan stepped in.
The lights were dim, casting a soft amber glow across the sleek wooden flooring, most of which was covered in an expensive, plush carpet that softened every step and shimmered faintly in the low light.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the open-plan penthouse, their curtains drawn wide open, offering a breathtaking view of the city—skyscrapers glittering like a field of stars, stretching endlessly into the night.
The interior was all clean lines and muted luxury—dark marble counters, minimalist furnishings in charcoal and cream, a grand piano by the far wall untouched but imposing.
A decanter sat half-full on a crystal tray beside the couch, glinting under the low lights.
Everything was pristine, quiet and impossibly expensive.
But despite its grandeur, the space felt lonely.
Like it was built for solitude.
The city view poured through the glass like a silent storm.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” Yibo muttered, pouring another drink.
“You could’ve said no,” he added, glancing over.
“Could’ve made an excuse. Dodged it. You’re good at that.”
Zhan exhaled slowly, setting the food down on the counter.
“Maybe I didn’t want to.”
And that simple reply—casual, almost gentle—struck something raw inside Yibo.
Like pressing on a bruise he’d been pretending wasn’t there.
Yibo turned sharply, voice tight. “Why do you keep acting like we’re okay? Like you didn’t shut me out piece by piece, like I am something you had to avoid.”
Zhan blinked. “I never said—”
“But you did,” Yibo snapped.
“With every excuse, every time you avoided me, every damn time you smiled at someone else like they were worth your attention.”
Zhan stepped closer. “It’s not like that, Mr. Wang.”
“Then what is it like?!” Yibo shouted, glass slamming on the counter.
“Because I feel like I’m losing my mind here. You’re all I think about. Even when I don’t want to and you pretend none of it is real.”
Zhan’s voice came quieter. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying Zhan. And you know it too!”
There was silence.
Zhan looked at him for a long, heavy moment.
Then quietly, he said, “You’re just confused, Mr. Wang. Don’t mistake impulse for emotion.”
Yibo let out a short, bitter laugh. “Impulse?”
He stepped closer. “You think this is some fleeting reaction? You think I made everything up in my head while you stood and act like none of it ever mattered?”
He shook his head slowly, the frustration simmering just below his voice.
“You can lie to yourself, Zhan. But don’t stand here and try to rewrite what we both know is real.”
He took another step forward—deliberate, intense.
“Say it! Say there’s nothing between us. But don’t lie to me.”
Zhan looked down, jaw tense.
“You’re misreading this. Whatever you think this is… it’s not. You’re just tired. Emotional. It’ll pass.”
That line from Zhan cracked something wide open.
It was like flipping a switch.
Yibo didn’t speak— but his eyes flashed with something fierce – hurt, anger, frustration, everything he’d been holding back.
In one sharp motion, he grabbed Zhan by the front of his shirt and pushed him back against the wall.
Not with affection—but frustration.
Zhan gasped, stunned—not from pain, but from sheer surprise.
He hadn’t expected this—not from Yibo.
Not this intensity.
And yet… he didn’t resist.
“Stop pretending,” Yibo hissed, face inches from his.
“You keep saying it’s nothing, but it’s written all over your face when every time you look at me.”
They are too close now.
Breathing the same air.
Just like that night in the hotel room.
Their eyes met.
Yibo’s gaze dropped to Zhan’s lips.
But this time, he didn’t want to pull back or deny it.
Yibo hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then, slowly—deliberately—he brushed his lips against Zhan’s.
Zhan froze—like his breath had caught fire in his throat.
Like time itself had cracked open and left him stranded in a moment he never saw coming.
Yibo pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—then leaned in again, kissing him like he didn’t know how to stop anymore.
And Zhan… kissed him back.
Like Yibo’s touch had lit something inside him that he could no longer contain.
Hungry. Wild.
But even in the heat of it, something inside Zhan screamed.
This is the exact thing he couldn’t afford to do.
Everything in him was screaming to stop…and everything else wanted more.
His hands moved to Yibo’s chest, pushing gently.
“Mr. Wa—” he started, then faltered.
His voice softened. “Yibo, we can’t…”
Yibo didn’t let go.
He looked at him—intense, unwavering.
“Then stop me…”
Zhan’s breath caught.
His hands stayed right where they were—pushing lightly against Yibo’s chest.
Trying but failing—to stop this.
It isn’t unwillingness.
It is restraint—barely holding on, already crumbling.
“This isn’t right,” he said, barely audible.
His voice cracked slightly as he added,
“Please… stop, Yibo. We can’t do this.”
Yibo froze.
His eyes searched Zhan’s face—really looked.
And in that moment, he saw it: the hesitation, the restraint.
Not rejection, but something that made him stop.
So he did.
He let go, stepping back like the fire between them had finally burned too hot to bear.
The distance between them widened—sudden, painful.
They were both breathless—heaving, hearts racing from kisses that had nearly broken them.
Without a word, Yibo turned around, walked to the bar, and poured himself another drink.
His back was to Zhan.
“You should go.” His voice was low. Flat.
Eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.
Zhan stood frozen.
This was what he wanted, right? For it to stop.
But as Yibo backed away, something inside him cracked.
A quiet ache crawled into his chest—It felt… wrong.
He smoothed down his shirt, trying to calm the tremble in his hands, steadied his breath and grabbed his bag.
Walked slowly toward the door.
His hand hovered over the handle for a moment.
Then he turned around—just once—to look at Yibo.
But Yibo didn’t turn.
Didn’t glance his way.
Just stood there with his back to him, fingers tight around the glass.
Zhan left.
The door clicked softly behind him.
Yibo stood in the silence, gripping that glass like a lifeline.
And then—one tear slid down his cheek—silent, but shattering.
He wiped it away fast. Too fast.
But moments later, he heard the door click again.
Yibo turned, expecting nothing.
But there he is.
Zhan.
Standing in the doorway, eyes locked on him.
His expression unreadable—but intense. Serious. Fierce.
But Yibo… he looked at him.
Eyes heavy with unshed tears, lips parted slightly—like he couldn’t believe Zhan had come back.
Like maybe—just maybe—his feelings are not some lonely illusion after all.
There was sadness in that look.
But there was something else too.
Hope.
And Zhan saw it all in an instant.
And that was all it took.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t hesitate.
He stepped inside, dropped his bag with a heavy thud—and in the next breath, he crossed the room, grabbed Yibo by the front of his shirt — and kissed him.
Desperately.
Like he needed it to breathe.
Like walking away had ripped something vital from inside him.
When they finally pulled apart, Zhan gently cupped Yibo’s cheek—thumb brushing softly over the damp trail of a tear.
His voice was low. Steady. Unshakable.
“If this is wrong,” he whispered,
“Then let’s make it wrong together.”
And this time, neither of them pulled back.
Yibo’s breath hitched against his skin.
Lips ghosting lower along Zhan’s neck.
“I don’t care what it’s supposed to be. I just want you. Right now. Only you.” Yibo whispered.
Zhan groaned, pulled Yibo back in—and kissed him even harder.
Every pull of their bodies was a confession.
Every sound, every gasp, a truth they had been too scared to admit.
As Zhan kissed him back, a word slipped out—soft, breathless, unintentional.
“BoBo…”
Yibo stilled instantly.
He pulled back slowly, eyes wide.
“How did you know that name…?”
Zhan froze.
Panic flickered in his eyes, but only for a second.
“I… I think I heard Mr. Qiao say it once,” he said.
Voice a little too quick, forcing a smile.
Yibo didn’t look convinced—but before he could ask more,
Zhan leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time, stealing the breath
and the thoughts right out of him.
Their mouths clashed with something far past desperation.
Like two men who had waited too long, denied too hard, and broken too wide open to stop now.
Yibo’s hand curled behind Zhan’s neck, tugging him closer.
Zhan gripped the front of Yibo’s shirt, gasping between kisses.
“I hate how much I want you,”
Yibo whispered against his lips.
Zhan’s breath hitched.
“Then don’t stop. Just don’t leave anything unfinished between us tonight.”
Yibo groaned, and they stumbled together, collapsing onto the plush carpet.
Clothes peeled off with urgency—buttons snapping, fabric sliding, skin meeting skin.
Zhan lay back as Yibo moved over him, kisses trailing down his throat, across his chest, lingering at every place that made him shudder.
He could feel the heat of Yibo’s arousal—hard and pulsing—pressed tight against him.
Fingers dug into hips.
Mouths devoured every inch they could claim.
It wasn’t lust. Just need—raw, aching and real.
Yibo’s hand slid lower—over Zhan’s waist, past his hips—until it stopped against the hardness straining beneath his trousers.
As his fingers brushed along the waistband, he began tugging the trousers down.
Slowly, deliberately, his breath warm against Zhan’s skin.
His voice dropped to a breathless murmur.
“You still want to deny all of it?”
Zhan let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
Then he met Yibo’s eyes, breath trembling.
“Still think I don’t want you? Then feel this—because I’ve been wanting you in every breath I take.” He whispered.
“I’ve thought about this,” Yibo admitted in a breath, hand pressed flat to Zhan’s stomach.
Zhan let out a soft laugh that broke halfway into a moan.
“Yeah? So I wasn’t the only one going crazy, then.”
They rolled again, tangled and gasping, Zhan now above, lips brushing Yibo’s collarbone.
He kissed lower, slower, until Yibo arched beneath him.
“Zhan…” Yibo whispered.
“Say it again… Bobo,” Zhan begged.
“Zhan-…ge.”
The sound shattered Zhan.
Every kiss deepened. Every touch burned.
And then it is breathless.
Messy. Sacred.
Bodies moving in sync, lost in rhythm, their fingers locked, hearts pounding like war drums.
Zhan held his gaze the whole time.
He needed to remember this—not just the way it felt, but the way Yibo looked at him like he was the only one that mattered.
“Are you sure about this?”
Zhan whispered, voice shaking as they stilled, sweat-slicked and wrecked.
Yibo nodded slowly, still holding his gaze.
“Yeah. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Zhan didn’t speak.
He just reached for him again.
And then they had each other—fully, completely—right there on the carpet, nothing held back, nothing left unsaid between skin and breath.
And that night, they gave in completely—two men unraveling in each other’s arms.
Lost in everything they had denied for so long.
All the tension they had buried for days—every glance, every unsaid word, every brush of silence—now flooding out in this one unstoppable moment.
__________________________________
When it was over, Yibo lay on the couch, shirt half-buttoned, chest rising and falling as he stared at the ceiling.
Zhan sat on the floor next to him, shirtless, still in his trousers, leaning back against the couch, head tilted slightly.
Yibo, gently brushing his fingers through Zhan’s hair—slow and tender.
They didn’t speak for a while.
Just sat there—hearts racing, skin flushed.
The room still echoing with everything unspoken.
Zhan looked lost in thought, eyes focused on nothing.
Yibo watched him quietly.
His gaze traced the sharp lines of Zhan’s chest, the smooth stretch of skin across his sculpted torso.
Admiring every inch like it is something rare—something only he is allowed to see.
And then, Zhan glanced up—and caught him staring.
There is a soft smile on Yibo’s lips.
A smile Zhan hadn’t seen before.
And it is beautiful.
Yibo leaned back, still looking at him.
“Do you know what I noticed first? The day I saw you in that elevator?”
Zhan blinked. “What?”
“That mole under your lip.”
Zhan’s brows lifted, surprised.
“I didn’t even think you looked at me that day.”
“I did,” Yibo said softly
“More than once.”
Zhan swallowed, suddenly unsure where to look.
Yibo’s voice grew quieter.
“You mess me up in every way… and somehow, that’s the only time I feel at peace.”
He hesitated. Then, “I think I’m falling for you.”
Zhan’s head jerked up.
“What did you say?”
Yibo leaned closer, inches from his face now.
Eyes locked.
“I think I’m in love with you, Zhan…-ge,”
He whispered, the name slipping out clumsily, but no less sincere.
Zhan’s heart twisted.
He should’ve smiled.
Should’ve said something—anything.
But the words got lost somewhere between the joy and the guilt that followed it like a shadow.
Because Yibo doesn’t know the truth.
Doesn’t know the mission.
The lies. The manipulation.
Doesn’t know that Zhan had walked into his life not to love—but to break him.
And yet… Zhan had fallen anyway.
Somewhere between stolen glances and quiet nights, he had crossed the line he swore he never would.
He wanted to tell him.
Wanted to say “Me too.”
But how could he?
How could he look into Yibo’s eyes—so full of belief—and say I love you when every thread between them was spun from deception?
So he said nothing.
Because if he did—if he admitted the truth—he’d never be able to walk away.
And when the truth came out… Yibo would never forgive him.
So Zhan stayed silent.
And in that silence—something inside him quietly shattered.
Not with a scream, but with the kind of ache that lives in your bones.
The kind that lingers.
Because loving Yibo feels like breathing for the first time—and now lying to him feels like the slowest way to die.
But Yibo, for the first time in a long while, felt like he could finally exhale—like the love he had always searched for had found its way to him.
But for Zhan… it was the beginning of the end.
Everything he had tried to avoid had already happened.
And now, there was no going back.
But still, Zhan thought—if this was going to destroy them, then he wanted to remember exactly how it felt to fall.
And just like that, somewhere between truth and betrayal, love had already started to bloom—quietly, without permission.
Not in sunlight, but in shadows.
Beautiful. Unstoppable.
But doomed!
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 