Metro 7:45
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. It explores deep emotional connections between two male characters and includes intense moments. This work is pure fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
Hangzhou. 7:00 AM.
A sleepy sun nudged through the clouds as Xiao Zhan pulled on his oversized khaki jacket.
The sleeves drooped past his wrists, partially hiding the soft grey hoodie underneath, its hood bunched behind his neck.
His dark hair, slightly tousled, framed his sharp features—soft strands falling across his forehead, giving him a boyish charm that clashed with his quiet demeanor.
His skin glowed faintly in the morning light—warm-toned and smooth, a kind of quiet allure he never tried to use.
He looked unfairly handsome, the kind of face that drew attention even in silence.
Sharp jawline. Gentle eyes.
That easy, unbothered smile.
He looked like someone who owned more books than shirts.
Which, frankly, wasn’t wrong.
Slinging his black backpack—stuffed with manuscript notes and half-read poetry collections—over one shoulder, he called out:
“Ma! Leaving now!”
“Wait—!”
Liu Fang, his mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen, sharp and familiar.
She was the tough-love type, sharp-tongued but warm at the core.
The queen of kitchen multitasking and emotional blackmail via lunchboxes.
She stepped out, holding a thermos of tea and a big lunch box bag.
“Take this. And for once, try not to spill tea on your papers like last time.”
Zhan rolled his eyes, grabbing the thermos and the lunch bag.
Zhan groaned, unzipping the bag to peek inside—only to find three separate boxes.
One large box for lunch, another with neatly cut fruits, and a third packed with a mix of dry fruits.
“Ma, what is this? I’m going to my shop, not back to school!”
He exclaimed, shooting her an incredulous look.
“You’re already skipping your breakfast, so shut up and finish everything.”
She snapped back, swatting lightly at his arm.
“One for lunch, one with fruit, and dry fruits for later.”
She said, ignoring his protests.
“Cut fruit before lunch. Dry fruits for the evening. No arguments.”
She adjusted her glasses with exaggerated precision, eyeing him critically.
“You’re starting to look like an under-fed koala.”
Zhan gasped dramatically, clutching his chest.
“Wow! I wake up early, mind my business, and still get body-shamed in my own home.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Eat. Or next time, I’m packing two more boxes.”
Zhan muttered something about maternal tyranny under his breath—but he was smiling.
He leaned in, gave her a quick, one-armed hug.
Then slipped on his sneakers.
With a final wave, he stepped out of the small apartment complex nestled in one of Hangzhou’s quieter residential neighborhoods.
The autumn wind bit at his cheeks.
He tucked his hands into his sleeves, earphones already in.
A playlist of soft indie instrumentals hummed into his ears.
The metro station was a twenty-minute walk.
Familiar buildings lined the way—an old tailor shop, a convenience store where the uncle never gave correct change.
And the dumpling place that always opened too late for his schedule.
7:45 AM sharp.
The train arrived.
The platform was packed.
Office workers, students, sleepy-eyed aunties holding grocery bags.
Zhan squeezed into the train, back to the glass, earphones humming softly.
His gaze drifted—half bored, half observant.
Three stops later, the doors slid open at Linping Station.
A boy in a navy hoodie stepped in, earbuds already in.
He looked lean, effortlessly put-together without trying too hard.
His features were clean and well-defined, with smooth, pale skin that caught the soft indoor light just enough to highlight the sharp line of his jaw.
His hair was casually tousled, like he’d barely run a hand through it before leaving, and yet it somehow looked intentional.
Dark eyes, quiet and observant, held a kind of steady confidence, like he noticed more than he let on.
There was something striking about him—not flashy or loud, but quietly magnetic.
The kind of good-looking that made people glance twice, even if they didn’t realize why.
He leaned casually against the pole across from Zhan.
Flipping open a workbook titled Basic Auto Systems & Diagnostics.
A delivery bag rested at his feet, worn from use.
Zhan’s eyes lingered a second longer.
Not out of curiosity—out of familiarity.
They’d shared the same 7:45 train a few times now.
Wang Yibo, didn’t glance up.
He was used to crowds.
Used to early metros, juggling classes at the technical college in Deqing and deliveries in the afternoon.
But Yibo noticed Zhan, though.
Not because he looked special—he didn’t—but because he wasn’t staring at his phone like everyone else.
Just staring out the window as if trying to memorize the world before it passed.
Whether by chance or something unspoken, they often found themselves in the same compartment—or at least close enough for their eyes to meet briefly.
The train lurched forward.
They both headed north, toward Deqing.
——————————————————
By nine o’clock, Zhan had reached the quiet corner of Deqing where his bookstore – Second Chapter, stood nestled between a bakery and an antique repair shop.
The bell above the glass door chimed softly as Zhan unlocked the front entrance.
The smell of old pages and disinfectant hit first.
Warm and musty, like memories.
He brewed coffee behind the counter and sorted a stack of new arrivals—dog-eared novels, some poetry, a cookbook with food stains.
“Morning, Zhan.”
Called Mrs. Ming from the bakery.
“Morning Mrs. Ming. Save me one of those taro buns, yeah?”
“Only if you fix the mystery section today!”
He smiled, flipping the sign to OPEN.
Customers trickled in around ten—a college girl looking for romance novels, an uncle who only read detective fiction, and a kid who shyly returned a borrowed picture book.
Zhan remembered them all.
He had a sticky note system for regulars’ preferences, favorite authors, even birthdays.
He loved talking to his customers—warm, a little dry, sometimes sarcastic, but always attentive.
He help them, offer suggestions, even give bookmarks he’d made.
Back behind the counter, a small room where he began editing a children’s story on his laptop, part-time work for a small local publisher.
The words blurred together after a while, but Zhan liked the quiet.
Zhan did small freelance work on the side—editing manuscripts, proofreading technical papers, sketching some simple designs for local businesses.
Nothing glamorous, but it kept him afloat.
———————————————————–
Meanwhile, Yibo arrived at his technical college.
The Deqing campus wasn’t fancy—faded buildings, rusting bike racks, and vending machines that ate your coins.
But it worked.
He is an automobile engineering student.
He sat through lectures, jotted messy notes, and fidgeted with a pen cap while dreaming of building his own engine someday and starting a custom bike garage.
After class, he headed to a nearby parking lot where his beat-up delivery scooter waited.
Helmet on, delivery app pinging, he began the second part of his day.
Deqing was calm, less traffic, but still enough food orders to keep him busy.
Evening fell.
By 6:30 PM, both were back on the metro heading home.
This time the crowd had thinned.
Zhan got on the metro first, heading back to Hangzhou after a long day.
The train was already packed as it pulled out of Deqing.
Yibo, who had just completed his last delivery in the next station, boarded at the stop following Deqing.
This time, their eyes met briefly.
Just a flicker.
Recognition, maybe.
But nothing more.
———————————————–
Zhan came back home around eight.
His home was a modest 3-bedroom apartment tucked into one of Hangzhou’s quieter, aging residential complexes.
The building had seen better days—its walls stained by years of rain and sun, balconies cluttered with hanging clothes and potted plants.
It wasn’t modern or fancy, but it held a quiet charm, the kind of place where neighbors greeted each other out of habit and kids played badminton in the parking lot.
Inside, the apartment felt lived-in and warm, a reflection of the Xiao family’s steady, working-class life.
The living room was small but organized—an old fabric sofa with floral covers, cushions slightly flattened from years of use.
A wooden coffee table stood at the center, its corners rounded from wear, often stacked with Zhan’s books, cups of half-finished tea, and his mom’s knitting basket.
One wall was taken up by a tall bookcase Zhan had built himself, overflowing with novels, poetry, and well-thumbed paperbacks, some shelved neatly, others jammed in sideways.
The television was old, the kind with buttons that stuck slightly, and the remote always had to be hit against the table to work.
The dining area merged with the living room—just a small round table with four chairs, the tablecloth always clean, and a thermos of tea ever-present in the center.
The kitchen was tight but spotless, thanks to Liu Fang’s insistence on hygiene.
Labeled jars, hanging ladles, and a single gas burner stove kept the space functional.
His parents’ room was simple—just a double bed, a wooden dresser, and a cabinet for linens.
His father liked keeping his radio tuned to the news or an old music channel, the soft sounds often leaking through the walls.
His mother’s slippers always sat neatly by the door, her reading glasses resting on the table beside their shared bed.
The apartment was nothing grand, but it radiated the kind of warmth only built through quiet dinners, gentle arguments, shared silence, and the soft rhythm of ordinary life.
Zhan kicked off his shoes.
“You’re late.”
His mother, called from the kitchen without looking up.
“What’s the point of owning a store if you can’t close it on time?”
“Got stuck talking to a customer who thinks reading Marxist theory is a personality trait.”
Zhan muttered, dropping his bag near the shoe rack.
“Don’t be rude. They’re keeping your lights on.”
She asked, pouring tea for him.
“No much customers again?”
“Only four to five. One of them paid in coins.”
Zhan collapsed onto the couch.
“You should’ve been an idol. At least then your looks would earn something.”
“Wow, thanks, Ma. You roast me better than my customers.”
Zhan grinned.
His father, Xiao Guoqiang, worked as a low-level officer at the local postal office and was counting down the years until retirement.
A gentle father figure—measured, wise, and soft-spoken.
He emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of soup.
“You hungry Zhan? There’s rice on the stove.”
“Is it edible, Ba?”
Zhan teased.
“Not if you keep talking like that.”
His dad shot back, but his smile was soft.
His younger sister, Xiao Yue, peeked from her room — 18 years old, nine years younger than Zhan.
Yue’s room was brighter—posters on the walls, fairy lights above her bed, a makeup mirror lined with stickers.
Her books and laptop were scattered everywhere, and though she called it a mess, it was the kind only she could navigate.
A cheerful, nosy first-year university student who tease Zhan constantly, though she looked up to him more than she’d ever admit.
“Ge, did you bring back that poetry book I asked for?”
“No, Buy it yourself.”
“Useless!”
She huffed. Crossing her arms.
“That feeling is mutual Yue.”
Zhan muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Ok, you said you’d help me with my assignment!”
“I lied.”
“Figure it out for yourself.”
Zhan replied flatly.
“I hate you!”
Yue grumbled, sticking out her tongue.
“Yeah, love you too…!”
Zhan smirked, glancing at her with a teasing look before turning to the kitchen.
He scarfed down dinner, then settled at the small desk wedged into the corner of his bedroom.
Zhan’s bedroom was the only place that bore his personal touch.
One wall was covered in pinned notes, quotes, and scribbled ideas.
His bed was tucked into a corner beneath a window that let in the morning light.
A narrow desk sat opposite the bed, usually cluttered with his laptop, red pens, sticky notes, and a pile of client manuscripts.
A dusty bookshelf stood beside the desk, holding a mix of children’s stories, classics, and design manuals from his freelance projects.
His space was cozy, creative, and constantly on the edge of organized chaos.
His laptop whirred to life.
On screen: a dense technical manuscript from a freelance proofreading client.
Boring? Definitely.
But it paid for utilities.
“Still working?”
Liu Fang peeked in with a cup of hot water.
“Only 40 pages to go.”
Zhan muttered, eyes already scanning the next typo.
“You’ll ruin your eyes.”
“Ruining my eyes is how I pay our electricity bill, Ma.”
Zhan flipped to the next page, but his mother’s gaze landed on the laptop beside him.
It wasn’t his; it was Yue’s.
“Why do you have Yue’s laptop?”
Liu Fang asked, raising an eyebrow.
Zhan sighed, not looking up.
“Yeah, need to help her with her assignment.”
Liu Fang shook her head with a smile.
“You’re spoiling her. You said you’d just help her.”
Zhan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
“Ma… she has a lot to study.”
“And she’s my only sister. If I won’t help her, who will?”
His mother patted him on the head, her touch soft but knowing.
She knew, no matter how much Zhan teased his little sister.
He loved her with a depth that needed no words.
“Go get some rest, Zhanu.”
And with that, she left him alone.
With a deep breath, Zhan returned his focus to the manuscript and the tasks ahead.
—————————————————
In Linping, Yibo came home to a warm smell of steamed fish.
His home was a small, three-bedroom apartment nestled in one of Linping’s quieter, working-class neighborhoods.
The building itself was a little worn around the edges—faded paint, a creaky elevator that groaned more than it moved, and a narrow stairwell where neighbors left slippers and folded laundry out to dry.
Inside, the apartment was compact but warm, shaped by years of hard work and careful saving.
The living room doubled as the dining space—an old but sturdy wooden table pressed against one wall, surrounded by mismatched chairs.
A secondhand sofa sagged slightly in the middle, its fabric faded but clean, always covered with a fresh layer of crocheted doilies thanks to his grandma.
The floor was lined with cheap vinyl tiles, scuffed at the corners, and the ceiling fan buzzed slightly when turned on.
Family photos lined one side of the wall—Yibo in his middle school uniform, his parents smiling on a rare trip, and a few framed certificates from his school days.
Nothing flashy, just simple memories.
His mother kept the kitchen spotless despite its size—barely enough room for two people to stand side by side.
Plastic containers were neatly labeled and stacked, a rice cooker sat in one corner, and the aroma of soy sauce and ginger lingered even after dinner.
The bathroom was shared and practical, with a chipped sink and a cracked mirror that somehow still worked just fine.
Yibo’s room was the smallest of the three.
A narrow bed pushed against the wall, a desk cluttered with tools, notebooks, and old motorbike posters peeling at the corners.
There were engine parts on shelves and a jar filled with screws next to a half-assembled carburetor.
His wardrobe was half open, clothes folded messily, mostly jeans and work shirts.
It wasn’t much—but it was home.
Quiet, lived-in, full of the kind of love that didn’t need fancy furniture or polished floors to show itself.
As soon as Yibo stepped in, he grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the dining table.
“Bobo, wash your hands!”
Zhang Meilan, still in her supermarket apron.
A sign she’d just come back from her shift as a cashier.
Stern mother, but soft-hearted.
Fed him more than she scolded, though she did both well.
Hair tied up messily.
“Yes, yes, going…”
Yibo muttered, putting the apple back with a small pout, dragging his feet toward the sink like a scolded kid.
Grandma Shuzhen was watching an old war drama at full volume.
Traditional, stubborn, loved herbal soups.
She forgets where she left her slippers but never forgets to nag Yibo about finding a “good girl to settle down with.”
Zhang Meilan came out of the kitchen, looked at Yibo, and pointed at the grease smudge on his jeans.
“You came straight from that little garage again, didn’t you?”
“Had to fix a neighbor uncle’s old scooter Ma. Carburetor was coughing like Grandpa last winter.”
“Wash up first. You smell like gasoline.”
She tossed a towel at him.
He gave a tired smile and ducked into the bathroom.
Yibo had a habit—no, it’s a passion—for tinkering with engines in a makeshift garage two blocks from their apartment.
The tiny space was crammed with tools, scattered car parts, and posters of racing bikes and vintage cars.
It was his little world, where grease-stained fingers and the roar of an engine brought him peace.
He called it his “side hustle,” though most of the work he did was for free or in exchange for meals.
Dinner was rice, stir-fried cabbage and steamed fish.
His mom talked about a rude customer.
Grandma asked if he was dating, Yibo nodded along, half-listening.
Tired but content.
His dad, Wang Jinfa, was a long-haul truck driver, mostly out of town.
He was probably on the road again, hauling goods to some distant province.
His work was grueling, but it kept the family afloat, even if it meant missing family dinners and holidays.
He’d called earlier, asked if Yibo needed anything.
“No, Ba.”
He had replied.
“Just get home safe.”
These are his people. And his chaos.
After dinner, Yibo went back out—riding through quiet Linping alleys, phone mounted on the handlebar of his old but reliable motorbike.
He wore a faded T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of worn-out sneakers.
Music played softly in one ear.
His small mechanic shop, just a few blocks from home, waited with half-finished scooters and scattered tools.
He’d stay a couple more hours—patching up engines, lost in the steady rhythm of grease and gears.
————————————————
And they both didn’t know it yet…
But life had begun setting its course — in crowded trains, quiet bookshop, old garages, and late-night kitchens.
Two strangers.
Same direction.
Same 7:45.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 