Late-Night Noodles
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. Reader discretion is advised. Please read the disclaimers mentioned in the Instagram post.]
The next day came with the usual rhythm.
Zhan caught the 7:45 metro again, book in hand, eyes scanning words that barely registered, a lunchbox bag tucked beneath his arm alongside his backpack.
The morning crowd jostled around him, announcements echoed above, and the metal floor thrummed under his shoes.
At Linping station, he looked up instinctively.
And there he was.
Yibo stepped into the compartment, a little breathless, delivery bag slung over one shoulder and his usual worn backpack on the other.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
They smiled at each other.
Yibo walked over and stood beside Zhan.
The train gently rocking around them.
“Morning rush is brutal.”
Yibo said with a sigh.
“I thought I was going to miss the train today.”
“Traffic?”
Zhan asked.
“No, grandma wasn’t feeling well. Had to rush out and get her some medicine. Got a bit late.”
Zhan looked at him, the concern briefly crossing his face.
Then, as if just remembering, he asked.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Yibo. Wang Yibo.”
He replied with a smile.
“And you?”
“Xiao Zhan. Everyone just calls me Zhan.”
They both smiled again, a little longer this time, before slipping into a quiet rhythm—Zhan with his book, Yibo scrolling through notes for his class test, one earbud in place.
At Deqing, they parted ways as always—while saying byes, their glance lingered longer this time.
Yibo gave a small nod, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.
While Zhan smiled, feeling a strange sense of familiarity settle in.
—————————————————————
Zhan stood behind the counter of Second Chapter.
Pen tapping rhythmically against a yellow sticky note.
The soft rustle of pages, scent of old books and cinnamon tea filled the space.
Business at the bookstore was slow that day.
A customer had just left, mumbling something about Rilke being too depressing.
Zhan rolled his eyes and scribbled on the note: Restock mood-lifting titles: Maybe not Rilke.
He stuck it beside another: Fix squeaky back shelf.
And another: Call supplier who sent 5 copies of a cookbook titled “Chickpeas Are Life”.
By afternoon the skies had turned gray, with the occasional drizzle keeping people indoors.
Zhan flipped through inventory sheets, half-heartedly updated the shop’s online listings.
And reheated some tea that had gone cold hours ago.
By evening, the hunger crept in again.
This time, he didn’t bother checking the menu too long—just clicked on a cheap bowl of dan dan noodles.
He sighed at the delivery fee and ordered anyway.
Thirty minutes later, the bell above the bookstore door jingled.
A familiar voice followed.
“Hello? Order for Xiao Zhan?”
Zhan stepped out from the little backroom, his eyes landing instantly on the same delivery boy.
Yibo.
Both paused.
A soft spark of recognition flickered.
Zhan raised an eyebrow, amused.
“You again?”
They both smiled at each other.
Yibo handed over the food delivery packet, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.
He stepped further inside, taking off his raincoat and cap, then stood beside the counter, water dripping softly from the fabric onto the mat.
“Yeah.”
He said, shaking out his sleeves a little.
“I usually handle most of the deliveries around this area.”
By the time Yibo reached the bookstore, rain had started coming down a bit heavier.
Zhan glanced up from behind the counter.
“Looks like you’re stuck here until it eases up.”
Zhan said.
Yibo gave a small nod.
“Yeah. Didn’t expect it to get this heavy.”
Zhan gestured to the space beside him.
“Come, sit.”
Yibo walked over and settled onto the small two-seater couch.
They sat in silence for a moment, the patter of rain filling the space.
“So…”
Zhan started.
“Where do you stay?”
“Linping. With my Ma and Nainai. Baba is a truck driver, so he’s mostly on the road.”
Zhan nodded.
“I live in Hangzhou with my parents and my younger sister.”
“What do you do?”
Yibo asked.
“Run this bookstore. My Baba helped me set it up—it cost the poor man almost his entire life savings. But he still did it, just because I love books and art.”
Yibo smiled, looking around.
“It’s nice. Cozy.”
“Thanks. What about you? Besides delivering noodles.”
“I’m studying automobile engineering. Third year—final year’s next.”
“I also run a small mechanic shop in the evenings.”
Zhan blinked, impressed.
“You really juggle all that? When do you even study?”
“In between deliveries. Metro rides. Whenever I get a few minutes.”
Zhan shook his head, smiling.
He stood up saying.
“Just a sec, Yibo.”
And disappeared into the small room.
A moment later, he returned with a paper plate and chopstick, opened the delivery packet, and carefully split his noodles in two.
He placed one portion on the paper plate and handed it to Yibo, keeping the other half in the delivery box for himself.
“Here. Eat.”
Yibo raised his hands slightly, hesitating.
“No… No, I’m good, really. It’s yours.”
“C’mon. You brought it here, you might as well share it.”
Zhan insisted, pushing the plate toward him.
Yibo accepted with a sheepish grin.
“Alright. Thanks.”
As they ate, Zhan asked.
“The scooter you use—is it yours?”
“Nope. It’s the company’s. I’ve got an old motorbike at home. Breaks down a lot. That’s actually how I got into fixing things.”
“We’ve got a scooter too.”
Zhan said.
“Ba uses it now to his office. He works at the local post office.”
They sat for longer than intended, chatting in low voices while the storm passed.
Zhan couldn’t understand why it felt so easy to talk to him, so natural.
And Yibo wondered the same—how a near-stranger made him feel like he’d known him longer than a couple of train rides and deliveries.
Eventually, the rain slowed.
“I should head out before it starts again.”
Yibo said, standing up and slipping his arms back into the raincoat.
Zhan nodded.
“Yeah. Be safe.”
Yibo gave him a glance, half a smile.
“You too.”
And with that, he left.
Zhan watched the door for a moment, something like warmth lingering in his chest.
Maybe he’d found a friend.
Not far behind, Yibo felt the same.
——————————————————-
By late evening, The rain came heavier.
Zhan thought about closing up and heading out, but when he checked his bag, he realized he’d forgotten his umbrella.
With the storm picking up outside, he couldn’t close the shop and head for the train.
Instead, he stayed back, working on a freelance children’s art book project from behind the counter.
Around 7:30, Zhan called his mom.
“Ma, I’ll be late. Not sure when the rain will stop. I’ll grab something to eat here.”
She agreed, telling him to take care.
He tried ordering food, but the rain had disrupted most deliveries.
With a sigh, he rubbed his growling stomach and returned to his work.
Around 8:30, a knock sounded on the bookstore door just as Zhan was getting ready to close.
He opened it cautiously—and found Yibo, wearing a hooded raincoat, still nearly drenched from riding through the rain, holding a second bag of noodles with his delivery bag slung over one shoulder.
His scooter was parked just outside the bookstore.
“Did you have your dinner?”
Yibo asked, a little sheepish.
“I was passing by and saw the lights still on. Figured you might be here.”
Zhan blinked, surprised.
“Oh, I didn’t expect you at all. I was about to close the shop—how long can I wait in this rain, right?”
Zhan said with a smile.
“Come in.”
Yibo stepped in, dropped his delivery bag onto the floor, and shrugged off his raincoat, laying it neatly over the bag.
In his mind, Zhan wondered.
“How did he show up with food just when I was starving?”
Yibo was still damp despite the raincoat, so he’d skipped the couch, not wanting to get it wet.
They sat on the floor behind the counter, cross-legged with noodle bowls in hand.
The little table lamp cast a soft glow.
Outside, the street wasn’t quiet—rain still poured down in steady sheets.
Drumming against rooftops and bouncing off the pavement.
They ate in silence for a while, slurping warm broth, the steam fogging up Zhan’s glasses.
Zhan glanced sideways.
“Did you buy these noodles?”
Yibo shook his head, swallowing his bite.
“No. We often get them as a sort of commission at the end of the day for the deliveries we complete. I usually take mine home, but tonight Ma said she already made dinner, so…”
He shrugged.
“Mmm. It must be tough. Juggling work and collage, right?”
Zhan asked.
Yibo shrugged.
“Not complaining. Helps keep my mind off things.”
Zhan smiled.
“You’re more sorted than I was at your age.”
“How old do you think I am?”
Yibo asked, mock-offended.
Zhan squinted.
“Twenty?”
“I’m Twenty-Three—had to take a couple of years off before I could join college.”
“See? Close enough! I’m a bookstore guy. We know everything.”
Yibo laughed—a real one, warm and open.
He nudged him lightly with his elbow.
“What about you? How old are you, Mr. Bookstore guy?”
Zhan smirked, chin tilted with mock mystery.
“Take a guess.”
Yibo narrowed his eyes, pretending to study him.
“Hmm… twenty-seven.”
Zhan blinked, surprised.
“Damn. That’s… exactly right.”
Yibo grinned, smug.
“See? You’re not the only smart one here.”
Zhan chuckled, shaking his head.
“You’re either really observant… or just lucky.”
“Maybe both.”
Yibo said, clearly enjoying the small win.
“You always wear those glasses? Never seen you with them before.”
He asked, genuinely curious.
Zhan grinned and took them off, wiping the fog away.
“No, only when I work. Ma’s always nagging that I’m ruining my eyes, so I wear them for her sake when I’m on the laptop.”
The little space between them filled not just with laughter.
But a bit more of something unspoken.
They finished the noodles.
Neither moved to stand.
“Thanks for this.”
Zhan said softly.
Yibo looked at him, eyes steady.
“Anytime.”
He said, meaning it more than he expected to.
Then he glanced at the rain still drizzling beyond the glass door and added.
“But you don’t need to wait for it to stop. It’s not going to—at least not anytime soon. I’ve got a spare raincoat in my scooter. I’ll drop you to the metro station. I’m heading that way too.”
Zhan blinked.
“But what about your scooter?”
“I usually park it near the station. I’ll come get it tomorrow before college. No big deal.”
Zhan hesitated for only a second, then nodded.
“Okay.”
He closed up his bookstore, pulling the shutter down with a clatter and locking it behind him.
Minutes later, wrapped in Yibo’s spare raincoat, he hopped onto the back of the delivery scooter.
The ride was short, the streets quiet except for the hush of rain around them.
At the metro station, they caught a train quickly.
Being late, they even found seats next to each other.
The city blurred past the windows while their conversation meandered—books, bikes, music, childhood quirks.
Zhan mentioned his quiet love for the arts, the way colors and stories always grounded him.
In return, Yibo grinned and admitted his craze for street racing.
Zhan blinked.
“Wait—street races? Isn’t that… illegal? And kind of dangerous?”
Yibo let out a short laugh.
“Yeah. It is illegal and dangerous. But it gives me a rush—like, this wild kind of adrenaline I can’t get anywhere else. Sometimes I even win a bit of cash—it helps, you know?”
He gave a crooked grin.
“Ma hates it too, obviously. That’s why I have to sneak out for races—if she ever caught me, I’m dead meat.”
Zhan shook his head with a low whistle.
“God, you’ve really got some guts to go for that.”
Yibo just smiled.
Zhan looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, amused—and maybe a little fascinated.
As the train neared Linping station, Yibo stood up.
Zhan looked at him.
“Wait, your raincoat?”
Yibo smiled, one hand on the pole.
“Keep it. You’ll need it to get home. I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”
He waved a short goodbye before stepping out.
Zhan waved back, smiling at the retreating figure.
The train pulled away.
Both felt it, quietly and separately.
Somewhere in between, Zhan laughed more than usual, and Yibo found himself talking more than he typically did with anyone…
Something warm and unexpected blooming in the most ordinary of nights.
———————————————————
That night, they didn’t exchange numbers.
They didn’t make promises.
But a thread had been tied.
Over metro glances.
Over warm noodles.
And maybe—just maybe—over the kind of silence that felt a little less lonely when shared.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 