FORBIDDEN

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5 

Yibo woke up to the sound of something sizzling and the faint scent of garlic in oil.

It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. The unfamiliar softness of the mattress under him, the warmth clinging to the sheets, the faint echo of another presence in the apartment—it all clicked into place.

Zhan.

He groaned into the pillow and rolled over. His limbs felt heavy, like he'd been wrestling with his own thoughts in his sleep. Last night—or maybe more like a few hours ago—Zhan had pulled him into bed.

Into his bed.

Into the only bed.

He sat up slowly, hair an absolute mess and mind still spinning from the memory of Zhan's cheek resting against his palm, the softness of his voice when he whispered, "Let's sleep together."

Yibo practically dragged himself out of bed, glaring down at the oversized shirt he wore. It was his, of course, but something about how he felt in it now made him hyper-aware. Like the walls had heard everything. Like the sheets knew secrets.

His nose twitched at the scent again. Garlic. Eggs. Toast. Maybe milk.

He better not be shirtless again, Yibo thought to himself, trudging out into the kitchen.

Of course, he was.

Zhan stood in front of the stove, humming a tune Yibo vaguely recognized from a K-drama he'd refused to admit he watched. The morning light streamed through the windows, catching on the curve of Zhan's bare shoulders. That same damn apron again, tied lazily around his waist.

Yibo stared.

His brain, once again: 404. Function not found.

Zhan turned just as Yibo stepped in.

"Oh, good morning, sunshine," he greeted casually, as if they hadn't just slept a breath apart. As if his bare skin wasn't the first thing Yibo saw today.

Yibo squinted. "Is this a thing now? Cooking half-naked?"

Zhan glanced down, then back up, completely unfazed. "Oil builds character."

Yibo mumbled, walking toward the fridge, "Burns build lawsuits."

Zhan laughed, the sound lazy and satisfied. "You're lucky I'm feeding you. Most fake boyfriends don't even get toast."

Yibo raised an eyebrow as he pulled a bottle of cold water from the fridge. "Most fake boyfriends also don't get tackled into bed like that."

"Tackled? Please. That was creative persuasion."

Yibo took a long sip of water. "You mean manipulation."

Zhan turned back to his pan, flipping the eggs with flair. "Tomato, tomahto."

They ate in a companionable silence. Zhan had set the table with two plates of fried rice, sunny-side-up eggs, sausage rolls, and buttered toast. He even made milk for the guy who doesn't drink coffee.

Yibo took a bite and tried—tried—not to make a noise of appreciation. But his taste buds weren’t having it.

"You can moan, it’s okay," Zhan teased without looking up.

Yibo immediately put his fork down. "I wasn’t moaning."

"You were."

"It was a grunt. Of approval."