In Between Us || Zhanyi

|| 54 ||

Hi there~~~

It was one evening when Zhan even found himself at a life and death situation.

Zhan hated eggplant. The texture, the taste—he had spent his entire life avoiding it. But that evening, Yibo had cooked, setting a plate before him with that careless confidence, as if assuming Zhan would eat whatever was served.

And Yibo wasn't wrong.....Zhan had it without word......Every bite.

And every time after that, whenever Yibo made it.

Not because he suddenly liked it. Not because it tasted any different.

But because it was Yibo. Yibo had cooked, it was his hard work and dedication...Yibo's expectant eyes............Zhan swallowed hard.

It not just eggplant, whatever Yibo had cooked, Zhan had never for once pointed out its flaws.

Then there was the living room—the quiet invasion of colors that had never belonged to him. One evening after work, he had come home to find the beige cushions replaced with pink ones. Pink. A color he had never considered for his space.

But instead of questioning it, instead of replacing them, he had sat down. And stayed silent.

It had never been just pink cushions.

And Zhan had never once complained.

Anyone else would have called it maturity. Would have said, Of course, a responsible husband should be understanding.

But had Zhan ever done this for anyone else?

Had Zhan ever let someone change him this way?

Would Zhan accept if anyone else had dared to such invasions?

No. Not after once he held his life's rein in his own hand.

Not his students, not his colleagues, not his family.

No one had ever been able to shift the way he lived. Except~~~~~

Only Yibo.

Only Yibo had made him bend, made him adjust, made him give up parts of himself without realizing it—without resistance.

Like how Zhan preferred the cold. Always had. The crisp bite of chilled air against his skin helped him sleep better, cleared his mind. Yibo, on the other hand, never said a word about it. Every night, when Zhan entered the room after completing his work in study, he would find the AC set as per his liking.

But Zhan noticed things—things Yibo never mentioned. The way he curled inward in his sleep, tucking his hands beneath his chin for warmth. The way his bare toes would search for a pocket of heat, sometimes brushing against Zhan's calf. The way, at some point in the night, his body would gravitate toward Zhan's without thinking, his forehead pressing against Zhan's shoulder, breath warm against his skin.

And so, in the quiet hours, when the world was still, Zhan would wake—just enough to pull the blanket higher over Yibo's shoulders, to nudge the temperature up a couple of degrees. Just enough to make sure Yibo would wake up warm, comfortable. Safe.

Yibo never noticed. He never questioned why he wasn't cold in the mornings, why he always woke up feeling rested despite the chill he should have felt. But Zhan knew.

Because without realizing it, he had already started adjusting. Not because he had to. But because it was Yibo. And for Yibo, Zhan would bend, soften, make room in his world without hesitation.