FORBIDDEN

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

The third day began with the familiar scent of garlic and eggs wafting through the apartment, warm and heavy like a memory Yibo didn't ask for. He stirred slowly, his arm instinctively reaching across the bed to where Zhan should be—but again, it was empty. The sheets were cold. Untouched. The ache in his chest wasn't sharp, but dull and constant, like a bruise being pressed.

A knot twisted in his stomach. This made it two mornings in a row Zhan had gotten up before him—without a word, without a kiss, without so much as a whisper against his shoulder. He stared at the ceiling for a beat longer, willing himself not to spiral, before throwing the covers off and padding out of the bedroom, barefoot.

The sight that greeted him in the kitchen was almost surreal: Ren at the stove, dancing slightly to music only he could hear, confidently wielding a spatula like it was a microphone. He was wearing Yibo's hoodie—his hoodie—the black one with the soft cuffs and stretched sleeves, the one Zhan always stole when he was cold.

Ren wore it like a trophy.

"Morning, Yibo!" Ren chirped, not even bothering to look back. "I made breakfast. Don't worry, I didn't burn anything."

Yibo's jaw clenched. The kitchen looked like a storm had torn through it—spilled oil on the counter, cracked eggshells on a chopping board, a pan lid resting precariously on the edge of the sink. Ren stood there in the chaos like a self-proclaimed king.

At the counter, Zhan sat smiling, chin resting on his hand, watching Ren with soft amusement. The expression hit Yibo like a punch to the gut.

"You're awake," Zhan said warmly. "Ren made us breakfast."

"I can see that," Yibo said quietly, moving to the sink to fill a glass with water. His voice came out dry, cracked. But Zhan didn't notice. Or didn't care to.

Ren turned, holding a plate like a prize. "You don't cook, right Yibo? Zhan told me that. It's okay, some of us are just more... useful in the kitchen."

Zhan laughed lightly, as if it were all harmless fun.

Yibo didn't.

They sat—well, Zhan and Ren sat. Yibo leaned against the wall with his coffee, arms crossed, watching. Ren talked incessantly, dramatically reenacting a scene from the drama he was binging, throwing in loud gasps and over-the-top voices. Then he launched into a story about bumping into one of Zhan's old university classmates at a café near the university—someone Yibo had never heard of.

"Funny thing," Ren said, chewing his toast. "He actually asked if Zhan was single. I mean, what are the chances?"

He paused for effect, then smiled pointedly. "Of course, I said no. Duh."

Zhan chuckled.

Yibo stared at the small chip in his coffee mug, willing himself to look anywhere but Ren's smug face. Every word out of his mouth felt like an erasure, a little chisel carving away at Yibo's presence in his own home.

—

That afternoon, the opportunity for confrontation came wrapped in silence. Zhan had stepped out to collect something from downstairs, leaving Yibo and Ren alone in the living room. Yibo sat on the arm of the couch, pretending to scroll through his phone, every muscle in his body stiff with restrained irritation.

Ren looked up from the throw pillow he was fluffing unnecessarily. "You always look like you're brooding," he said cheerfully. "I bet when you and Zhan argue, he's the one who has to apologize first."