In Between Us || Zhanyi

|| 63 ||

[A/N: I really don't know what you expect from me for this story though I will try my best to give you something worth your time. I loved last few comments where many readers shared this story helped them in real life to understand emotions, for some its understanding others, few came and confessed it helped to understand own self........I trust me I have no words to show my gratitude if that is your true words.

This story held a very basic plot but the weigh of the character's experience is much larger. Now that we entered into the arc of Yibo's rebuilding, I request for all of you to be patient with the plot and do share comments if you feel the story going off track as many times I do that. 

At last my request is help me to understand whether I am able to convey the things or not ]

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The first thing Yibo felt was warmth.

Not the kind that came from blankets or the filtered morning sun, but something steadier... alive. He shifted faintly, muscles protesting with a dull ache, and that's when he realized—he wasn't alone in the bed.

His lashes fluttered, lids heavy with sleep, and when his vision cleared, the realization struck quietly but firmly.

He was in Zhan's arms.......his husband's arms.

Zhan was sleeping on his side, his breath fanning softly against Yibo's hair. One arm was tucked beneath Yibo's neck, the other draped protectively over his waist, palm resting flat against his lower back like a silent promise: You're safe.

Yibo froze, breath caught in his throat.

He didn't remember when it happened. Did he move toward Zhan in the night? Or had Zhan pulled him close? He didn't know. All he knew was that this—this warmth, this closeness—was unfamiliar. A comfort he'd never allowed himself to expect.

This was the first time he had woken up in someone's arms.

His first time waking up next to Zhan.

And not just next to—held by.

The quiet pulse of the room magnified every heartbeat in his chest. Slowly, he turned his face, just enough to glimpse the man beside him.

Zhan was still asleep.

His expression had shed its usual sharpness. Without the weight of wakefulness, his brows relaxed, his mouth soft, Zhan looked... serene. Human. Not the commanding professor, not the storm of frustration and tenderness he often wore. Just Zhan. Just a man who had spent the last day holding Yibo together while quietly falling apart himself.

And somehow, Yibo had slept through all of it.

Guilt tightened in his chest—not the raw, panicked kind, but a deep, tired ache. He hadn't deserved this care. He hadn't done anything right. He had only been a burden again. He always was.

He thought of yesterday. Of Zhan's voice, firm but gentle. Of the meals in bed, the medicines passed into his hand, the way Zhan never once left his side.

He thought of the silence that held them through the night—and of the way his own body had betrayed him, curling into the one place it finally felt safe.

His gaze dropped.

He didn't want to move. Didn't want to break this. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested near Zhan's chest, as if wanting to hold back for one more second, just one.

The part of him that still clung to shame whispered: You don't deserve this.

But something else—quieter, buried deeper, barely breathing—asked: