Zhan managed a faint nod, his throat too tight for words. Yibo reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and handed it to him. "It's midnight," he said quietly. "Try to rest." But Zhan glanced down at his clothes still the ones from the hospital and shook his head. "I'll... take a shower," he murmured.
"Alright," Yibo replied. "I'll get you something to wear."
While Zhan disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water soft behind the door, Yibo moved toward his walk-in closet. He chose a fresh shirt and soft trousers that would fit Zhan's frame, his fingers pausing briefly over the fabric. He lingered longer than he meant to, eyes distant. The image of Zhan's tired face, the faint tremor in his hands, the way he'd clung to him in his sleep all of it stayed with him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
He exhaled quietly and finally stepped out of the room. The hall outside was dim, the air still holding traces of rain from earlier. His steps were unhurried but firm as he descended the wide staircase to the first floor. The house was silent, servants already dismissed for the night, though one or two lights still glowed softly along the corridor.
In the kitchen, he found the meal that had been prepared earlier something he'd ordered the staff to ready just in case Zhan woke hungry. The food was still covered neatly, the aroma faint but comforting. Yibo rolled his sleeves and turned on the stove himself, reheating the dishes, watching the steam rise.
The quiet hum of the kitchen filled the space, broken only by the gentle clatter of porcelain. As he stirred the soup, his thoughts drifted, not to anger, not even to the confrontation at the Jiangs, but to the man upstairs. The one who had cried in his sleep. The one he'd carried through a storm of humiliation and still tried to smile.
When the scent of warmth filled the air, Yibo glanced at the clock. Almost one in the morning. He set the table on the balcony candlelight flickering against the glass doors and waited.
By the time Zhan stepped out of the bathroom, the air had shifted. The soft glow of candlelight spilled across the balcony, the faint aroma of food filling the quiet night. Zhan paused, adjusting the bathrobe loosely tied around his waist. He hadn't realized Yibo had gone to such lengths.
When he stepped out, Yibo looked up and the world seemed to pause.
For a moment, Yibo forgot to breathe. Water still dripped from Zhan's hair, sliding down the line of his neck before vanishing into the soft fabric of his robe. He wasn't doing anything, no deliberate motion, no trace of awareness yet something about that unguarded simplicity struck deeper than any intention could.
It wasn't seduction, but it carried the weight of it. Zhan's quiet presence, the faint flush on his skin, the way the dim light touched his damp hair it was all too human, too intimate. Yibo felt the air shift, the distance between them shrinking until even silence seemed to hum. His heartbeat stumbled, rough and fast, betraying the composure he'd spent a lifetime mastering.
For a heartbeat longer, he just looked the man before him no longer the wounded soul he'd carried upstairs, but someone achingly real, dangerously close to something he couldn't name.
Then Zhan cleared his throat softly, a small sound that broke the stillness. Yibo blinked, as if pulled from a trance. He straightened too quickly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
"Ah...you... you're done," he said, the words coming out uneven. "Come.. sit here, so we can eat."
He didn't mention the robe, didn't dare suggest he change. His gaze dropped to the table instead, pretending to busy himself with the dishes, though the echo of that moment of water, warmth, and the quiet pull between them refused to fade.
The dinner passed quietly, the soft clinking of cutlery the only sound between them. Every now and then, Zhan mentioned the project scheduled to start filming next week his tone calm, composed, but beneath it Yibo could hear the fatigue that no amount of acting could hide.
“If you’re still not ready, we can delay the shoot,” Yibo said, his voice low but firm. His gaze lingered on Zhan’s face the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was watching. “The doctor said you still need to rest.”
He set his utensils down, leaning slightly forward. “From now on, you don’t have to work so hard. If you’re tired, rest. We’re married now what’s mine is yours.” His tone softened, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words. “I didn’t build an empire just to watch my husband exhaust himself.”
Zhan froze, caught off guard. The words felt foreign kindness that sounded too close to a promise he didn’t deserve. His chest tightened, and he quickly averted his gaze, fingers tightening around his fork.
Seeing the shift in him, Yibo reached across the table and took his hand his touch steady, deliberate. “Look at me,” he said quietly.
Zhan hesitated, then obeyed. His dark eyes met Yibo’s uncertain, searching.
“I don’t know everything about what you’ve been through,” Yibo continued, voice calm but edged with something fierce. “I don’t know who hurt you… or what kind of life you had before.” His thumb brushed over Zhan’s knuckles, grounding him. “But from now on as long as you wear my name no one touches you. No one hurts you. I’ll be your shield, Zhan. Always.”
He paused. The warmth in his gaze shifted, darkened like a storm gathering beneath calm skies. “It might sound too soon to say this, since we barely know each other beyond what fate forced on us. But I’m not the kind of man who says things lightly.” His voice dropped lower, carrying a quiet threat beneath its steadiness. “When I give myself to someone… I do it completely. I protect them with everything I have.”
Then, just as softly, almost like a confession: “But if that person betrays me I can be a demon the world has never seen.” The air stilled between them, the candlelight flickering across Yibo’s features, turning his calm expression into something sharper dangerous, magnetic.
Zhan didn’t move, couldn’t. His breath caught, his heart pounding in a rhythm that didn’t feel like fear but something heavier. He couldn’t tell if it was the intensity of Yibo’s words or the certainty behind them that shook him more.
Yibo’s gaze softened again, the storm fading back into still water. He lifted Zhan’s hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of it not tender, but claiming. “I love you,” he murmured, the words low, almost reluctant, as if they’d slipped past his control.
Zhan said nothing. He only looked at him, eyes unreadable part awe, part unease as the air between them settled into a silence that wasn’t peace, but a calm before something neither of them yet understood.
Yibo didn’t press further. He only nodded, though something in his chest tightened.
After a while, the plates were cleared away, replaced by a quiet bottle of wine and two glasses. The night breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of rain and city lights.
Zhan leaned lightly against the railing, facing the view, one hand resting on the cool metal while the other held his glass. The robe he wore was loosely tied, the candlelight brushing against the curve of his neck and the hollow of his collarbone.
Yibo stood beside him but opposite his back to the railing, eyes half on Zhan and half on the reflection of the city in the glass behind him. For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was fragile, like the thin rim of crystal between their fingers.
Then Yibo broke it. “Do you want to ask anything?” His tone was low, even but there was something in it that hinted he already knew what was coming.
Zhan turned his gaze from the skyline to Yibo, studying his profile under the soft light. He didn’t speak right away. He took a slow sip of wine, gathering courage that trembled somewhere deep in his chest.
“Where’s Yuyu’s mother?” he asked finally, voice quiet but steady.
Yibo’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. He’d expected this but it didn’t make it easier. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow drink before lowering it again. “I don’t know,” he said at last, almost to himself.
Zhan’s eyes flickered toward him, curious, searching. And Yibo knew that look the need for truth hidden behind quiet eyes. So he spoke again, his voice more grounded this time.
“She wanted her career more than a family,” he said simply. “She walked away.”
Zhan nodded faintly, the reflection of the candlelight trembling in his wine.
“We were married six years ago,” Yibo added.
The words seemed to fall heavily between them. Zhan’s fingers tightened around his glass just enough that it almost cracked. “Who is she?” he asked softly, but there was something strained in his voice, as if the question itself cost him air.
YiZhanwangxian2026
A GOOD LOVER 💚❤️
PART 37
Zhan managed a faint nod, his throat too tight for words. Yibo reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and handed it to him. "It's midnight," he said quietly. "Try to rest." But Zhan glanced down at his clothes still the ones from the hospital and shook his head. "I'll... take a shower," he murmured.
"Alright," Yibo replied. "I'll get you something to wear."
While Zhan disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water soft behind the door, Yibo moved toward his walk-in closet. He chose a fresh shirt and soft trousers that would fit Zhan's frame, his fingers pausing briefly over the fabric. He lingered longer than he meant to, eyes distant. The image of Zhan's tired face, the faint tremor in his hands, the way he'd clung to him in his sleep all of it stayed with him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
He exhaled quietly and finally stepped out of the room. The hall outside was dim, the air still holding traces of rain from earlier. His steps were unhurried but firm as he descended the wide staircase to the first floor. The house was silent, servants already dismissed for the night, though one or two lights still glowed softly along the corridor.
In the kitchen, he found the meal that had been prepared earlier something he'd ordered the staff to ready just in case Zhan woke hungry. The food was still covered neatly, the aroma faint but comforting. Yibo rolled his sleeves and turned on the stove himself, reheating the dishes, watching the steam rise.
The quiet hum of the kitchen filled the space, broken only by the gentle clatter of porcelain. As he stirred the soup, his thoughts drifted, not to anger, not even to the confrontation at the Jiangs, but to the man upstairs. The one who had cried in his sleep. The one he'd carried through a storm of humiliation and still tried to smile.
When the scent of warmth filled the air, Yibo glanced at the clock. Almost one in the morning. He set the table on the balcony candlelight flickering against the glass doors and waited.
By the time Zhan stepped out of the bathroom, the air had shifted. The soft glow of candlelight spilled across the balcony, the faint aroma of food filling the quiet night. Zhan paused, adjusting the bathrobe loosely tied around his waist. He hadn't realized Yibo had gone to such lengths.
When he stepped out, Yibo looked up and the world seemed to pause.
For a moment, Yibo forgot to breathe. Water still dripped from Zhan's hair, sliding down the line of his neck before vanishing into the soft fabric of his robe. He wasn't doing anything, no deliberate motion, no trace of awareness yet something about that unguarded simplicity struck deeper than any intention could.
It wasn't seduction, but it carried the weight of it. Zhan's quiet presence, the faint flush on his skin, the way the dim light touched his damp hair it was all too human, too intimate. Yibo felt the air shift, the distance between them shrinking until even silence seemed to hum. His heartbeat stumbled, rough and fast, betraying the composure he'd spent a lifetime mastering.
For a heartbeat longer, he just looked the man before him no longer the wounded soul he'd carried upstairs, but someone achingly real, dangerously close to something he couldn't name.
Then Zhan cleared his throat softly, a small sound that broke the stillness. Yibo blinked, as if pulled from a trance. He straightened too quickly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
"Ah...you... you're done," he said, the words coming out uneven. "Come.. sit here, so we can eat."
He didn't mention the robe, didn't dare suggest he change. His gaze dropped to the table instead, pretending to busy himself with the dishes, though the echo of that moment of water, warmth, and the quiet pull between them refused to fade.
The dinner passed quietly, the soft clinking of cutlery the only sound between them. Every now and then, Zhan mentioned the project scheduled to start filming next week his tone calm, composed, but beneath it Yibo could hear the fatigue that no amount of acting could hide.
“If you’re still not ready, we can delay the shoot,” Yibo said, his voice low but firm. His gaze lingered on Zhan’s face the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was watching. “The doctor said you still need to rest.”
He set his utensils down, leaning slightly forward. “From now on, you don’t have to work so hard. If you’re tired, rest. We’re married now what’s mine is yours.” His tone softened, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words.
“I didn’t build an empire just to watch my husband exhaust himself.”
Zhan froze, caught off guard. The words felt foreign kindness that sounded too close to a promise he didn’t deserve. His chest tightened, and he quickly averted his gaze, fingers tightening around his fork.
Seeing the shift in him, Yibo reached across the table and took his hand his touch steady, deliberate. “Look at me,” he said quietly.
Zhan hesitated, then obeyed. His dark eyes met Yibo’s uncertain, searching.
“I don’t know everything about what you’ve been through,” Yibo continued, voice calm but edged with something fierce. “I don’t know who hurt you… or what kind of life you had before.” His thumb brushed over Zhan’s knuckles, grounding him. “But from now on as long as you wear my name no one touches you. No one hurts you. I’ll be your shield, Zhan. Always.”
He paused. The warmth in his gaze shifted, darkened like a storm gathering beneath calm skies. “It might sound too soon to say this, since we barely know each other beyond what fate forced on us. But I’m not the kind of man who says things lightly.” His voice dropped lower, carrying a quiet threat beneath its steadiness. “When I give myself to someone… I do it completely. I protect them with everything I have.”
Then, just as softly, almost like a confession:
“But if that person betrays me I can be a demon the world has never seen.” The air stilled between them, the candlelight flickering across Yibo’s features, turning his calm expression into something sharper dangerous, magnetic.
Zhan didn’t move, couldn’t. His breath caught, his heart pounding in a rhythm that didn’t feel like fear but something heavier. He couldn’t tell if it was the intensity of Yibo’s words or the certainty behind them that shook him more.
Yibo’s gaze softened again, the storm fading back into still water. He lifted Zhan’s hand and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of it not tender, but claiming. “I love you,” he murmured, the words low, almost reluctant, as if they’d slipped past his control.
Zhan said nothing. He only looked at him, eyes unreadable part awe, part unease as the air between them settled into a silence that wasn’t peace, but a calm before something neither of them yet understood.
Yibo didn’t press further. He only nodded, though something in his chest tightened.
After a while, the plates were cleared away, replaced by a quiet bottle of wine and two glasses. The night breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of rain and city lights.
Zhan leaned lightly against the railing, facing the view, one hand resting on the cool metal while the other held his glass. The robe he wore was loosely tied, the candlelight brushing against the curve of his neck and the hollow of his collarbone.
Yibo stood beside him but opposite his back to the railing, eyes half on Zhan and half on the reflection of the city in the glass behind him. For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was fragile, like the thin rim of crystal between their fingers.
Then Yibo broke it. “Do you want to ask anything?” His tone was low, even but there was something in it that hinted he already knew what was coming.
Zhan turned his gaze from the skyline to Yibo, studying his profile under the soft light. He didn’t speak right away. He took a slow sip of wine, gathering courage that trembled somewhere deep in his chest.
“Where’s Yuyu’s mother?” he asked finally, voice quiet but steady.
Yibo’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. He’d expected this but it didn’t make it easier. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow drink before lowering it again. “I don’t know,” he said at last, almost to himself.
Zhan’s eyes flickered toward him, curious, searching. And Yibo knew that look the need for truth hidden behind quiet eyes. So he spoke again, his voice more grounded this time.
“She wanted her career more than a family,” he said simply. “She walked away.”
Zhan nodded faintly, the reflection of the candlelight trembling in his wine.
“We were married six years ago,” Yibo added.
The words seemed to fall heavily between them. Zhan’s fingers tightened around his glass just enough that it almost cracked. “Who is she?” he asked softly, but there was something strained in his voice, as if the question itself cost him air.
Yibo hesitated. “Wen Qing.”
#yzwx2026 #yizhanff #fanfiction
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