The night swallowed them whole as Yibo’s bike tore down the nearly empty roads. The city lights stretched into streaks of gold and white, reflected in Xiao Zhan’s dark glasses though it was past midnight. Wind clawed at his jacket, tangled his hair, but he didn’t care. His arms were wrapped tightly around Yibo’s waist, the steady rhythm of Yibo’s breathing the only anchor in the blur of speed.

For months, silence had weighed on him. Tonight, the roar of the engine filled that void, drowning out all the words they had both been too afraid to speak. Xiao Zhan closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against Yibo’s shoulder. The leather smelled faintly of gasoline and something uniquely Yibo—cool, clean, a little sharp.

It felt reckless. It felt like escape. It felt like everything he had missed.

When the bike finally slowed, Xiao Zhan opened his eyes. They were pulling into the outskirts of the city, toward a quiet stretch of road lined with trees, the hum of nightlife fading into a soft hush. Yibo parked near an overlook, where the city sprawled below like scattered stars. He cut the engine. Silence crashed in, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the faint whisper of wind.

For a moment, neither moved. Xiao Zhan remained seated behind Yibo, reluctant to let go. He could feel the steady warmth of him, the faint thud of his heartbeat beneath the jacket. But eventually, Yibo shifted, pulling off his helmet, and Xiao Zhan had no choice but to release him.

He swung one leg off, standing a little awkwardly, hair tousled, face flushed from the ride. Yibo glanced at him, eyes glinting in the faint light. Then, wordlessly, he handed Xiao Zhan the spare helmet he had been carrying.

Xiao Zhan accepted it, fingers brushing Yibo’s. The brief contact sent a spark racing through him. He looked down quickly, clutching the helmet too tightly.

They stood side by side, staring at the city below. For a long time, neither spoke.

Finally, Xiao Zhan broke the silence. His voice was soft, uncertain. “Why did you call me tonight?”

Yibo didn’t answer immediately. He slipped his hands into his pockets, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Xiao Zhan’s heart stumbled. “About what?”

Yibo turned then, meeting his eyes. In the faint glow of distant city lights, his expression was raw, stripped of the cool mask he wore so often. “That night. The hotel. The door.”

Xiao Zhan’s throat tightened. He had replayed that night endlessly, every second etched into his memory. “You said goodbye.”

“I said the wrong thing,” Yibo admitted, voice low. His jaw clenched. “I wanted to say more. But I didn’t know how.”

The confession punched the air from Xiao Zhan’s lungs. He looked down at his hands, gripping the helmet like a lifeline. “I wanted you to say more.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung between them, fragile, trembling.

Yibo inhaled sharply, then stepped closer. “And if I had? What would you have done, ge?”

Xiao Zhan’s breath caught. He raised his eyes slowly, meeting Yibo’s gaze. The distance between them felt electric. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But at least I wouldn’t still be wondering.”

Yibo’s lips parted, as if to reply, but no words came. Instead, he turned away abruptly, walking toward the edge of the overlook. He braced his hands against the railing, staring out at the city as though it held answers.

Xiao Zhan followed, slower, his chest aching with every step. He stopped beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

“You think I haven’t been wondering too?” Yibo asked suddenly, voice tight. “Every day since that night, I’ve thought about it. About you. About what I should have said.”

The admission sliced through Xiao Zhan’s defenses. He gripped the railing, knuckles pale. “Then why didn’t you?”

Yibo laughed softly, bitterly. “Because I’m a coward.”

Xiao Zhan turned, stunned. Yibo rarely admitted weakness, never called himself out like this.

“You’re not a coward,” Xiao Zhan said firmly.

“I am.” Yibo’s eyes flicked to him, glinting with frustration. “I thought… if I kept it simple, if I left it at ‘take care,’ then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. Maybe it would be easier for both of us.”

“And was it?” Xiao Zhan asked, voice sharper now. “Easier?”

Yibo looked away. His silence was the answer.

Xiao Zhan’s chest ached, but there was a strange relief in hearing the truth at last. “You hurt me, Yibo. That night… I kept waiting for you to say something, anything. And when you didn’t… it felt like everything we had meant nothing.”

Yibo’s head snapped back toward him, eyes blazing. “It wasn’t nothing. Don’t you dare think that.”

The intensity in his voice made Xiao Zhan’s breath hitch. For a moment, neither moved. The air between them was charged, thick with all the unspoken things finally clawing to the surface.

Slowly, Yibo reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it hovered near Xiao Zhan’s. But he didn’t close the distance. His fingers lingered, then curled into a fist before falling back to his side.

“I wanted to say I didn’t want it to end,” Yibo whispered. “That leaving felt like tearing myself apart. That every laugh, every rehearsal, every stupid moment with you—none of it was just work for me.”

Xiao Zhan’s vision blurred. He turned his face away, blinking hard. The words he had longed to hear were finally here, but they came too late, wrapped in regret.

“And yet you walked away,” Xiao Zhan said hoarsely.

“I had to.” Yibo’s voice cracked, raw. “Because if I stayed… if I said it then… I don’t know if I would have been able to let you go.”

The admission hung heavy between them. Xiao Zhan’s hands shook against the railing. He wanted to scream, to cry, to demand why Yibo had chosen silence over them. But all he managed was a broken whisper.

“And what about now?”

Yibo turned toward him fully, eyes burning. “Now… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The words shattered something inside Xiao Zhan. His heart lurched, torn between joy and despair. Because here, under the quiet night sky, with the city stretched below them, he finally had the truth.

But the truth hurt just as much as the silence.

He closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Why are you telling me this now, Yibo?”

“Because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.” Yibo’s voice was desperate now, stripped bare. “Because watching you walk away that morning… it’s haunted me every damn day. Because I’d rather you hate me for saying this too late than never know at all.”

Xiao Zhan’s hands gripped the railing so hard his arms ached. He wanted to reach for Yibo, to pull him close, to let himself drown in the confession. But fear wrapped around him still—the fear of what it would mean, of what they would lose, of the impossible world they lived in.

When he finally opened his eyes, Yibo was staring at him, waiting, pleading.

Xiao Zhan’s lips parted. His voice shook. “Yibo… I—”

The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t force them out. Not yet.

Yibo’s face fell slightly, but he didn’t press. He simply nodded once, as if accepting defeat, and stepped back. “I shouldn’t have asked. I just needed you to know.”

The distance between them widened, cold and unbearable.

Xiao Zhan’s chest screamed at him to close it, to stop Yibo from walking away again. But his body betrayed him, rooted in place.

They stood like that for a long moment—two figures on the edge of the world, everything between them unsaid and yet spoken.

Finally, Yibo broke the silence, voice low. “Take care, ge.”

The same words. But this time, they were heavier, filled with everything he had finally revealed.

And before Xiao Zhan could gather the courage to stop him, Yibo turned, slipping his helmet back on, and mounted the bike.

The engine roared to life.

And then, just like before, he was gone—swallowed by the night, leaving Xiao Zhan standing alone, trembling with all the words still locked inside.

Xiao Zhan pressed a shaking hand to his chest, staring into the darkness long after the taillight disappeared.

The silence that followed was worse than ever. Because now, he knew.

And knowing didn’t make the goodbye hurt any less.