The thread between them had grown stronger, even if it was invisible to the rest of the world.

Late-night texts, brief calls when the noise of schedules finally quieted, the secret knowledge that somewhere out there, one of them was listening. For Wang Yibo and Xiao Zhan, these fragments became lifelines.

But the closer they drew in the shadows, the more mercilessly the spotlight burned.

It began with a headline.

“Anonymous source claims top idols maintaining hidden contact.”

The article didn’t mention names. It didn’t need to. Fans dissected every blurry photo, every coincidence in schedules, every unguarded glance at award shows. The storm gathered fast, hashtags climbing the trending list within hours.

Yibo’s manager stormed into the practice room the moment the news broke.

“Delete everything. Every message. Every call. Right now.” His voice was sharp, every syllable laced with urgency.

Yibo’s hands clenched at his sides. “It’s just rumors.”

“That’s how it starts,” his manager snapped. “Do you want to throw everything away? Your career, your group’s future, your endorsements—”

Yibo’s jaw tightened. “I’m not—”

“Then prove it,” his manager cut in, eyes narrowing. “Cut him off. Completely.”

The room fell into silence. Yibo’s throat worked, but no words came out. His fingers curled into fists so tight his nails bit into his palms.

He didn’t agree. But he didn’t argue either.

Xiao Zhan heard about the rumors the same evening. His assistant hovered nervously by the door, tablet in hand, the article pulled up.

“Ge…” the assistant began carefully, “maybe you shouldn’t look.”

“Too late.” Xiao Zhan’s tone was calm, but his hand tightened around the edge of the script he’d been reading. He scanned the article quickly, the lines blurring together.

His assistant bit his lip. “The company will want a statement. They’ll probably tell you to—”

“To stay quiet,” Xiao Zhan finished for him, voice flat. “To let it die on its own.”

He closed the tablet with a snap, leaning back in his chair. Outwardly, he looked composed. Inside, his chest was a storm.

He knew what this meant. Every whisper, every rumor—they were knives. And knives in this industry always found flesh to cut.

That night, Yibo didn’t text.

Xiao Zhan waited, staring at his phone long past midnight, the silence stretching heavier with each passing hour. Finally, he typed:

Xiao Zhan: “Are you okay?”

The message sat unread.

Minutes. Hours.

Nothing.

Three days passed. Three days of silence, each one sharper than the last.

Yibo buried himself in rehearsals, his body moving like a machine, every step harsher, every spin sharper. His group members noticed the change but said nothing.

Xiao Zhan threw himself into filming, forcing smiles for the camera, delivering lines with precision. When the director praised him, he bowed politely, but inside he felt hollow.

By the fourth night, Xiao Zhan’s patience cracked. He picked up his phone, hesitated, then dialed the hidden number.

The call rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then—

“Hello.”

Yibo’s voice was quiet, rough, as though scraped raw.

Xiao Zhan’s throat tightened. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I had to.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of static.

“They told you to stop, didn’t they?” Xiao Zhan said softly.

Yibo didn’t answer.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Xiao Zhan pressed, his voice trembling despite himself. “You’re just going to disappear again?”

Yibo’s breath hitched audibly. “Do you think I want that?”

“Then why?”

“Because if I don’t, they’ll destroy everything I’ve worked for.” His voice cracked, the words sharp but heavy with pain. “Not just mine—my group’s too. Do you understand what that means?”

Xiao Zhan closed his eyes. The ache in his chest deepened.

“I do,” he whispered. “But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.”

On the other end, Yibo didn’t speak. His breathing was uneven, unsteady.

Finally, he whispered, “I can’t lose you. But I can’t lose everything else either.”

Xiao Zhan’s hand trembled around the phone. He wanted to say choose me, but the words stayed locked in his throat.

Instead, he whispered, “I’ll wait. However long it takes. Even if all I get are stolen seconds.”

Yibo exhaled shakily. “Don’t say that. It makes me want to be selfish.”

“Then be selfish,” Xiao Zhan said, his voice raw. “Just this once.”

The silence stretched, heavy and aching. Then the line went dead.

Days bled into weeks. They didn’t speak. Not because they didn’t want to, but because the risk loomed too large.

And yet, the universe had a way of twisting the knife.

Another award show. Another stage. Another cruel coincidence.

This time, they were seated directly across from each other at long tables lined with the industry’s elite. Cameras flashed, music blared, hosts cracked jokes.

And all Yibo could see was Xiao Zhan’s smile. All Xiao Zhan could feel was Yibo’s gaze burning into him.

During the break, staff ushered them toward the backstage lounge. The corridor was narrow, the crowd thin.

And suddenly, it was just them.

Xiao Zhan stopped. Yibo did too.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Xiao Zhan whispered, low and urgent, “Why do we let them decide?”

Yibo’s chest rose and fell sharply. “Because if we don’t, we lose everything.”

“And what if we’ve already lost it?” Xiao Zhan shot back, his eyes blazing.

The words hit like a slap. Yibo flinched, his throat tightening. “Don’t say that.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong.”

The silence between them screamed louder than any crowd.

A staff member’s voice broke through the tension, calling their names. The moment shattered. They turned away, walking in opposite directions, but their hearts stayed locked in the corridor, beating too loud, too fast, too broken.

That night, Yibo couldn’t sleep. He paced his hotel room, restless, fists clenching and unclenching. Finally, he grabbed his phone, opened their chat, and typed:

Yibo: “You’re not wrong.”

The reply came almost instantly.

Xiao Zhan: “Then what do we do?”

Yibo stared at the screen, chest tight. Finally, he typed:

Yibo: “We steal what we can. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s never enough.”

And so they did.

Stolen moments in quiet corridors. Hidden messages buried in the night. Phone calls whispered under blankets while the world slept.

It wasn’t freedom. But it was survival.

One evening, after a particularly grueling shoot, Xiao Zhan sat on his balcony overlooking the city. His phone buzzed.

Yibo: “Step outside.”

Xiao Zhan frowned. Step outside? He was already outside. He typed back:

Xiao Zhan: “?”

A moment later, another buzz. A photo. The blurry outline of the very same skyline Xiao Zhan was staring at—taken from another building, just across the street.

His breath caught.

He typed quickly: “You’re here?”

Yibo: “Hotel opposite yours. Room 1508.”

Xiao Zhan’s pulse thundered. He stood abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. For a moment, he hesitated—logic screaming at him about cameras, staff, consequences.

But his heart had already decided.

The knock on the hotel door was soft, almost hesitant.

When it opened, Yibo stood there, cap pulled low, mask covering most of his face. His eyes, though—they were bare, raw, searching.

Neither spoke at first. Then Xiao Zhan stepped aside. “Come in.”

Yibo entered quickly, shutting the door behind him. For a long moment, they just stood there, staring.

Finally, Xiao Zhan whispered, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Yibo’s voice was low, rough. “But I needed to be.”

Xiao Zhan’s chest ached. He reached up, pulling the mask away from Yibo’s face. His fingers brushed his skin, and it felt like fire.

For the first time in months, no walls, no screens, no corridors separated them. Just breath, just silence, just the weight of everything unsaid.

Yibo swallowed hard. “I missed you.”

Xiao Zhan’s eyes glistened. “Say it again.”

Yibo stepped closer, his voice trembling but steady. “I missed you.”

The words cracked something open, sharp and tender. Xiao Zhan let out a shaky breath, and before he could think, he pulled Yibo into an embrace.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It was desperate, crushing, as if holding tighter could erase all the nights apart.

Yibo buried his face against Xiao Zhan’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “I don’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t,” Xiao Zhan whispered fiercely. “Not tonight.”

And for that night, they didn’t.