Years passed.
The world had changed, though not always for the better. Fame had been both a crown and a chain—bringing them glory, but also scars. Yet through storms of gossip, bans, scandals, and recoveries, one thing remained constant: each other.
Now, in the quiet embrace of a seaside town far from the city's chaos, they finally breathed.
The house wasn't large. It didn't need to be. White walls, wooden floors, wide windows that opened to the vast blue horizon. The air smelled of salt, fresh bread from a local bakery, and sometimes, Yibo's motor oil when he tinkered with his bike outside.
That morning, Xiao Zhan sat on the porch, sketchbook open on his knees. The ocean stretched endlessly before him, waves glimmering under the rising sun. He wasn't drawing for anyone else anymore. These sketches weren't for fans, weren't for exhibitions. They were for him. For them.
A cup of tea steamed beside him, untouched. His pencil danced over the paper, catching the lines of the horizon when he heard faint guitar chords from inside.
It was Yibo.
The notes were soft, lazy, like the ocean itself was strumming along. Zhan smiled faintly, his heart warming at the domesticity of it all. This wasn't the roaring, youthful Yibo who once chased him across sets with sleeve-slaps and childish grins. This was his Yibo—older, calmer, but still with the same spark hidden behind his eyes.
The door slid open with a creak, and out he came—barefoot, hair still messy, bracelet still dangling on his wrist. That same red string Xiao Zhan had tied years ago, now frayed from time but never once removed.
Yibo plopped down beside him and, without asking, stole his tea.
"Still drawing the sea, lao-po?" he teased, voice thick with sleep.
Zhan chuckled, putting his pencil aside.
"Still stealing my tea, lao-gong?"
They laughed softly, their voices blending with the ocean breeze. Yibo leaned his head on Zhan's shoulder, and for a long moment, they just listened—to the waves, to the silence, to the steady rhythm of their hearts.
Then Yibo tilted his face up and kissed him.
Not hurried. Not stolen. Not fearful. Just soft, deliberate, and infinite.
Xiao Zhan kissed back with all the tenderness years had carved into him. Every sacrifice, every risk, every lonely night they endured to arrive here—it all poured into that kiss.
When they pulled apart, Yibo's forehead rested against his, a quiet smile curving his lips.
"This is enough, right?"
Xiao Zhan whispered back, his hand finding Yibo's and squeezing.
"More than enough."
No cameras. No headlines. No need for coded words or hidden touches.
Here, in this house by the sea, they were not stars. Not actors. Not idols chained by fame.
They were just Zhan and Yibo.
And they were free.
💚❤️💚❤️💚❤️🐢🐢🦁🐰🦁🐰🦁🐰