WANG
I should've stopped him.
He came too fast, too hard, after collapsing in my arms hours ago. But there's something in his eyes now, clearer than I've seen in days. Like the haze is finally breaking.
He's still panting, sweat beading at his hairline, but he looks alive.
Not just surviving.
Burning.
"Where are you going?" he asks when I shift off the bed, adjusting the blanket over his legs.
"To get the nurse," I lie. "You need rest. Fluids."
He grabs my wrist.
"No," he says. "Take me to your room."
I raise an eyebrow. You passed out.
"I'm done letting other people decide when I can feel good again."
His voice is low, but firm. There's something raw underneath it, not recklessness. Need. Not just for sex. For control. For something that feels like his.
And maybe, deep down, I want that too.
I scan the hallway outside the infirmary door. One nurse on night shift. The rest are sleeping. I've snuck out of worse places under heavier fire.
"Fine," I mutter. "If we get caught, I'm telling them you seduced me."
He grins, already pushing the blanket aside. You wouldn't be wrong.
We move through the hall like fugitives. Zhan's bare feet are quiet on the floor, mine even quieter. He's wearing the hospital gown, oversized, swamping his thinner frame, and somehow that makes it worse. Or better. Or both.
He leans against me as we move, pretending to stumble when someone's door creaks, so I catch him around the waist. He presses his mouth to my ear.
"You like the danger?"
"Shut up."
"You're hard."
I am.
By the time we slip into my room, I lock the door behind us and lean against it to catch my breath.
That's when he turns.
Zhan steps in front of me, close. Real close. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone like he's memorizing me now.
"I want to see you," he says.
"I'm right here."
"No," he breathes. "See you."
He pushes me gently until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sit, half from surprise, half from want.
Then he drops to his knees.
"Zhan..."
"Let me."
He lifts my shirt first, dragging it over my head, then leans in and presses his lips just below my ribs. A kiss. Then another. Then a slow trail down the line of my stomach.
I suck in a breath.
His hands slide over my thighs, spreading them. His mouth presses reverent kisses across the skin, tracing scars, muscle, and heat. He looks up at me, eyes dark, focused.
"You don't get it," he whispers. "You've been my fantasy. My anchor. My reason."
His fingers hook into the waistband of my pants. I let him take them down.
"I want to worship you," he says.
And he does.
Slowly, gently, with more hunger than I've ever seen in him. He takes his time, mouth, tongue, hands, like he's tasting salvation. Like touching me is a holy thing.
And maybe, for him, it is.
He doesn't stop even when I moan. I don't rush when I grip the sheets and swear under my breath. He holds my hips down when I buck into his mouth. He owns the moment.
Not because he wants power.
Because he wants me.
And when I finally cum, shuddering, gasping, barely able to say his name, he stays there, head resting on my thigh like I'm the thing keeping him grounded now.
His breath is hot against my skin, his hands firm, sure, more sure than they were earlier. There's a shift in him now, a quiet storm behind his touch. He's not just touching to tease or to get off.
He's claiming me.
"I want every part of you," Zhan whispers, voice low, raspy. "Every inch."
I swear, I nearly came from that alone.
He guides me down onto the bed, onto my stomach. I go willingly. There's no tension in my body, no shame. Just heat. Trust.
I hear him spit low, deliberate, and then feel his hands spreading me open with the same reverence he kissed my chest with earlier. Gentle. Focused. Like I'm a gift he doesn't want to ruin. And then his mouth
"Oh, fuck."
I don't mean to say it out loud. It just tears out of me.
His tongue moves slowly at first, testing, tracing. Then deeper. More insistent. I clutch the sheets. My hips twitch, trying not to buck. I've never let anyone do this, not because I didn't want it, but because no one's ever made me need it the way Zhan does. He doesn't just eat me out, he devours me.
He moans while he does it. Like my taste, my reaction, my body in his hands turns him on more than anything else in the world. And it drives me fucking wild.
"Zhan—" I gasp, voice wrecked. "You're gonna ruin me."
"Good," he murmurs against my skin.
By the time he pulls back, I'm trembling. My whole body feels open, like he's peeled me apart and I liked it.
He flips me over slowly, crawling over me, settling between my legs. Our eyes lock.
"This time," he says, "I want to take my time. I want to make love to you."
I nod. I can't speak. My throat's thick with something heavier than lust. This isn't just sex. Not anymore.
He enters me with care, slow, steady, his fingers laced with mine. And it's good. It's so goddamn good. Every movement, every kiss, every grind of his hips feels like something sacred. Like we're rewriting time, stitching over pain with pleasure.
And he doesn't stop after that.
Or twice.
We lose ourselves in each other, again and again, through the soft hours of the night. Sometimes it's slow and tender. Other times it's wild, messy, raw. But it never loses that center, that gravity pulling us together, we have waited years to breathe each other.
At one point, I'm on top, rocking into him, Zhan's mouth at my throat, whispering my name like a prayer.
At another, he's behind me, arms wrapped tight around my chest like he's afraid I'll vanish.
We lie there for a while. My chest still rises unevenly, but the shaking's stopped. My body's spent in the best way, used, satisfied, seen. Zhan's arm is slung over my waist, his thumb lazily stroking my side.
It almost feels like peace.
Almost.
But I see it in his eyes. That distance creeping in. His mind working. Planning. Remembering where we are, and what comes next.
"Don't do that," I murmur.
"Do what?" he asks, not looking at me.
"Think so hard you forget you're here."
I'm thinking about you. He smile.
We fall asleep wrapped in sweat, exhaustion, and each other. His hand on my heart. Mine is in his hair.
And for the first time in years, I don't feel broken.
I feel whole.
I wake up to light, warm, and quiet, leaking through the window blinds. My body aches, but not in a bad way. It's the ache that says he was alive last night.
Zhan curled against me, face pressed into the side of my neck, one leg slung over mine like he couldn't let go even in sleep.
I don't move.
Not right away.
Instead, I just watch him.
He looks different like this. Softer. All the edges smoothed out, all the guarded tension gone from his jaw. His lashes flutter a little as he dreams, and his lips are still swollen from kissing me senseless.
I love him.
That thought comes and slaps me across the chest so hard it steals the air from my lungs.
Not lust. Not desperation. Love.
Because last night wasn't just about getting off. It wasn't about sex after seven years. It was about being seen. About someone choosing me, fully, when I've felt like a ghost for so long.
My fingers brush his hair back gently.
He stirs.
"Mmh," Zhan mumbles. "You're awake?"
"Yeah."
His eyes open, barely, sleep-drunk, but when they lock with mine, there's a flicker of that smirk I know too well. "You look smug."
"I feel smug."
"You should," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "You broke me in half. Multiple times."
I smile, then lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. He leans into it. Let himself melt again.
But then his brow creases. Just a little.
"What is it?" I ask.
"They're gonna notice," he says quietly. "I'm not in the infirmary. Someone's going to put two and two together."
I nod. I know he's right.
And still, I don't care.
"I'm not hiding," I say.
He looks up at me, eyes narrowing. "Wang—"
"I've hidden enough. My feelings. My body. My needs. I'm done with that."
There's silence. Heavy. Real.
Then he sits up slightly, rubbing his face. The blanket drops, revealing the bruises and marks I left all over his chest.
He doesn't try to cover them.
Instead, he looks at me, tired but certain.
"Then let's not hide."
I blink. "You mean—"
He nods.
"If someone wants to question why you're not in the infirmary, they can come knock on my door. They'll find you in my bed. And they'll deal with it."
We sit there for a beat, the morning air wrapping around us like a shield.
Then he grins. "But maybe get dressed first. You're glowing, but not that kind of glowing."
I laugh. For the first time in a long time, it's not bitter or forced.
It's just real.
The water runs hot, steam filling the small bathroom like a veil.
Zhan leans back against my chest, arms loose around my neck, our skin slick from the shower. I wash him slowly, his shoulders, his back, the fading bruises, and the fresh bite marks we left on each other.
He lets me, eyes closed, head tipped slightly to the side like he's finally relaxed.
But I can feel it when his posture shifts, just a little. When his fingers tighten in my hair and his breath evens out. He's thinking again. Plotting.
"What is it?" I murmur.
He turns his head and says into my jaw, "You remember the plan?"
My stomach clenches, not in fear, but awareness. The high is over. The world is still waiting outside this room.
"Yeah," I say. "Of course I do."
His voice is clearer now, steel under silk. "Then we need to get me back in the infirmary. Quietly."
I nod.
Zhan is right. We've both been wrapped in each other for hours, but this isn't a vacation. We've got moves to make. Layers to protect. Eyes on us.
After we dry off, I help him into clean clothes, loose black joggers and a soft hoodie that still smells faintly like my cologne. He walks steadier now. No more tremors. No more gasping breaths.
His body isn't giving up anymore.
And he's right, we don't need the IV drip pumping saline into him like he's one breath from collapse.
But we do need appearances.
"We'll go out the service stairwell," I say, slinging my coat on as I grab my phone. "Avoid the night guards. I'll call ahead to my guy at the kitchen, have them prep food under the table."
Zhan raises an eyebrow. "Stealing from your system now?"
"It's not stealing if I ordered it," I smirk. "And instead of basic IV fluids, I'll set you up with a multivitamin drip. Still looks medical. But it'll do something."
He leans against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes scanning me like he's still deciding whether to devour me or trust me.
"Smart," he says.
"Of course it is," I say. "You picked me."
We sneak through the hallway the way we came out, only this time, there's no haze of lust, no desperation. Just intent. Coordination. The two of us are moving like one unit.
Zhan's hoodie is pulled low over his face. He walks with a slight limp, more for show than need. I nod at the night nurse as we pass the corner near the rec wing. She barely looks up from her tablet.
Infirmary door. Keypad. Click.
Inside, dim lights hum. I settle Zhan back on the bed, same place he was last night, but now he's upright, alert, in control.
I switch the bag on the IV stand, hooking up a multivitamin mix instead of saline. It's enough to keep questions away.
I pass him the snack and the bottled green juice the kitchen courier left behind in a neutral bag.
He tears it open with one hand.
"You're doing all this for me," he says, half to himself.
"I'm doing this with you," I correct, meeting his eyes. "Big difference."
He stares at me for a long beat. Then nods.
That's the moment I know, he's back.
Not just physically. But the real Zhan. The one who plans three steps, who doesn't flinch, who leads from the shadows and kisses like it might be the last thing he ever does.
And I'll follow him anywhere.