MY PARENTS surprisingly allowed me to go with Yibo—I passed out on the couch waiting for dad to come home to get permission, and he ended up saying, "Yes, it looks like you need a break." They weren't satisfied until Yibo's sister called them to confirm all the details, sounding responsible to a surprising degree for someone who let a minor drive. So, that part went well.

But through all the frenzied days, I've been living in a daze. A part of my mind still was in Yibo's living room trying to figure out if Yibo loves me or if it's just how his sister saw it. But I couldn't deny that Yibo, who'd rarely befriend anyone unless he must, much less talk to a stranger, has been going out of his way to make me comfortable around him. Once or twice I tried to imagine how Yibo would treat a person he loves. The best answer I came up with is, he'll treat them the way he treats me.

Since then his simple gestures have been throwing me off. He once kissed the back of my neck when I was on my phone craned over, and said, "Sit back properly. You'll get neck pain." And it felt like there was some tangible electrostatic force around me.

Sometimes he would tug the quilt up before turning off the lights even if there was no need. He would remember to squeeze a bit of the chili sauce of his ramen into my bawl to add more spice. He would kiss me against a wall, and seeing that look in his eyes would make me momentarily forget the competition coming up in two weeks.

It's so overwhelmingly sweet, that it made me question if love is a feeling I even knew. I can't remember it being this radiant; this wholesome; this fulfilling. Making me question if I really knew what I thought I did.

And so, when Yibo pulls the seatbelt for me on our flight to see his dad, that electrostatic field manifests again, heating up my face and my heart and what it felt like my goddamned soul.

"What's wrong?" Yibo asks, his face inches away as he buckles me up.

"Nothing at all," I grin. At least I try.

It doesn't take long to realize that a textbook isn't the best object to accompany a flight. We were given the comfortable domestic first class seats—either it's too comfortable or my brain refuses to take anything in, it doesn't take even thirty minutes to toss it aside. Yibo too seemed to be suffering just the same, aimlessly scrolling between screens on his phone.

I wiggle a little to get comfortable. Maybe I should try to sleep.

"Oh, Zhan-ge," Yibo calls out suddenly.

"Hm?"

He turns to me as if to check if I'm listening. "Uh. Well, I don't mean to be a party pooper, but I think you should know this."

"Know what?"

Yibo purses his lips. "Remember when Mingyu came with us to the supermarket?" I nod. "She heard our conversation about my ticket situation. She's asking for them."

I blink. "She's going to travel to Shanghai?"

"I think . . ." He thinks for a second. Then he taps into his phone and hands it to me. "Take a look yourself."

It's a text chat between him and Mingyu. How can I put it . . . I think Zhan got into a little complication with Feng-ge because of me. So I was thinking of a way to make him feel better and got this crazy idea. What if Feng-ge and I surprise him? We can show up on the day of the competition. He'll be happy to have Feng-ge there, right? He usually comes to his performances.

Yibo has replied, I'll confirm with you soon.

I curse under my breath setting the phone down.

Yibo sighs. "I wasn't sure about what's going on, so, I didn't say anything."

"How is she even going to pay?"

Yibo shrugs. "I figured it must be Feng."

But can he even ask for money for something that involves me? Of course, Mingyu has no clue about his situation. How can she possibly know that this will probably make things worse for Feng? I groan.

"I can just tell her that I gave them to someone else," Yibo offers.

"Why do all of us have to lie to save the face of this one guy?"

Yibo opens his mouth and shuts it back.

I sigh. "Let her have them. I'm done cleaning after his messes. Let him deal with it on his own."

"Are you sure you want them in the audience?"

"God, I don't care," I grunt. "I don't think about the audience when I'm performing, anyway."

Yibo's gaze stays on me for a minute. He nods but doesn't say anything.

Before I could stop, the words come out. "All he'll see is that I'm doing much better. At least that'll kick him on his ego."

Hearing that, Yibo grins. "All right, tickets sold." He sounded so proud, for someone who just listened to a rant.

I chuckle at the reaction.

"Also." He's still swiping his screen. "Did I tell you that my dad is a retired actor?"

"Excuse me, what?"

Yibo makes this smug apologetic face. "I guess I didn't."

"You're not joking?"

"Hmm . . . nope."

"Oh my god, you menace. Didn't it cross your mind that a heads up would've been nice?"

"This is the heads up."

"Why didn't you wait till we actually meet so I'll make a fool out of myself?"

"I was going to tell you!" Yibo laughs. "I didn't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole."

"'Zhan-ge, I think you should know we're going to meet a famous person.' I'll at least be prepared. No, don't look at me like that. I actually might punch you in the face."

But he continues to shove that stupid grin in my face, knowing what it could do. This bastard.

"In my defense, I didn't think I'll ever be associated with him until a few days ago."

I give him a good glare.

"My bad, my bad," Yibo chuckles.

"At least say it like you mean it," I scoff. "What, happy now that you've shocked me?"

Yibo hums, making an unsmiling face of contempt. "I do seem to enjoy it." I smack him on his head with my book. "Ow."

I can't believe I let him set me up for this without even asking for details. "Deserved it."

"I did, I did," Yibo whines.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I could see why he never mentioned it. Knowing him, that must have been something he wanted to leave in the past. But each time I get to know him a little better, he turns out to be a little more complex than he was. I sigh. "Shouldn't, like, paparazzi be following you?"

"Not really," Yibo says. "Dad hit his peak after we separated. And we never met after that. So all that got out was he has a son, not who I am. He was always strict about not getting us photographed, anyway." He shrugs. "I thought I'd get to keep it that way, but here we are."

As his eyes dart back to his phone, I couldn't help but think if meeting him is the right thing to do. But who am I to tell him that? Trying to come up with some words of comfort, all I could see is that I didn't know what's best either. It made me feel, pathetically, helpless.

A CHAUFFEUR WAITED for us at the airport. Thankfully he wasn't in formal attire—the situation was intimidating as it is, I'd rather not have it worse with the weirdness of formalities. But he calls Yibo sir and tells us he'll be taking care of our traveling during the stay.

We follow him to the car. Yibo keeps an unfriendly distance between him and us, and I didn't have a reason to change it. I feel at ease until I realize where we were directed to.

The 'car'—it was obscene. The shiny thing is impeccably black and impeccably clean without a single speck of dust, the outrageous brand logo standing over the hood. Staring with my jaw hanging open, I mutter, "Right, you're rich."

"No, he is rich, and he likes to rub it on others' faces."

We get in, it seemed to be the type that's said to have some special mechanism to make the seats extra comfortable, the light grey leather somehow adjusting to an easing position. Yibo instructs the staff to drive us to the hotel. I was surprised at how well he handled the process for the introvert he is.

As the car silently rolls into the expressway, my phone pings. It's Yibo. My dad is what you call DILF material. Beware. I shoot him a glare and he smugly snickers.

Should I be concerned about the way you refer to your father?

Yibo reads it and shrugs. For 10 years he was only a character on a screen to me. He thinks for a while and types again. I still don't see the need to change that view.

Once again, I find myself unable to find words to tell him. And I realize that Qian was right. This is all for him to decide. All I could do is to be beside. The best I could do is to hold him through it.

I reach out to give a squeeze on his knee.

But not being able to make it better for him—it didn't feel good. It hurts.

***

I couldn't edit this as much as I wanted to. Hopefully, it's satisfactory. I might add a few more edits later. 

Hope you enjoyed your read!!!