Work Text:
The world outside moved the same way it always had—morning light skimming mirrored glass, voices spilling down studio halls, the click of doors, camera shutters, coffee cups.
Only to them did it feel different.
A month had passed since the night they stopped pretending.
The air still buzzed with rehearsals, deadlines, and the same routines, yet everything carried a secret pulse underneath,
a second rhythm only two hearts could hear.
They had become experts at looking ordinary.
Ziyu’s studio lights still burned too late; he still kept his headphones too loud and his focus too sharp.
Xuning still showed up early to every schedule, coat perfectly buttoned, half-awake smile making assistants sigh.
But somewhere between those ordinary hours,
they had carved out their own—tiny, hidden spaces where the noise of the world couldn’t reach.
Sometimes it was just a message.
Xuning: Silence check.
(I'm alone now.)
Ziyu: it's going to rain.
(Come here. Quick.)
And then Xuning would appear, pretending he’d “forgotten his charger," leaning on the doorframe like coincidence itself.
Sometimes it was a glance across the corridor, an almost-touch in a crowded dressing room,
a line hummed under breath that the other would catch.
No one else ever noticed.
Or maybe they did—and kindness made them look away.
Love, at this stage, wasn’t grand.
It was quiet defiance—
a steady heartbeat against the rules that told them to behave, to focus, to keep the public version of themselves spotless.
And yet, within those narrow margins, they found endless room to be reckless.
The morning sunlight filtered lazily through the blinds of Ziyu’s studio.
A faint hum of equipment and the steady beat of a track in progress filled the space.
Ziyu sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones clamped tight over his ears, tapping rhythm on the keyboard, immersed in a new composition.
The quiet buzz of his phone broke the trance.
A text:
RHYTHM: Coffee’s brewing plus sugar.
(I’m free—see you in 10, baby.)
Ziyu’s lips twitched. RHYTHM. Always using code. Subtle. Dangerous.
His chest warmed at the thought.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once, they used names like everyone else. “Xuning,” “Ziyu”—formal, ordinary, too visible. But over time, something shifted.
The codenames were born from memory, playful yet defining:
RHYTHM, because during filming of their BL drama together, Xuning had insisted—half-serious, half-teasing—that he had his own rhythm, a cadence no one else could follow. It had made Ziyu laugh then, and later, it made him shiver with something unspoken.
BLUES, simply because Ziyu had always loved the color—its quiet melancholy, its depth—and Xuning had teased that he was the only one who could paint him in shades nobody else could see.
Now, their names were obsolete. Their messages were small, secret melodies only they could hear.
And when put together—RHYTHM & BLUES—the code became more than a name. It was a song in itself, a harmony that spoke of intimacy, of longing, of the quiet romance that only music could capture. A melody written for two, carrying warmth, passion, and the softest sighs between the notes. It was sentiment, it was love, it was poetry: a duet only they could perform.
BLUES: “Books open, vanillatte in hand”
(Can’t wait to see you, love.)
A soft knock at the studio door drew Ziyu’s attention. When he looked up, Xuning was leaning casually against the frame, phone in hand, a sly grin tugging at his lips and a mischievous glint in his eyes. The curl of that smile alone made Ziyu’s knees go weak.
“Your break starts now,” Xuning murmured, voice low enough to be private but with that teasing edge Ziyu knew too well.
(He meant: I want your hugs and kisses).
Ziyu shook his head, mock exasperation on display, but his feet were already moving.
“Tsk… stop talking in codes already.”
Xuning’s grin widened as he caught Ziyu’s hand, tugging him down the side corridor.
A small, stolen kiss—just at the corner where the security cameras didn’t reach—and Ziyu’s knees almost gave out.
“Shh,” Xuning whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. “Manager eyes everywhere.”
Ah, yes. Their managers. Two sets of parents masquerading as professionals:
Xuning’s, meticulous and proud, hovering invisibly over every move;
Ziyu’s, disciplined and relentless, double-checking schedules with the precision of a bomb defusal expert.
They couldn’t just hold hands openly—yet.
Lunch ended up in the quiet rooftop garden of the building adjacent to Ziyu’s studio.
Ziyu perched on the ledge, legs dangling, while Xuning leaned against the railing behind him.
“Don’t get caught, silly,” Ziyu whispered.
“Caught by who?” Xuning teased, pressing a warm, lazy kiss to the nape of Ziyu’s neck.
The thrill of almost being caught made Ziyu shiver.
“Your manager? Or mine?”
“Both,” Ziyu said flatly, though his lips curved into a smile.
Xuning chuckled and kissed the side of Ziyu’s cheek, leaving a faint mark—carefully angled so it could be mistaken for a scratch.
“Taken,” he said, half joke—half serious. “By me.”
“Hmmph,” Ziyu replied, nudging him.
But his fingers snuck into Xuning’s hand, entwining with ease.
Small victories. Tiny stolen touches.
The kind that sent warmth spreading through the chest without anyone else noticing.
Back in their respective studios, messages flew like secret missiles.
BLUES: Rain check on sanity.
(Break in 30. Rooftop.)
RHYTHM: Forecast says thunder.
(On my way there. Missed you like crazy.)
BLUES: Bring the storm along.
(Me too.)
BLUES: …and maybe a little lightning, blink twice.
(I'll ride you soon, 😉😉).
These weren’t just texts—they were lifelines.
Signals only they could read.
A kiss in the corner of the hallway, a soft squeeze of the hand under the table,
a shared coffee mug left on the edge of Ziyu’s desk as a placeholder: I’m thinking of you.
Their assistants noticed.
“Are you two… always sneaking off?” Ziyu’s assistant asked cautiously one time.
“Uh…” Ziyu froze, caught.
But Xuning’s voice cut in over the call:
“Strictly work-related brainstorming... Very serious.”
His stupid smirk was audible.
They tried to stay out of trouble, but both sets of managers were relentless.
Meetings scheduled to “clarify boundaries.”
Check-ins about professionalism, image control, focus.
It wasn’t that their managers didn’t care; it was that they cared too much.
They thought they were protecting them—from rumors, from chaos, from themselves.
But Ziyu and Xuning only heard: Stay apart.
And that, of course, made them push harder against the rules.
Secret rehearsals. Late-night coffee runs disguised as “creative discussions.”
Once, when both managers showed up unannounced, they had to improvise—Ziyu perched behind the studio desk, pretending to critique Xuning’s vocal take while trying not to laugh.
“We’re discussing tone variation,” Ziyu had said too quickly.
“Really?” his manager asked, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Xuning said smoothly, reaching for Ziyu’s hand under the table.
“Very emotional tone variation indeed.”
Their eyes met.
And that was the problem. They couldn’t stop smiling.
It wasn’t long before both managers gave up pretending they didn’t know.
There was a tense “sit-down” meeting—two managers, two artists, one long table between them.
“Public appearances must remain professional,” one manager said firmly.
“The sneaking, the rumors—this isn’t ideal.”
“GE,” Xuning interrupted softly. “We’re still productive. Work’s on schedule. No distractions.”
Ziyu’s manager sighed. “You’re both dedicated. But the secrecy—”
“We’re discreet,” Xuning promised. “No interference. Nothing affects our careers. Just… personal moments. Fleeting. Nothing public—unless necessary.”
After much negotiation (and a few dramatic sighs from both sides), they were granted reluctant approval.
“Fine,” Ziyu’s manager muttered. “But only if it’s subtle.”
“Subtle—it is.” Xuning echoed, already brushing his hand against Ziyu’s lower back.
Secret meetings became their favorite kind of rebellion.
Corner stairwells for quick, breathless kisses.
Rooftop sessions with soft make-outs when no one passed by.
Subtle hickeys behind ears, under collars—signals only they’d see.
Late-night coffee cups exchanged like coded messages: I’m yours.
Each moment was a rush.
Adrenaline spiked, hearts thudded like drums in sync with every stolen touch.
RHYTHM: I wanna smoke.
(Babe, I’m horny.)
BLUES: Same brand? Or you want mine?
(BJ? Or Deep penetration?)
Even amidst the thrill, there was tenderness.
Xuning teaching Ziyu how to make the perfect espresso while music hummed in the background.
Ziyu curling into Xuning on the couch during editing sessions, letting the warmth seep in,
hands brushing naturally over each other.
Lazy Sunday mornings, oversized shirts, shared blankets, and soft laughter spilling over pancakes.
Whispered I love yous between sentences, between tasks,
in moments so quiet no one else could hear.
They’d become something steady—ordinary to everyone else,
but for them, extraordinary in its simplicity.
Two people learning how to love without breaking what they’d built.
Eventually, the hints became too obvious to ignore.
Pictures leaked—subtle, unposed, yet intimate.
Fans dissected every gesture: the way Xuning’s hand lingered near Ziyu’s waist,
the matching bracelets, the shared mug, the late-night posts with identical playlists.
Social media exploded.
Top 1 couple, overnight.
And through it all, they only smiled knowingly at each other—
still sneaking kisses when cameras weren’t watching,
still brushing hickeys where no one would ever notice.
Because no matter how public their love became, it was theirs—
a private thrill, a domestic warmth,
a love that could both set hearts racing
and soothe them to quiet, contented sighs
in a sunlit studio that now finally felt like home.
The noise came first.
Hashtags. Camera flashes. A new rhythm of footsteps whenever they entered a room.
And yet, to them, the world felt quieter.
After the reveal, there were no tears, no sudden confessions—only the slow settling of reality. The first few days were all management meetings and press statements, polite smiles and "cooperative coordination" as their teams called it.
But between every professional nod and every public bow, there existed the small, invisible thread that only they could feel—the one that tugged softly between studios, between glances, between breaths.
Their code language, once private, didn’t vanish.
It only evolved.
RHYTHM: Roses are red, violets are blue—
(and here I am craving for you).
BLUES: Not now. They’re still watching.
RHYTHM: Always watching. Never seeing.
The messages came less frequently now — not because they wanted to stop, but because they had to choose carefully when to speak. Every text risked exposure; every shared look could be replayed a thousand times by strangers.
Still, they found a way.
Sometimes through humor —
when their managers caught them sharing the same car “by accident,” both pretending to be tired.
Sometimes through restraint—
a small wave across a crowded press line, passed off as casual, but heavy enough to stop time.
It wasn’t rebellion anymore.
It was endurance—the quiet, steady kind that doesn’t need to prove anything.
Their managers still fussed, though less sharply now.
Ziyu’s checked his schedules like a hawk.
Xuning’s inspected his calendar as if searching for hidden time slots.
“You can’t keep overlapping events,” one said.
“He’s my creative partner,” Xuning replied, perfectly polite, perfectly steady.
“In what project?”
“Life,” he said simply, and smiled before anyone could argue.
Ziyu nearly choked holding back laughter beside him—THE AUDACITY.
The managers exchanged exhausted glances—two adults raising two very stubborn sons. But somewhere between irritation and affection, something softened. Maybe it was the way the boys’ work never slipped. Maybe it was how the songs hit harder, how the photos looked brighter, how the audiences leaned in more than ever.
By the next month, both managers stopped separating their schedules entirely.
They didn’t say it aloud, but approval doesn’t always come in words.
When night came, the world quieted again.
Ziyu sat in his studio, late as usual, mixing under low light.
A soft knock at the door.
He didn’t even look up.
“Door unlocked,” he said under his breath. (I want you so bad).
The door creaked open. Xuning stepped inside with two cups of coffee and that smirk that said he’d been waiting for that cue.
No words, just warmth—the kind of silence that fills rather than empties.
They didn’t talk about work. They didn’t talk about fans or managers.
They just let the moment breathe.
The same way they always had before the world found out. Ziyu tucked in Xuning's warmth, a little too comfy and cozy on his lap.
Weeks passed like that—fame roaring outside, calm blooming inside.
Every shared glance became a quiet rebellion; every laugh, a small act of defiance.
They still used their codes sometimes— out of habit, out of nostalgia, out of love.
RHYTHM: The sun and the moon.
(I want you in my room.)
BLUES: Only if you make breakfast tomorrow.
RHYTHM: Deal.
The first award show after their reveal was chaos—reporters shouting, lights flashing, fans screaming their names together like one word.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, answering politely, smiling on cue.
Until Ziyu, almost imperceptibly, leaned close enough for a whisper only one person could hear.
“Still feels unreal,” he said softly.
“It is,” Xuning replied. “That’s what makes it ours.”
And under the stage lights, they looked ordinary again—two professionals posing for cameras, nothing more.
But their eyes told the truth.
It wasn’t about secrecy anymore.
It was about knowing exactly who they were, and daring to keep it simple.
Back in the quiet of Ziyu’s studio later that night, they replayed the interview clips—every frame, every glance, every word analyzed online.
Half the world called them a fantasy.
The other half called them brave.
Ziyu just laughed and leaned back against Xuning’s shoulder.
“Guess we’re still acting,” he murmured.
Xuning smiled, pressing his lips against his hair. “Then let’s make it the role of a lifetime.”
The screen glowed softly in front of them, replaying their smiles again and again—but behind it all, the world had no idea what it felt like:
two hearts still speaking in code,
two names that had become a song,
two lives beating to the same melody—
RHYTHM and BLUES.
Mornings came slower now.
The kind of slow that made you notice sunlight instead of alarms, warmth instead of noise.
Ziyu woke first, as he always did—not because he wanted to, but because habit refused to unlearn him. The air smelled faintly of coffee and detergent; the room was a mix of papers, lyrics, and half-folded clothes that never made it back to the closet.
Beside him, Xuning was still asleep—one arm slung over his waist, hair a soft mess, lips parted just enough to be annoying.
Ziyu stared for a moment.
There was something stupidly peaceful about seeing someone so famously untouchable look so ordinary.
He reached out to fix Xuning’s fringe, but his fingers paused halfway.
“Don’t,” Xuning murmured, eyes still closed.
“You’re awake.”
“Your staring is too loud.” Xuning replied—amused.
“Then stop being nice to look at.” That earned a quiet chuckle, muffled into the pillow.
They stayed like that—unhurried, wordless—as if the day outside had agreed to wait.
For once, time didn’t feel like a schedule.
It felt like permission.
Breakfast was chaos in the softest way.
Xuning’s version of cooking was too much enthusiasm and too little precision.
Ziyu’s was silent judgment and the occasional save.
“You don’t measure instant coffee,” Ziyu said, watching him pour half the jar.
“Art doesn’t measure,” Xuning answered.
“Then your art tastes like dirt.”
“That’s called depth, my love.”
The bickering filled the kitchen like background music—half-arguing, half-flirting.
It wasn’t scripted, it wasn’t staged. It was them—stripped of cameras, stripped of polish, raw in the most beautiful way.
Sometimes, on their free days, they didn’t even talk much.
They just were.
Ziyu, sitting by the window sketching choreography notes.
Xuning, sprawled on the floor with a guitar, half-tuned, half-daydreaming.
The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was fluent.
Every sound—the scratch of pencil, the strum of strings, the faint rhythm of someone humming—wove into something that resembled peace.
Ziyu once looked up and said, “You know, you’re loud even when you’re quiet.”
Xuning smiled, not looking up. “Good. That means you’re listening.”
But peace never stayed untouched for long.
Not in their world.
The next project came—a film shoot overseas.
Different companies, different schedules, different countries.
A full month apart.
The night before his flight, Xuning packed slow—deliberately slow—as if dragging time could cheat it.
Ziyu sat on the couch, legs crossed, pretending not to care.
“Don’t forget your vitamins,” Ziyu starts, voice half stern, half soft—the kind that pretends not to care but always does.
“Yes, mom,” Xuning answers with that teasing lilt that makes Ziyu’s eye twitch.
Ziyu continued, ticking off his invisible list. “And your charger.”
“I’ll survive,” came the reply, smug and lazy.
He was about to go on—
“And your—”
“You.”
Silence.
Ziyu looked up.
Xuning smiled like he hadn’t just said something that would haunt the next thirty days.
“Then don’t,” Ziyu whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me miss you.” He said it half as a tease, half as a confession.
Xuning’s reply was simple—a kiss to his forehead, soft and knowing.
“Too late.” Xuning’s hands found his waist, lifting him effortlessly; Ziyu’s legs instinctively wrapped around his torso.
Both their lips found each other in a soft, delicious harmony.
Time stilled—just the faint hum of the city below and the quiet rush of breath between them.
Ziyu’s fingers curled into Xuning’s collar, pulling him closer, as if closeness could make the moment last forever.
Xuning kissed him like a secret he’d waited too long to tell—gentle at first, then deeper, slower, savoring every stolen heartbeat.
The warmth between them grew into something tender, something wordless, something that felt dangerously close to ever after.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together—breathing the same air, smiling into the silence.
Neither spoke, because they didn’t have to.
The world outside could keep spinning; in this small, stolen piece of time, they had everything they needed.
"I wanna put it in." Ziyu’s breath hitched when Xuning’s hand brushed against his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his lips like a promise left unfinished.
“We've been making love since last night.” Ziyu murmured, voice barely a whisper between them.
Xuning’s smile curved slow, lazy, but his eyes gave him away—dark with want, tender with too much feeling.
“Can you blame me?” he said softly. “You make it impossible to stop.”
Ziyu sighed, brushing their noses together, trying to sound stern even as his pulse betrayed him.
“Laogong… you have an early flight,” he reminded, the word slipping out sweetly, too familiar.
Xuning groaned, forehead falling to Ziyu’s shoulder. “I hate that you’re always right.”
The laughter that followed was quiet and warm, dissolving into a hush that felt like the world exhaling around them.
Xuning still carried Ziyu easily, the younger’s arms looped lazily around his neck, half-protesting, half-clinging.
“Put me down,” Ziyu muttered against his shoulder, but his voice had already softened.
“Not happening,” Xuning replied, a grin audible in his tone. He nudged open the bedroom door with his knee, the familiar creak greeting them like an old friend.
He set Ziyu gently onto the bed, sheets cool against his skin, the air filled with the faint scent of their cologne mingling—warm, faintly sweet, unmistakably theirs.
Xuning leaned down, brushing a stray strand of hair from Ziyu’s face. “You look tired,” he murmured.
Ziyu hummed, eyes already drooping. “You tire me out.”
“Good,” Xuning teased, sliding in beside him, arm finding its way around Ziyu’s waist like instinct.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of the kind of peace that came only after storms, of trust built in whispers.
Ziyu’s head tilted until his forehead pressed against Xuning’s collarbone. “Don’t leave before I wake up,” he mumbled, barely audible.
“I won’t,” Xuning promised, his voice soft, almost reverent.
He didn’t mean forever, just until morning—but sometimes, even a few hours of forever felt like enough.
The morning came.
Airport lights, rolling suitcases, masks pulled up. The kind of goodbye that looked ordinary to everyone else.
“See you,” Xuning said, casual, waving one hand.
“Yeah,” Ziyu replied.
(Come back fast.)
Their code, still intact.
Their rhythm, still synced.
Love, still quiet—but never small.
The first morning without him felt like waking up to static.
Ziyu’s studio still smelled of coffee and cologne—the ghost of last night’s goodbye—but the room had never felt this loudly empty.
The mug Xuning used was still there, washed but not dried, sitting upside down on the rack like a tiny monument of denial.
He stared at it longer than he should have, before his manager called out,
“Ziyu, you’ve been looking at that cup for ten minutes.”
“It’s reflective,” Ziyu muttered. “Good lighting reference.”
“Sure,” his manager sighed. “For what? The sound of loneliness?”
Across time zones, Xuning was just as pathetic—though he pretended not to be. His photoshoots wrapped in record time, but the silence after each click was heavier than usual. He’d scroll through his phone like it was a lifeline, stopping at voice notes, saved messages, and blurry pictures that made him grin for no reason.
His manager noticed.
“You’re spacing out.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“Rhythm.”
“Your lines are done, Xuning.”
“No, my Rhythm.”
The manager blinked, then groaned.
“Please don’t talk in codes when I haven’t had coffee. I’m not your Tian Ziyu.”
That last line earned him an even deeper pout from Xuning—one so exaggerated it could’ve belonged in a drama outtake.
The staff started noticing too.
Ziyu’s team whispered that their usually composed producer had been… moodier.
One assistant described him as “stormy with a sprinkle of sulk.”
He’d go through choreography revisions three times, then erase everything, muttering, ‘It’s offbeat.’
Meanwhile, Xuning had developed a habit of pouting between takes—lips pressed, brows furrowed, a silent complaint in motion.
When asked if he was tired, he’d say, “Jet lag,” but everyone knew it was Ziyu lag.
Their managers tried.
They really did.
Ziyu’s manager dragged him out for ramen.
“You need real food, not energy bars.”
“It’s broth. I don’t like broth.”
“You liked it last month.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Because he’s not here to steal your noodles?”
Ziyu glared but didn’t deny it.
At the same time, Xuning’s manager confiscated his phone mid-break.
“No calls. You need rest.”
“That’s my rest.” Xuning insist.
“You just texted him ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ at 3 a.m.”
“And he didn’t reply.” With a painfully adorable pout.
“Because time zones exist!”
“So does love!”
The manager facepalmed so hard the staff flinched.
Eventually, both managers gave up fighting fate.
One night, Ziyu’s manager called Xuning’s manager like a war negotiation.
“He’s sulking.”
“Mine’s pouting.”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“They’re like divorced parents missing custody weekends.”
“Should we—”
“Let them call each other? Yes. For the love of sanity.”
So they did.
The first call came at an ungodly hour.
Ziyu half-asleep, hair sticking up. Xuning on video, wearing his hotel robe, grinning like sin.
“You look terrible,” Ziyu murmured.
“You look perfect,” Xuning countered.
“It’s the lighting.”
“No. It’s you.”
They talked for hours — about nothing and everything — until the managers barged in separately, yelling about “sleep schedules” and “common sense.”
They hung up laughing, cheeks aching, the ache in their chests a little less sharp.
Days passed.
The coded calls became routine.
“TianLei.” you jerk! (God, I miss you!)
turned into
“Do you miss me?” (I wanna fuck you.)
They’d sneak five minutes between shoots, share breakfast over video, even write songs together across time zones.
Their love wasn’t paused—it just learned a new rhythm.
Ziyu wrote him a melody one night— low, wistful, like moonlight humming.
He titled it “TOO DEEP.”
When Xuning heard it, he replied with a selfie and a caption:
“The Sun and the Moon.” (I want you in my room.)
Ziyu laughed so hard his manager threw a pillow at him.
Two weeks in, everyone around them started rooting for their reunion—not for romance’s sake, but for peace.
Assistants whispered,
“When are they seeing each other again?”
“Hopefully soon. I miss my lunch breaks without drama.”
And then, finally, the day came.
Schedules aligned.
The flight home booked.
When Xuning walked through the arrival gate, Ziyu was already there—cap low, mask on, pretending to scroll his phone.
“You’re late,” Ziyu mouthed.
“You’re early.” Xuning mouthed back.
Ziyu stood by the curb, still pretending to scroll, still pretending not to care.
But “I missed you” was really what he wanted to say—
as if Xuning wasn’t already aware.
When Xuning crossed the street, suitcase rolling behind him, Ziyu’s thumb froze mid-scroll.
He didn’t even try to hide the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re late,” Ziyu said again.
“You keep saying that,” Xuning replied, smiling.
“You keep being late.”
“Maybe I like it when you wait for me.”
Ziyu rolled his eyes but stepped forward anyway—and Xuning’s hand found his before either of them could think twice.
Just a brush of fingers, barely visible from a distance,
but it was enough to send every nerve in both their hands humming like a live wire.
Then—quiet, stolen, perfectly reckless—Xuning brushed his thumb over Ziyu’s wrist, tracing the beat of his pulse.
Their rhythm, at last, synced again.
In that fleeting contact, there was everything:
the ache of distance, the warmth of return, the familiar pulse of something that had never once faltered—
their rhythm and blues, finally in tune again.
Their managers were parked nearby, watching from the car.
Ziyu’s manager muttered, “If they think that’s subtle—”
Xuning’s manager interrupted, “Shhh. Let them have this.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “We’ve earned a day without babysitting, haven’t we?”
“God, yes. A whole week, even.”
They stayed in the car. The boys walked away.
Later, when they slipped out into the city, the world hadn’t changed—same noise, same light spilling down glass buildings, same evening breeze weaving through street corners.
But to them, everything felt different.
Back in their apartment, everything felt like it had just been waiting for them to return.
Their shoes lined up by the entrance, two mugs still stacked wrong in the cupboard.
Even the light through the curtains looked the same—bbjust filtered through the warmth of “finally.”
Ziyu dropped Xuning’s bag on the couch. “You left your charger last time.”
Xuning smiled, walking up behind him. “You used it, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought so.”
Ziyu turned, trying to sound unimpressed, but the look on Xuning’s face—the kind of fondness that could disarm whole wars—made it hard to breathe.
They didn’t kiss right away. They just stood close,
letting the air between them readjust,
letting their shoulders bump, their laughter come back in sync.
Dinner was chaos disguised as domesticity.
Ziyu, self-proclaimed “not hungry,” ended up cooking half the fridge.
Xuning, self-proclaimed “helpless in the kitchen,” managed to burn the garlic bread.
“You’re ruining the vibe,” Ziyu said, waving the spatula.
“You said you liked burnt things.”
“Not like this.”
“Love’s in the effort, babe.”
Ziyu froze mid-sigh—that word.
Babe.
Still new on Xuning’s tongue, but it hit with the warmth of a thousand inside jokes.
He didn’t reply—just turned back to the stove, ears pink.
Xuning grinned. Small victory.
Later that night, they found themselves back on the couch,
movie forgotten, lights low, the kind of quiet that only exists between people who know each other too well.
Ziyu’s head fell on Xuning’s shoulder mid-sentence.
His voice came out softer, almost shy,
“You smell like airports.”
“You smell like home.”
There it was again—that ache, that fullness.
Not just the longing anymore, but the relief of finding what you lost, still where you left it.
Their phones buzzed.
Ziyu’s manager: Curfew reminder.
Xuning’s manager: Be decent. Cameras everywhere.
Ziyu looked up, amused. “You think they’re tracking us?”
“Probably.”
“Then we should give them something to stress about.” He reached out, tugged Xuning closer by the hoodie string.
A brush of lips—quick, quiet,
but enough to feel the world tilt back to the right rhythm again.
“Welcome home, my Rhythm.”
“Missed my Blues.”
And that was all it took.
No fireworks, no grand declarations—just warmth, laughter, the hum of something real.
Meanwhile, in one of the monitoring rooms—a space filled with screens, live feeds, and half-empty coffee cups—
the managers sat among the tech staff, eyes glued to the couple’s camera feed.
“Tell me they’re not about to go Fifty Shades of Grey on us,” one manager muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The other sighed, deadpan. “If they are, I’m handing in my resignation first thing in the morning—”
But the sentence never finished.
The room went silent in unison—the kind of silence that falls right before collective panic.
On the screen, the couple moved a little too close, the air between them thick enough to short-circuit every monitor in the room.
Both managers shot up from their seats.
“Cut the feed!” one barked.
“Turn off the camera, now!” the other followed, already fumbling for the control panel.
The tech staff scrambled, cheeks flushed, hands clumsy on keyboards as the screen flickered to black—
leaving only the reflection of two mortified managers staring at the blank monitor, pretending they hadn’t just witnessed what they absolutely had.
Later that week, both managers finally met again for coffee.
“They’re happy,” one said, checking his phone for the tenth time.
“Yeah.”
“You think it’ll last?”
“With those two? They’ll probably out-stubborn the universe.”
“God help us all.”
They clinked their cups together.
Outside the café window, the two idiots were walking side by side —
Ziyu talking too fast, Xuning listening like it was music.
Every few steps, their shoulders brushed,
perfectly in rhythm, perfectly in sync.
Nights had become their favorite time again.
When the calls stopped, the lights dimmed, and the city fell into that slow, half-awake hum.
When they could exist not as names or faces, but as something simpler — just them.
The couch was too small for two grown men, but somehow it always fit them.
Ziyu sat curled up sideways, his laptop open and forgotten.
Xuning’s head found its place against Ziyu’s shoulder, heavy and comforting, his breath steady on the fabric of Ziyu’s shirt.
“You’re heavy,” Ziyu murmured.
“You’re perfect,” came the sleepy reply.
He didn’t move. Neither of them did.
The only sound was the quiet tick of the clock and the faint hum of the night outside.
When Xuning got cold, he didn’t ask — he just reached, looping an arm around Ziyu’s waist and pulling him closer.
Ziyu sighed, pretended to be annoyed, but the way his fingers brushed through Xuning’s hair said otherwise.
“You always do this,” he said softly.
“Do what?”
“Turn me into your blanket.”
“My favorite one.”
Ziyu’s laugh was small, quiet enough to be a secret.
There were moments when it wasn’t even about words.
When Xuning would tilt his head, eyes still half-closed, and press the lightest kiss to Ziyu’s temple.
When Ziyu’s hand would find the back of his neck, thumb drawing slow circles just because he could.
And every time they did, it felt new—not the thrill of the forbidden anymore, but the comfort of belonging.
Like the universe had finally stopped asking them to hide.
Later, as they watched the city from the window,
Ziyu leaned back into Xuning’s chest, fitting there easily.
Fingers interlaced.
Heartbeats calm.
“You’re quiet,” Xuning whispered.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How lucky I am that you exist.”
Silence, then a small chuckle near his ear.
“That’s my line.”
Ziyu smiled, eyes soft.
“Then say it anyway.”
Xuning turned him slightly, lips brushing against his hair, voice a breath away.
“You’re beautiful, my love.”
It wasn’t said like a grand confession.
It was said like a truth already known—something he’d been whispering in every look, every touch, every shared heartbeat since the beginning.
They stayed like that until the city went quiet,
until eyelids grew heavy and their hands went still.
The clock struck something past midnight—fitting, almost poetic.
And in that soft, suspended hour,
they both felt the same thought echoing between them—home isn’t a place. it’s a person.
The morning after smelled like sunlight and coffee.
Soft light spilled across the living room floor, catching the edges of half-folded blankets, tangled cables, and two empty mugs sitting side by side on the table—one marked Rhythm, one Blues.
Ziyu stirred first, blinking against the glow.
Xuning was already awake, sitting by the window, hoodie half-zipped, hair still mussed from sleep.
He had that look—the kind that said he’d been watching the world turn and thinking too much again.
“You’re staring at nothing,” Ziyu murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
“Nothing’s prettier than this morning,” Xuning said without turning.
“You mean me.”
“You said it, not me.”
A small, shared laugh—light, familiar, unguarded.
Ziyu crossed the room, dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and leaned against the window frame beside him.
The city stretched out below them— loud, endless, demanding—yet from this height, it almost looked gentle.
“Do you ever think it’ll stop?” Ziyu asked quietly.
“What?”
“The noise. The eyes. The chase.”
“Maybe not,” Xuning said, tilting his head toward him. “But we’ll keep finding quiet places in between.”
He reached out, fingers brushing Ziyu’s wrist, linking them just enough.
Their phones buzzed again—schedules, rehearsals, meetings.
Life, already calling them back.
Managers would text soon. Cameras would follow.
But right now, it was still early enough to pretend the world could wait.
“Ready?” Xuning asked.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
Ziyu looked at him for a long moment—then smiled, small and certain.
“As long as you’re with me.”
Xuning grinned, the kind of grin that made time stumble.
“Always, Blues.”
“Always, Rhythm.”
They stayed a little longer by the window, watching the sun climb higher —two silhouettes outlined in gold, steady against the day.
Outside, the streets began to fill; somewhere below, a billboard flickered to life, playing clips from their latest project—two actors, two artists, two names the world couldn’t stop pairing together.
Inside, their hands remained quietly joined, unseen.
No cameras. No audience. Just the warmth between them, enough to light a universe.
And if someone were to ask later how their story ended,
they’d probably both laugh and say,
“It didn’t. We just stopped telling it out loud for a while.”
The screen would fade to white—not an ending, just a breath between verses,
two hearts still keeping time,
waiting for the next song.
Some stories don’t end; they just learn how to breathe quieter.
The noise fades, the cameras blink away, and what’s left is the part no one gets to see—
the warmth in the small hours, the laughter in-between takes,
the way two hands always find each other even when the world isn’t looking.
They say love changes you.
Maybe that’s true—but maybe it just reveals who you already were when no one else was watching.
For them, love wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t spectacle.
It was rhythm and blues finding the same tempo,
a melody too soft for headlines,
too steady to fade.
So if you ever catch a glimpse of them—a look too long during an interview,
a song that sounds like confession,
a smile that feels too private for the stage—
maybe you’ll understand.
They never stopped.
They just moved into the next verse.
And somewhere, behind studio doors and city lights,
they’re probably still arguing about burnt garlic bread
and whispering “I love you” like it’s both a promise and a secret.
The world calls it a rumor.
They call it home.