The arena lights in Shanghai Circuit burned hot against the asphalt, buzzing like electricity on skin. Engines roared everywhere, mechanics shouted orders, the smell of gasoline and adrenaline filling the air.
And then there was him.
Wang Yibo — China’s coldest, cleanest, most annoyingly perfect professional bike racer. Helmet under his arm, jaw sharp, eyes sharper. He walked like the entire track belonged to him.
Unfortunately, you were today’s biggest threat.
And he hated that.
Or… he pretended to.
“Move,” he said flatly as he brushed past you, shoulder hitting yours harder than necessary.
You didn’t move an inch. “Watch your line, Wang. You cut too close.”
He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “你少说两句 (Say less). Focus on not crashing.”
The surrounding racers watched, whispering.
Everyone knew:
You and Yibo were rivals. Period.
He never talked to you unless he was throwing a jab. You never looked at him unless you were rolling your eyes. The tension? Toxic. Explosive. Iconic.
Or so everyone thought.
“Racers, to your positions!” the official called out.
Yibo didn’t even glance your way as he walked off.
Good. Because the truth — the part nobody could ever know — sat heavy, hot, dangerous in your chest.
The two of you weren’t just rivals.
You were lovers.
After the race — 11:23 PM, Rest Room 03, Behind the Arena
You pushed open the door to the dim rest room, still wiping sweat from your neck. The fluorescent light flickered slightly, buzzing like a secret waiting to be told.
You’d barely stepped inside when a hand grabbed your waist.
Pulled you in.
Pressed you against the wall.
Wang Yibo. Helmet tossed aside. Chest still rising quickly. Hair messy from the track.
His voice was low, nothing like the cold tone he used outside.
“你来晚了。” (You’re late.)
You scoffed. “You pushed me on turn seven.”
His fingers slid to your jaw. “If I didn’t, they’d think something was off.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And God, you hated how right he was.
His forehead rested against yours, breath warm.
The loud, arrogant racer? Gone.
Here, he was soft. Warm. Yours.
His thumb traced your lower lip. “Did you see how close number 27 got to you?”
You blinked. “Yibo, it’s racing.”
He frowned — a tiny pout hidden behind seriousness. “You’re not allowed to crash. 你懂吗?” (Do you understand?)
You touched his wrist gently. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”
His eyes dropped to your lips. “No. But you’re mine.”
Before you could answer, he kissed you — not soft, not gentle. Hungry. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it in all day.
You tugged his racing jacket, pulling him closer.
He whispered against your mouth, “I hate pretending to hate you.”
“Better than the world finding out.”
He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes. Something conflicted. Something dangerous.
“Sometimes I want to tell them,” he admitted quietly. “Tell everyone you’re… you’re—”
A loud knock shattered the moment.
“REST ROOM 03! WANG YIBO, YOU’RE NEEDED FOR POST-RACE MEDIA!”
You both froze.
Yibo’s hand didn’t leave your waist.
He whispered sharply, “Don’t answer.”
Another knock. Louder.
“Wang Yibo?”
He sighed — that frustrated, jealous, clingy sound you loved.
Then, his lips brushed your ear.
“We’re not finished.”
He grabbed his helmet, but before leaving, he shot you that look — the one nobody else ever saw.
Gentle. Possessive. Yours.
He stepped out, mask back on, posture cold and distant again.
The door shut behind him.