Sleepwalking Into You Chapter 5

At barbecue, the four of us crowded around sizzling plates. Meat fried, skewers smoked, beer bottles clinked.

Then Wang Hao pointed at the menu. “Who ordered this kid’s milk drink? Who’s that for?”

“You,” I teased.

But Zhou Yichen’s eyes locked straight on me.

“No. It’s for him.”

His tone? Dead serious.

“Huh?”

Hao nearly slid out of his chair laughing. Chen Ming slapped the table. “Bro. You forgot? You’re a one-drink wonder.”

“One what?”

They howled harder.

Hao leaned forward, wiping tears. “Last time Yichen treated us? You downed one cup of beer and lost your damn mind. Hung off him like a drunken octopus. Snot, tears, everything. Kept apologizing all night and refused to let go until he literally carried you back to the dorm.”

Every inch of my skin ignited.

That explained so much.

The way Yichen always frowned at me ever since, the unspoken weight in his gaze.

I’d thought it had been the chocolate-gifting mess. Nope. Turns out, I’d already embarrassed myself in an entirely different category.

My friends nearly collapsed, wiping their eyes with napkins. Meanwhile, I wanted to bury myself under the grill.

And Yichen? He just watched me quietly with a smirk lurking at the edges, eyes glittering dark.

Against reason, I turned in desperation. “So….. did you really…carry me home?”

His eyebrows lifted in faint amusement. He cracked open the milk can, slid it toward me, leaning back lazily.

“You want to know?”

My head bobbed frantically.

But all he did was take a slow sip of beer, ruffle my hair hard enough to spark static, and mutter:

“Figure it out yourself.”

I gawked, scandalized. He wasn’t even going to deny it.

Which meant what? That he had carried me? No way.

Had to be.

Probably.

Maybe.

Argh.

The hours blurred surprisingly fast.

But I discovered something else about him.

For all of Zhou Yichen’s athletic stamina, his alcohol tolerance was laughable.

Three drinks in, his cheeks flushed, his words slurred, and his eyes drooped stubbornly, head slowly tipping toward me.

Again and again, I had to catch him.

By the time Hao and Ming left for another all-night gaming marathon, they pounded my back chummily. “Take good care of him, yeah? He took care of you first, remember.”

Eyebrows waggling, their tone was way too suggestive. Did they know?

Probably not. But paranoia lingered.

At least the barbecue joint was close to campus. Guiding a drunken Yichen wasn’t impossible.

The winter air bit our faces when we left, making him shiver.

Then he burrowed himself against me. Right there. On the street. Zero shame.

Every head that turned our way? I drowned it with the thunder of my own heart.

For one wild moment, it felt illicit, like we were caught in some forbidden thing only we shared.

And God help me I liked it.

“Yichen,” I muttered, trying to pry him off. “Are you trying to eat duck neck or something?”

He blinked sluggishly. “Duck neck? No.”

“Then quit gnawing on mine. You’re drooling all over my chest.”

Heat smeared sticky against my skin. My pulse went wrecked.

He just laughed, dumb and blissful, fumbling to strip my coat off so he could “wipe it clean.”

Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Every block felt like miles, his clumsy weight dragging on me, tickling my nerves raw.

Back in the dorm, I dumped him into a chair with relief. He slumped instantly, lashes trembling like he might fall asleep right there.

I sighed, crouched down. “Yichen? You awake?”

No answer.

“Yichen. Can you even hear me?” I tried louder.

Still nothing.

Groaning, I debated how to drag him to bed. Then…..

A hand clamped the back of my skull and shoved.

I toppled forward.

Our mouths crashed together.

His lips were soft, yielding, but searing all at once. My chest squeezed, torn between resisting and not wanting to.

When he finally pulled back, dazed and damp-lipped, his gaze was glazed, too beautiful, too much.

His mouth moved faintly, whispering something.

I leaned closer, breath hitching.

And he bit my ear instead. Light but hot, mouthing until I trembled. Then, breath shallow, he whispered right against me:

“Ansheng.”

The world stopped.

My heartbeat thundered, drowning out everything else.

It was just my name. But spoken like that.

Spoken from him.

And for half a second, I believed maybe just maybe he could like me back.

By the time my mind cleared, though, he was already out cold.

Eyes shut. Breathing slow.

Passed out.

“Are you kidding me?”

Was he seriously playing me? Kiss, whisper my name, knock me into cardiac arrest and then immediately blackout?

Unbelievable.

I huffed, kicked his shin twice in futile vengeance, then cursed under my breath and wrestled him into bed.

By the time I collapsed into my own bunk, chest heaving, my head spun with questions.

Was Zhou Yichen really straight?

Straight guys didn’t kiss drunk roommates or murmur their names like that.

But I still remembered his disgust when that art school senior confessed to him last semester. How coldly, cruelly he’d spat out that he hated guys, hated even the idea of a man liking him.

That face. Those words.

They’d burned me deep enough to keep me silent all this time.

So what the hell had tonight been?

Had he suddenly flipped? Or was it just alcohol twisting meanings?

I dragged a pillow over my face, muffling a frustrated yell.

Please, I begged whatever gods might be listening: Don’t let him forget this.

Let him remember every single reckless thing.

Maybe I’d been too preoccupied last night, but surprisingly for the first time in weeks I hadn’t sleepwalked.

So this morning, when I woke up in my own bunk, I was dazed. Almost suspicious.

But turns out, my foresight was impeccable.

Because Zhou Yichen didn’t remember a thing from last night.

Not the kissing, not the whispers, not the insanity of him calling my name.

Instead, he had the audacity to rub his slightly split lip and pout, “Why didn’t you climb into my bed last night? Hurts. You didn’t even put medicine on me.”

Medicine, my ass.

That mouth of his was lethal. Dangerous. A menace.

Especially when it ambushed people and then conveniently deleted itself from memory.

Still sulking, I trudged through classes that day with pure irritation bubbling inside me. Every time I looked at him, the urge to sock him in the jaw spiked.

But then he’d look back at me with those wide, dark, infuriatingly soft eyes, and all that bloodlust melted into cold water splashed over my head.

That night, fed up, I tied my wrists down with Yichen’s tie before bed.

Swore to myself: if I dream-walked onto his mattress again, I was a damn dog.

But without him, my blankets felt like thin ice. I shivered endlessly, curling small against the cold. It was past midnight before exhaustion finally tricked me into sleep.

And the result? A feverish head cold. My arm numb and throbbing from the all-night binding, my whole body dragging like lead.

Across the room, Zhou Yichen didn’t look much better. Bruised circles smudged under his eyes, his stare heavy with restless fatigue.

When he saw my sleeves riding up, though when he spotted the angry red mark slashed across my wrist his whole demeanor froze to ice.

“Li Ansheng.” His tone was razor sharp. “What the hell happened to your wrist?”