Page 38 of From Beijing, With Love

“The last time I checked, you don’t drive from the back seat.” Yang scrunched up his brows, and Daniel wanted to crawl into the earth. Yang wasn’t even on the driver’s side of the car. “I was just going to sleep it off for a few hours in the car.”

“Well, then … carry on,” Daniel said with a wave that was more fingers than wrist and an accent not from any country he had ever lived in. Okay, time to go back to the hotel before he embarrassed himself more.

He made it a few steps toward the front door before he spun around. “Maybe you can sleep it off in my room?”

Even with the setting sun painting everything red, Daniel could tell that Yang’s face was rouge. Though he was flattered that he could do that to a guy (still got it), that was very much not what he was suggesting.

“Just sleeping,” Daniel rushed to say. “Fully clothed. In separate beds.”

Yang eyed the barren back seat of the Prius and looked like he was seriously debating the merits of sleeping there instead of an actual bed. “Are you going to keep doing that accent?”

Shit, was he still doing that? He cleared his throat, hoping that’d dislodge the accent. “Of course not.”

“You sound like an old British aristocrat out of a period film,” Yang said, smiling a little.

“One more word and you can sleep in the car,” Daniel said as he led the way, resolved not to check if Yang was following him. Then he caved almost immediately and looked back, just in time to catch Yang’s sardonic brow arch.

But Yang followed him.

“Wash your hands first. That’s my only rule,” Daniel ordered as they stepped into his hotel room. Inside was a clean bubble not to be sullied by outside germs; otherwise Daniel would never be able to relax. Also, he’d most definitely lied about handwashing being his only rule. But the last time Yang was in his room was when he’d surprised Daniel with yet another tour (thanks, Poppy). Daniel hadn’t felt comfortable enough with Yang back then to dump his whole rule book on him. He only did that after kissing a guy, apparently.

“And shoes off. Please.” Daniel shrugged off his own sneakers and lined them up by the closet.

“I like you like this,” Yang said.

“When I’m being demanding? You would. It appeals to your bossy side.” Daniel washed his hands. In his head, he counted his Mississippis.

“No,” Yang said as he joined Daniel at the marble sink, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “Being honest with what you need. It seems like you don’t do that as often as you probably should.”

Daniel’s hands froze, still covered in soapsuds. He was unsure how to process what Yang had just said. Somehow, Yang had correctly clocked his relationship with cleanliness (need, not want) and that he didn’t make a habit of asking for what he needed. In the mirror, Yang’s eyes grew softer, scrubbed clean of sarcasm or judgment. A look that gave permission for Daniel to just be as he was, mess and all. Taylor had never looked at him that way in the six months they’d been together.

If Daniel had been less broken, he would have felt seen instead of exposed. He averted his eyes and rinsed his hands under the warm water stream. He laughed it off. “I’m just happy to be somewhere with AC. Does it always get this hot in Beijing?”

Was he really talking about the fucking weather with the guy he’d just kissed (and wanted to kiss again in the not-so-far future)? What was worse was that Yang shrugged, like he knew it wasn’t a real question. After washing his hands, Yang lay down on the two-seater sofa, his long legs dangling off the side.

“Get up. A pull-out sofa needs to be pulled out.” Daniel laughed, holding his hand out for Yang. When their hands connected, Daniel once again felt that heat pool in his stomach. He made an exaggerated groan as he pulled Yang up. “You are heavy.”

God, first the weather, now the weight. Daniel shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people.

Focusing all his energy on the sofa like he had something to prove, Daniel tugged on the straps, expecting the sofa to magically transform into a bed. It did not. Daniel could feel Yang’s gaze on him. He might as well have told Daniel, No pressure. Feeling rightfully inadequate, Daniel did the only sensible thing (to him)—he pulled harder.

“Are you sure that’s how—” Yang was cut off midsentence by the sound of fabric tearing, followed by a brittle, metallic snap.

“Shit.” Daniel looked down at the beige mess that was formerly the “pull-out” sofa, the frayed straps dangling from his hands.

“Indeed.” Yang’s dark brows knitted together as he studied the crime scene, then the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile, followed by a belly laugh.

“It’s so not funny.” Daniel was giving his most solemn face to illustrate how not funny this whole situation was, which was hard to pull off, given that Yang was doubled over in laughter. Daniel dropped the straps to the ground. “Well, you can’t sleep on the sofa.”

“So, I can’t sleep in the car, and I can’t sleep on this.” Yang gestured toward the pile of beige parts on the ground. “Throw me a blanket, then. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Uh, no. That’s gross.”

“But we took off our shoes as per your rule, so the floor is clean,” Yang said, like there was logic to Daniel’s rules. “Besides, I could do a lot worse than the carpeted floor of a five-star hotel.”

“I have a king-sized bed—” Daniel stopped midsentence. Yang had gone completely still. Clearing his throat and standing a little straighter, he said, “Again, just sleeping. It’s big enough that neither of us will even know the other one is there.”

“Will that get me to sleep sooner?” Yang asked with the air of a grouch, a hand raised to his temple as if to stave off a headache.