Scene: After Chen Bo was beaten and Wei Jiang took his night shift. Between Chapter 33 and 34ish.
The room was still. The quiet hum of the prison beyond the cell door barely registered in Wei Jiang's ears. He sat there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the boy asleep in the bed.
Yao Ziyang lay on his side, wrapped in a blanket that had slipped just enough to expose one pale shoulder. His hair, ebony and silky, spilled across the pillow like a veil of the night sky. Under the soft, fractured glow of the moonlight, his features looked almost unreal—gentle, untouched, heartbreakingly lovely.
Wei Jiang's eyes traced the boy's high cheekbones, the faint flush still lingering in them, the slight part of his lips. His breathing was soft and shallow, and each slow rise and fall of his chest stirred something in Wei Jiang—a kind of quiet ache, deep and simmering.
His gaze traveled lower.
The blanket hugged the curve of the boy's waist and hips, outlining a silhouette that didn't belong to a prison inmate, let alone one who'd just come down from a fever. Delicate. Lithe. The kind of body that aroused both protectiveness and something far more primal.
Wei Jiang swallowed.
He shouldn't be thinking this way. But his mind betrayed him.
He remembered how it had felt a day earlier—when the boy had collapsed, sobbing, and Wei Jiang had caught him. The sensation of that slender form pressed tight against his chest, his arms instinctively closing around him. The warmth. The softness. How naturally Yao Ziyang had melted into him, as if he'd been made to fit there.
That memory sparked again, too vividly this time.
Wei Jiang shifted in his seat, but it didn't help. The warmth that had started in his chest began to drop lower, pooling with slow, dangerous insistence between his legs. His breathing hitched. He could feel it happening—heat stirring in his groin, blood rushing, his body reacting before he could stop it. His member thickened in his pants, pressing against the inside of his waistband. It throbbed faintly with every breath.
He grit his teeth.
This wasn't just lust. That would have been easier to dismiss. This was something deeper—drawn from the way the boy smiled at him like he mattered, like he saw Wei Jiang, even through the pain. The way his obsidian eyes had shimmered with trust. Stars, Wei Jiang had thought the first time he saw them. Stars, trapped in the night.
And now, with the boy so close, vulnerable and beautiful, Wei Jiang was struggling. His body ached, his thoughts swirled, and guilt crept in like fog. He could never act on it—he wouldn't. But the want was there. It was real, and it had rooted itself so far inside him that pretending otherwise felt like a lie.
His fingers dug into his thigh, grounding himself.
He let out a shaky breath and looked away.
He would sit here. He would keep watching. He wouldn't cross the line.
But inside him, the heat refused to die.
Wei Jiang couldn't sit still anymore.
His arousal throbbed insistently, the pressure between his legs impossible to ignore. Every breath was shallow now, tight in his chest, as if the air in the room had thickened with the scent of memory—of closeness, of warmth, of the soft weight of that lithe body pressed to his.
A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck.
He glanced at the man again. Yao Ziyang had shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep, his slender fingers twitching gently at his side. His lashes trembled faintly, and for a moment, Wei Jiang thought he might wake—but he didn't. The boy simply breathed out, soft and sweet, curling further into the blanket.
Wei Jiang's heart clenched. He hated the thought of leaving him, even just for a minute. What if he needed something? What if he cried out again, like before, soft and broken and lost?
But—
The ache in his groin pulsed again, sharper this time, and Wei Jiang's body made the decision for him.
He stood carefully, adjusting the front of his pants where the strain had become too obvious. His arousal pressed hard against the fabric, the dull friction making him wince. He cast one last look at the boy—still sleeping, peaceful in a way that didn't come often—and whispered under his breath, almost an apology.
"I'll be right back."
He stepped away from the bed and toward the adjacent bathroom. The cool air hit him like a slap, but it did nothing to ease the heat burning inside him.
The bathroom was just a few steps away, yet to Wei Jiang, it felt like miles. The door to the bathroom clicked shut behind him, and Wei Jiang locked it with trembling fingers. The nest stayed semi hidden behind the glass wall, he couldn't bear to glance toward it at this moment.
He stood still for a long second, chest rising and falling unevenly. His heart was pounding—not just from arousal, but shame. His hands were shaking now—not from nerves, but from everything he was holding back. He braced himself against the sink with one hand, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. The room stayed dark but his dark chocolate eyes had already adjusted to it. He saw his injured jaw was tight. His pupils were dilated. He looked wild. Still, the heat in his groin refused to fade. The ache had grown unbearable.
He leaned forward, palms bracing the edge of the sink, eyes locked on the mirror. His reflection stared back at him: a man unraveled. Face injured and flushed, eyes darkened, lips parted with shallow breaths.
His body wanting. Desperately.
With a low exhale, he reached down and unfastened his belt and pushed down his waistband, just enough to free the erection that strained, heavy and swollen, breath hitching as the pressure finally gave way.
His erection sprang forward, flushed and hard, the skin sensitive to the slightest brush of his fingers. He wrapped a hand around himself, slow at first, testing, his breath catching again. The touch—just skin on skin—sent a jolt up his spine.
His mind betrayed him.
Thoughts swirled and spiraled before he could stop them: He pictured Yao Ziyang's face—warm and glowing when he smiled. The softness of his thighs pressing against Wei Jiang's lap when he'd held him. The way his body had trembled against his, small and trusting. He remembered the scent of his hair, light and clean, and the sound of his voice when he said Wei Jiang's name like it meant something. Yao Ziyang's warmth against him, the gentle curves of his body hidden beneath the bed sheets, the faint imprint of his waist in Wei Jiang's arms when he'd collapsed from sobbing. How he'd clung to Wei Jiang like he belonged there.
Wei Jiang bit his lower lip hard, stifling a groan as his hand moved faster. He leaned into the counter, forehead against the cool mirror. His strokes grew more urgent now, desperate to release the pressure that had been building like a fire in his gut.
"I'm sorry…"
He murmured, eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm sorry…"
Wei Jiang's strokes grew faster, tighter. He gasped softly, the wet sound of his hand filling the silence. His eyes squeezed tighter to the point of hurting.
But there was no stopping now. The heat overtook him, waves of pleasure shuddering through him as he tipped over the edge. His body tensed, release coming in a hot rush into his palm, and he gasped softly—quiet, breathless, broken.
He stayed like that for a moment, chest heaving.
Then he imagined Yao Ziyang whispering his name—not in pain, but need. Looking up at him with those luminous eyes, flushed, lips parted in trust.
His member thickened and swelled again, slowly but inevitably, until it sat fully erect in his hand. The weight of it made him feel unsteady. Seven inches of flushed, heavy length pulsed and twitched, the tip leaking more slick.
It throbbed. Hot and alive. Demanding.
He began moving slowly again, rhythmically. His hand slid along his length, firm and slick, and his thoughts betrayed him immediately—flooding with more images of Yao Ziyang.
That soft voice. That small body in his arms. The way he'd trembled—not from fear, but from surrender. His bare collarbone. His breath against Wei Jiang's neck. The warmth that bloomed in his chest when the boy smiled at him.
Wei Jiang's breath quickened. His grip tightened.
The pleasure mounted fast—almost violently. His hips bucked slightly, chasing sensation as guilt warred with want.
And still he couldn't stop. Wouldn't. Not when it felt like this.
Pleasure surged through him like lightning.
With a sharp, stifled breath, Wei Jiang came—his body jerking forward slightly, hot, thick ribbons of release spilled into his hand, his abdomen, the inside of his shirt. His mind blanked for a beat. But then—
Guilt hit. Hard.
He collapsed forward, arms braced on the sink, breath ragged. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from the crashing weight of what he'd just done. His jaw clenched.
"What's wrong with me…"
He whispered, barely audible, voice raw.
He should've been watching Yao Ziyang. He should've been there, not hiding here, not using the image of someone he'd sworn to protect just to satisfy himself. It was wrong. It was selfish. It was—
But the tension hadn't fully drained from his body. A faint throb lingered, fueled by shame and unquenched want.
And as that shame twisted deeper, so did his desire.
He stared at himself again, lips curled in self-disgust.
His cock was still half-hard, slick and twitching, not done. Not satisfied.
His hand moved down once more.
Rougher this time. Not from passion, but desperation. Punishment.
He pictured Yao Ziyang again—but not just the fantasy. He remembered how small and sick he looked when he cried, how fiercely Wei Jiang had wanted to comfort him. How beautiful he looked even then. How much Wei Jiang loved him.
His movements became frantic. Guilt and longing warred in his chest until everything blurred together. His body was tight, shaking.
His climax came harder this time, sudden and overwhelming. His head tipped back, teeth grit to stop a moan from slipping out. The release came with a rush of heat and shame, dripping down his fingers and over his wrist.
When it was over, the silence roared.
He stood there, covered in his own mess, chest heaving. The bathroom was cold now. The blood had drained from his face.
He felt empty.
Not relieved. Not cleansed.
He felt dirty.
The guilt crept in deeper. It settled low and heavy in his stomach, coiled around his heart like wire.
He cleaned up in silence, his fingers trembling slightly. His arousal had dulled, but the weight in his chest had only grown. He'd let himself go too far. He shouldn't have done it. Not like that. Not while Yao Ziyang lay in the other room, vulnerable and unaware.
But… gods, he loved him. It wasn't just want. It wasn't just fantasy. Wei Jiang didn't think he could lie to himself about that anymore.
His hands shook as he cleaned himself, cold water doing little to soothe his nerves. He scrubbed his palms until they were red.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror again—this time, unable to hold his own gaze.
"You don't deserve him…"
He muttered bitterly.
"You never did."
He fastened his pants, washed his hands, and splashed his face with cold water. Then he returned to the main room.
The boy was still asleep, curled in the same position.
Wei Jiang sat back down, quieter this time, heart heavy, throat tight.
He reached forward and gently brushed a stray hair from the boy's forehead.
"I'll protect you…"
He whispered.
"Even from myself."
And then he resumed his watch, the room once again silent—save for the soft breathing of the boy he would never deserve.
He would protect him.
But now, he knew: there were parts of himself Yao Ziyang could never see.