Shu Yao stared at the phone long after the line went dead. George's voice—usually warm, teasing, even brotherly—had trembled before cutting off.
Now there was only static silence, the kind that pressed against his ears and settled behind his ribs.
He exhaled shakily, the sound a near-whisper in the still air.
His thumb brushed away a tear that had broken free, then another. When the tears kept coming, he wiped them again—furiously this time—as if he could erase the emotion itself.
The phone slipped from his fingers and landed soundlessly on the couch cushion.
He stood there for a long moment, motionless, before turning toward the wardrobe. The tones of fabric that the woman had brought earlier were folded neatly on the bed—too neat, too obedient, too unlike the storm building inside him.
One by one, he placed the clothes into the wardrobe. His hands trembled faintly, not from cold but exhaustion. Finally, he pulled out a plain white shirt and a pair of black trousers—tight around the legs, but passable. He held them to his chest for a second, as if grounding himself, then laid them on the couch.
The first sting came when he peeled away the old bandage.
The gauze clung to his skin like punishment, pulling at half-healed flesh. Shu Yao hissed through his teeth but didn't stop. He had learned long ago that pain demanded silence.
When the final strip came off, he stared at his hand—angry red, uneven, raw. Not healing yet. Only quite ruined.
He undid his suit jacket slowly, then the buttons of his shirt. Each one was a struggle with a single hand, and he fumbled more than once. The fabric whispered as he slipped it off his shoulders, baring pale skin marked by faint bruises that trailed along his collarbone and throat. Bai Qi's fingers had left memories there—memories that refused to fade.
He said nothing. Just breathed, shallow and quiet, and continued.
By the time he removed his trousers, he felt half-ghost, half-man.
He entered the bathroom and turned on the water.
Steam filled the air, curling through his hair like smoke. The shower scalded his skin, but he didn't move away. For several long minutes, he stood still beneath the cascade, letting the water erase the last trace of tears, the ache behind his eyes, the tremor in his chest.
When he finally stepped out, the mirror had fogged entirely. His reflection was a blurred silhouette, formless and distant.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and dried himself in silence.
The clothes waited patiently on the couch when he returned. Buttoning the shirt with one hand was another small battle. The fabric clung to him slightly damp, the collar crisp against his throat. The trousers fit too well—tight along his long legs, the black fabric emphasizing his slender frame. But he said nothing, only adjusted them and exhaled once.
His hair, still wet, clung to his back like silk ribbons, reaching almost to his spine. He searched for the first aid kit, his movements slow, methodical, almost mechanical.
When he found it, the latch resisted for a moment, and he had to use the edge of the table to pry it open. Inside lay order and care: ointment, gauze, alcohol wipes—tiny fragments of civility.
He dabbed the ointment over the wound, wincing as the sting shot through him.
Then he began to wrap the gauze again—one-handed, uneven, but determined.
When it was done, he tied it off with his teeth, exhaled sharply, and sat back. His body trembled faintly with effort.
Below, in the dining hall, Bai Qi ate in silence. The servants moved like shadows around him—efficient, unseen, soundless. The air was heavy with roasted spice and quiet tension.
Bai Qi's gaze flickered toward the untouched place setting opposite him.
He said nothing. Only at the end of his meal did he murmur, almost absently, "Take some of that upstairs."
The servant bowed. "Shall we send it fresh, sir?"
He nodded once, his tone unreadable. "Yes. Fresh."
It wasn't pity that drove him. Not guilt either.
Perhaps it was habit—or something far more dangerous: the faint, unspoken ache that he couldn't name.
As the servant disappeared with the tray, Bai Qi poured himself another glass of water and stared into it for a long time before finishing his meal.
Upstairs, Shu Yao was tidying the room—folding, arranging, pretending not to think.
The mirror caught his reflection again, this time clear.
He didn't study it the way others might.
No admiration. No arrogance. Only quiet disbelief.
His hair hung loose, dripping faintly; his lips had lost their color.
He noticed the faint bruise still ghosting his throat, the one Bai Qi's fingers had left. For a heartbeat, something inside him cracked—but then he shook his head, dismissing the thought as if it could be willed away.
He reached for the dryer and turned it on. The soft hum filled the silence, mingling with the scent of clean fabric and ointment. His hair lifted and shimmered faintly in the breeze, catching the dim light like strands of autumn gold.
When it was finally dry, he felt the exhaustion sink deep into his bones.
He tied his hair loosely and sat on the couch where Bai Qi had been sitting earlier. For a moment, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes half-lidded.
That was when the knock came.
Three sharp raps—precise, polite.
Shu Yao's eyes snapped open. His heart leapt before his thoughts could catch up.
He rose quickly, smoothing his hair as he went. The air in his lungs trembled with a foolish, fragile hope.
He opened the door.
A servant stood there, dressed in formal black and white, a silver tray balanced carefully in his hands.
Shu Yao blinked. "What is this?"
"Mr. Bai has ordered us to bring some of the dinner to your room," the servant said, bowing slightly. His tone was practiced neutrality.
Shu Yao froze. For a heartbeat, he couldn't speak.
Then, softly: "I… see. Thank you."
The servant set the tray on the low table, bowed again, and left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
For a long while, Shu Yao didn't move. He just stared at the tray—the porcelain bowl, the gleam of silver utensils, the faint steam rising from fresh rice and broth.
He approached slowly and sat before it. The smell was rich and comforting, the kind that should have stirred hunger. But his throat tightened instead.
"Did you… really send this for me?" he whispered.
The silence answered.
He reached for the chopsticks anyway. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up a small bite and brought it to his mouth. He chewed once. Twice. Then stopped.
The taste was warm, familiar—and unbearable.
He set the chopsticks down, his shoulders shaking. "I lost my appetite," he murmured. His voice cracked, barely audible. "I can't eat without you, Bai Qi…"
The words fell like glass breaking in an empty room.
His eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway, hot and unrelenting.
He leaned back against the couch, breath trembling, gaze fixed somewhere distant. The food cooled slowly on the table, untouched.
In the stillness, only the faint hum of the city beyond the window remained—soft, indifferent.
Shu Yao folded his knees against his chest, curling in on himself as if to make the ache smaller.
He pressed his bandaged hand to his chest, right where the hurt lived, and closed his eyes.
The exhaustion finally won.
Sleep came quietly, stealing over him like a tide.
The room dimmed, the untouched meal sat in silence, and the night deepened around him.
Shu Yao had drifted halfway between waking and sleep.
His head rested against the armrest of the couch, cheek pressed to the fabric, eyes half-open yet unfocused. His tears came in slow, silent threads, trailing down to his jawline before sinking into the cushion.
He wiped them again and again, but they kept coming—relentless, unreasoning. Every time Bai Qi's face flickered behind his eyelids, the ache inside him cracked wider.
He told himself to stop thinking. But memory has its own cruelty—it always circles back.
Downstairs, Bai Qi rose from the table. His meal was long finished, yet something sharp still lingered behind his ribs—an irritation he couldn't quite name.
"Escort me back," he ordered flatly.
The servants fell into motion, silent as ever. Bai Qi walked between them, the polished marble under his shoes catching the glint of chandelier light.
He was every inch the vision people whispered about—tall, immaculate, a force carved in control. The black wolfcut hair swept perfectly back, the obsidian eyes unreadable. His mere presence drew stares—admiration from some, dread from others.
But Bai Qi didn't see any of them.
The elevator doors closed behind him, and when they opened again, the corridor to his suite stretched empty and still.
He swiped his keycard. The door gave a soft click, sliding open on its own.
What he saw froze him.
The tray sat untouched on the table. The soup had cooled to a dull gloss. The rice congealed, untouched. And on the couch—Shu Yao, asleep, tear-streaked, head bowed as if in surrender.
For a moment, something flickered across Bai Qi's expression—something fleeting, almost human. Then it was gone, replaced by the hard mask of control.
His jaw clenched. The muscle there jumped once, sharply.
He stepped further in, the door shutting behind him with a muted thud.
His gaze darted again to the food, the untouched plates. His hands fisted slowly at his sides.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
Shu Yao jerked awake. His body flinched violently, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat.
"Sir—"
Bai Qi's eyes were burning now, low and furious. "I sent you this to prove I'm not some cold-hearted monster. And you—" His voice rose, harsh. "You just let it sit here? Let it get cold?"
Shu Yao shook his head quickly, rising to his feet, his voice breaking. "I—I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't feeling—"
"Feeling what?" Bai Qi cut in, sharp as glass.
Shu Yao flinched again. "I didn't have appetite."
Bai Qi's breath hitched, caught between anger and something darker.
"No appetite?" His tone turned razor-sharp, his voice dropping low. "Having an appetite was my fault, huh?"
He took a step closer, the air between them tightening.
"You starve yourself and make me the villain for it. Tell me, Shu Yao—" his words curved like knives, "—is that what you're doing now? Blaming me?"
Shu Yao's lips parted soundlessly, eyes wide, glassy. His pulse fluttered under his throat.
Bai Qi's voice broke softer but colder, each word precise. "If you don't have an appetite, then I'll make sure you do."
He stepped forward and seized Shu Yao's wrist—not harshly at first, but firmly enough that the older man froze.
"Sit," Bai Qi ordered.
Shu Yao obeyed instantly, lowering himself onto the couch. His breath came shallow, uneven. The couch dipped slightly under his weight, the silence thick enough to choke on.
Bai Qi reached for the tray, the clatter of porcelain sharp against the quiet. "Eat."
Shu Yao's fingers curled over his knees. "Sir… please," he whispered, the word trembling at the edge of breath. "I—I really can't."
Bai Qi's eyes lifted slowly, the look in them dark, unreadable. "Can't?"
Shu Yao swallowed hard, shaking his head. "It's not because of you, I just.
For a moment, Bai Qi only stared, jaw tight, breathing harsh. Then his mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. ""You think starving yourself earns sympathy"
Shu Yao's breath caught. "No—no, I didn't "
Bai Qi grabbed the spoon, his movements sharp, almost mechanical. He filled it with soup and reached for Shu Yao's chin, tilting his face upward.
"Let's see if you can't eat," he muttered, the words low, dangerous.
"Sir… please." Shu Yao's voice was thin, barely audible. His lashes trembled as he shook his head, tears welling in his autumn-colored eyes until they blurred everything. "I don't want to."
Bai Qi's jaw flexed. "You will."
Shu Yao's lips quivered. "It's not rebellion, I just—" His voice broke, breath hitching. "Please."
The spoon hovered between them, trembling slightly from Bai Qi's grip.
"You think I care about your moods?" Bai Qi said, voice cracking through the air like frost. He forced the spoon closer. "You'll eat because I said so."
Shu Yao shook his head again, tears spilling free now, tracing his pale cheeks in helpless streaks. "Please, sir… please—"
"Enough," Bai Qi barked. The sound snapped through the room.
The spoon pressed against Shu Yao's lips, the broth trembling with the motion. He turned his face aside, tears catching the light as they slipped down.
Bai Qi's patience splintered.
He forced the spoon forward, past the resistance.
The soup went down wrong. Shu Yao choked, coughing violently, his thin frame wracked with tremors. He gasped for air, his bandaged hand rising instinctively to his mouth—fingers shaking, eyes wide with pain and fear.
The sound of Shu Yao's coughing—wet, desperate—echoed off the walls. The untouched food. The tears. The faint, broken noise that clawed its way out of his throat.
Bai Qi's breathing came hard and fast. His chest heaved as though he'd sprinted a mile, every muscle drawn tight. Rage flared through him like fire through oil—too hot, too wild. He hated the sight of those tears, hated the sound of weakness, hated that it made something in his own chest twist.
"Enough," he snapped, voice rough and low. "Stop it."
But Shu Yao couldn't stop. The coughing only worsened, his body trembling
Shu Yao coughed quietly, eyes watering, voice raw from the strain.
"I… I can't eat," he whispered at last, barely above a breath. His gaze trembled up to Bai Qi's face—pleading, fragile. "Not when you're not the same anymore."
The words hung there.