The spoon still glinted in Bai Qi's hand, a frail thread between fury and restraint.
He stood frozen beside the couch, his breath coming fast, shoulders rising and falling in sharp rhythm.
Across from him, Shu Yao lowered his gaze, the tremor in his lashes betraying the storm within. He hadn't meant to say something so cruel — the words had simply slipped out, the kind that escaped when the heart was splintering. His lips quivered, fighting the sob that clawed at his throat.
The silence between them thickened, heavy as smoke.
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. "How dare you," he hissed, each syllable drawn through his teeth like a blade.
Shu Yao flinched at the sound. He dared a glance upward — his eyes wide, glassy — and whispered, "I… I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean—"
The apology cracked mid-sentence. Bai Qi's patience snapped.
With a sharp motion, he slammed the spoon onto the table. The sound rang out like a gunshot in the still room. The porcelain dish trembled, the silverware clattered. Shu Yao startled violently, his heart leaping against his ribs.
The untouched tray caught Bai Qi's eye — the food he'd sent, now cold and meaningless. His rage surged, dark and raw. He swept the tray aside; it crashed to the floor, the clatter scattering into the silence like shrapnel.
"Do you even understand what you've done?" Bai Qi's voice trembled — not just with anger, but with the ache beneath it. His obsidian eyes burned, fury laced with a grief he could no longer contain.
Shu Yao's breath came quick and shallow. "I am sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to—"
"Enough." Bai Qi cut him off, stepping closer, the air between them charged and fevered. His voice broke through clenched teeth. "You think you can say things like that in front of me? You think you still have that right?"
Shu Yao's eyes shimmered with tears. He shook his head, words falling apart before they could form. "No… I—"
"Then why?" Bai Qi's voice dropped lower, sharper. "Why would you say it?"
Shu Yao couldn't answer. His fingers twisted into the fabric of his sleeve, his head bowing lower, the bandaged hand trembling against his chest. His tears dripped soundlessly to the carpet.
Bai Qi turned away as though burned. He raked a hand through his hair, breath jagged, trying — failing — to steady himself. The air felt too tight to breathe.
He let out a strangled sound — half laugh, half groan. "I was wrong," he muttered. "Sending this food, thinking you deserved even that… What a fool I am."
Shu Yao's head snapped up, eyes wide. "No, sir—please—"
"Shut the hell up." Bai Qi's voice cut like thunder. "Don't you dare to speak."
The words hung in the air, brittle and heavy.
For a moment, all that could be heard was the low hum of the city beyond the window — the muffled heartbeat of a world still turning while theirs crumbled to ash.
Shu Yao's lips trembled. He wanted to say something — anything — to mend the shatter. But his throat burned too badly to speak. He lowered his gaze again, clutching his chest with his injured hand, the pain seeping into his very bones.
Finally, he whispered, barely audible, "I'm sorry."
Bai Qi's head snapped toward him. "Enough of your sorry." His tone was venom, but the pain beneath it bled through like a hidden wound. "You think your word's can fix anything"
Shu Yao flinched. The tears came again, soundless but relentless. His voice was gone; only the broken rhythm of his breathing filled the space.
"I wasted my time," Bai Qi said hoarsely. "All of it. I should've known better than to think I could see anything in you but lies." His voice faltered, then hardened again. "I wish I'd never met you."
The words struck like stones. Shu Yao's body went rigid, the breath leaving him in a small, fractured gasp. He didn't move — couldn't. He could only sit there, head bowed, tears falling unchecked down his face.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Bai Qi stood there, staring at him — this fragile, trembling man who'd once been his calm, his safety, now reduced to something unrecognizable. But then, perhaps it was Bai Qi himself who'd become unrecognizable.
Something in him cracked — not anger this time, but the weary aftermath of it. His throat worked, words forming but never leaving. Then he turned, every motion stiff, restrained, as if holding himself together by sheer will.
He walked away.
Bai Qi didn't look back. His body moved on instinct—rigid, furious, alive with things he couldn't name.
Each step across the room struck the marble like a pulse.
When he reached the doorway, he hesitated for half a heartbeat, as though the silence behind him might pull him back. Then his hand tightened on the knob.
The door slammed.
The sound tore through the suite—sharp, final, echoing off the glass and metal. It made Shu Yao flinch hard, his breath catching as the reverberation faded into nothing.
And then there was only the wreckage—the scattered porcelain, the overturned tray, the smell of cold food and anger.
Shu Yao stayed where he was, trembling, his bandaged hand pressed over his heart as if he could still feel the force of that door reverberate through him.
When he finally looked up, the room swam in the dim light. His reflection in the glass caught his eye — pale, hollow, his autumn-colored eyes rimmed red. A ghost of himself.
He sank to the floor slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the couch for balance. His lips parted, but no sound came. Only a small, broken hiccup escaped him — the kind that comes when one has run out of tears.
He thought of Bai Qi's eyes — the fury in them, but also the pain buried beneath. He thought of the man he'd once known, the one who used to laugh, who used to protect without hesitation. That man was gone now, swallowed by loss.
Still, Shu Yao couldn't stop loving him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, voice hoarse, the words trembling through the emptiness. "Even if you hate me, I can't stop."
Bai Qi didn't give a damn.
He stalked into his room, chest rising and falling with the remnants of rage. The slam of the door still rang in his skull, an echo he didn't care to silence. He threw his jacket onto the chair, tore at the buttons of his shirt, each one giving way beneath his trembling hands. The mirror caught his reflection—disheveled, eyes still burning with that wild, hateful fire—but he looked away before the truth in it could reach him.
"Serves him right," he muttered, voice low and sharp. "He deserved it."
The words hung there, hollow and thin.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath uneven. The room was quiet now—too quiet. He could still see Shu Yao's trembling figure in his mind, the way his lips had quivered, the sound of his soft apology breaking through the chaos.
Bai Qi clenched his teeth. No. He didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to remember the way those eyes looked at him—hurt, frightened, still gentle.
He turned on his side, back to the door, the sheets rustling sharply beneath him. Sleep came like a blow to the head—unwanted, heavy, and deep.
He didn't know when the night slipped into morning.
The world beyond the curtains turned from black to gray, and still he lay there, unmoving, as if the rage itself had drained him hollow.
The clock ticked somewhere behind him, the sound deliberate, merciless.
He stripped the rest of his clothes, grabbed a towel, and walked to the bathroom. The lights flickered against the marble, casting warm tones across the walls. The tub was already drawn, steam curling upward like ghostly silk. Bai Qi sank into it without hesitation, the water scalding against his skin.
It felt good—the pain of heat instead of thought.
He tilted his head back against the edge, eyes half-shut, the faint throb of his temples slowing beneath the hum of the vent. His anger was still there, but dulled now—muted by exhaustion and the heavy stillness of dawn.
He didn't know when he drifted off. Only that somewhere between the anger and the silence, his body surrendered.
Outside, the first light crept through the curtains—thin, silvery, indifferent.
Shu Yao didn't sleep all night.
The night hadn't been kind to him. His eyes were bloodshot, raw at the rims, the skin beneath them faintly purple from sleeplessness. He'd tried to rest—God knew he tried—but every time he closed his eyes, the echo of Bai Qi's voice split the darkness wide open.
He had cleaned the room himself.
The shattered porcelain, the spilled soup, the fragments of last night's fury—all gone now, erased with meticulous care. His bandaged hand throbbed with every movement, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
When the staff asked what had happened, he simply lowered his gaze and murmured, "It was my mistake. I dropped it."
No one questioned him further. His face alone—too pale, too empty—was enough to silence pity.
Now, standing by the window, Shu Yao adjusted his new work suit. It fit perfectly, tailored to his slender frame, the crisp white of the collar brushing against the hollow of his throat. His long hair was tied neatly back, every strand obedient. Only his eyes betrayed him—heavy, rimmed in red, like frost melting into ash.
His hands moved automatically over the desk, checking schedules, scanning lists, setting everything for Bai Qi's upcoming shoot. Armin's call had come early, brisk and efficient: Everything's in place. The car will be there by eight.
Shu Yao had answered softly, voice steady despite the weight inside his chest. "Understood."
Now he moved like a machine, ticking through motions without thought. He straightened the stack of papers, adjusted the vase on the counter, folded the last of Bai Qi's scarf with careful precision.
Each task gave him purpose. Each breath hurt a little less when he kept moving.
The breakfast arrived not long after.
A tray of delicacies fit for a palace — silver covers glinting beneath the early light. There were soft, cloudlike steamed buns brushed with gold leaf, slices of glazed duck set beside jade-green vegetables, and a crystal bowl of porridge so smooth it shimmered like silk. The tea was freshly brewed, its fragrance rich with roasted sesame and a faint trace of orchid — the kind that cost a fortune for a single leaf.
Shu Yao thanked the servant quietly, his voice barely audible. He carried the tray himself, steps careful, gaze lowered. When he reached Bai Qi's door, he hesitated for a heartbeat, his bandaged hand trembling slightly against the tray's edge. Then, without knocking, he placed it neatly on the low table outside.
The porcelain gleamed under the light, untouched and perfect — everything that he wasn't.
His reflection wavered in the teapot's silver lid: pale, hollow-eyed, red-rimmed. The faint shadows beneath his eyes told the story of a night without sleep.
He straightened the napkin beside the chopsticks. Adjusted the placement of the bowl. Every small movement was an act of control — an attempt to quiet the ache beneath his ribs.
Shu Yao lingered in the room for a breath too long.
The faint sound of splashing water drifted from behind the door — rhythmic, distant, almost serene.
He didn't look up.
Didn't dare.
His throat felt dry, his hands pressed tight to his sides as if they might still the trembling. The scent of expensive tea and orchid steam filled the room, but it only made his chest ache worse.
He turned away, careful not to make a sound. Each step backward felt like retreating from a battlefield, one where he'd already lost before the fight began.
The door clicked shut behind him — soft, almost tender.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Inside, Bai Qi emerged from the bath, skin faintly flushed from the heat. Steam curled in the air, tracing his silhouette as he reached for a towel. He dried his hair with brisk, careless movements, droplets glinting on his shoulders like scattered glass.
Then he saw it — the tray waiting neatly on the low table.
His eyes narrowed. The porcelain glistened in quiet obedience, every dish untouched, arranged with irritating precision. The faint echo of Shu Yao's presence lingered in the air — that timid restraint, that suffocating politeness.
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. His hand brushed his damp hair back, and he let out a low, disdainful sound.
"Hmph."
The sound cut through the stillness like a blade.
He turned his gaze away from the door, unwilling to admit that he'd noticed it was closed so gently — as if the one who left feared even the sound of a hinge.
Bai Qi sat on the edge of the bed, the towel slung carelessly around his neck. He reached for the tray, the silver utensils clinking softly as he lifted the porcelain lid.
Steam rose, perfumed with truffle and sesame. The gold-tipped buns gleamed under the light.
He didn't think of Shu Yao — or told himself he didn't.
His expression stayed cold, every motion deliberate and sharp. Yet, as he ate, his gaze drifted once toward the door again — just once — before he forced it back down.
The silence pressed heavier than it should have.
And outside that door, the echo of quiet footsteps faded into nothing.