The wind still howled with water when Shu Yao stumbled back onto the edge of the pool, his breath ragged, clothes clinging to his skin like a second skin, frozen layer. The world felt muffled under the roar of the waves—until the cry of a woman shattered through it.
"—My son! Where's my son?"
He turned toward the sound, water dripping from his lashes. The boy in his arms was trembling violently, tiny fingers clutching the wet shirt of Shu Yao's. Without thinking, he told the assistants, to wrapped the jacket around the child body, then assistant immediately shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over the boy's shaking form.
The woman rushed forward, diamonds glittering against her rain-streaked skin. "Oh, heavens—thank you!" she gasped, falling to her knees beside her child. Her voice trembled with relief.
Shu Yao only managed a weak smile, his lips pale. " Don't worry, ma'am He will be fine," he murmured, voice rough.
The boy coughed once, a small, wet sound. His mother gathered him close, pressing frantic kisses against his hair. Behind them, assistants and stylists flooding the scene with towels, all speaking at once.
Someone exclaimed, "Did Mr. Shu — did he went into the water himself!"
Another, in disbelief, "look at his hand!"
Shu Yao barely heard them. The cold was seeping deep, bone-deep. His wet bandage clung uselessly to his palm, red seeping faintly beneath the soaked fabric. He hugged his arms around himself, trembling despite his efforts to stand tall.
The woman looked up then, realizing his condition. "You're freezing!" she barked at her attendants. "Don't just stand there—get him warm, now!"
Several people rushed forward, draping thick towels around Shu Yao's shoulders. He flinched slightly at their touch, forcing a small nod. "I—I'm fine," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
The assistant's of Suzhou branch appeared beside him, panic written across there faces. "Mr. Shu, If you don't warm up now, you'll catch a fever!"
"I'm fine," Shu Yao repeated, though his lips trembled. His gaze shifted to the woman, who was now holding her son close. "Just… make sure he's kept warm. He'll get sick otherwise."
The woman's eyes softened. "You saved my child. I owe you more than words," she said, voice quiet now, steady with sincerity.
Shu Yao dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. The crowd around him, however, was less composed—camera lenses flashed, people murmured, the chaos of relief and disbelief filling the damp air.
Inside, Shu Yao could only think: I don't even remember how I did it. His body had moved before his mind. There had been no hesitation—just the act, the water, the plunge, leaving only cold and exhaustion behind.
He turned toward the studio, his legs unsteady. The assistant followed closely, still fussing, as they stepped back inside the bright-lit hall. The warmth hit like a wave, dizzying after the cold outside.
The stylists were waiting, horrified. "He's drenched—someone bring a blanket, now!"
They surrounded him instantly—hands reaching, towels pressing, voices overlapping. Shu Yao lifted a hand weakly, stopping them. "It's all right," he said, though the tremor in his tone betrayed him. "I just need to change."
One of the stylists noticed the soaked bandage. "Oh, your hand—"
"I'll handle it," he interrupted softly. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as though still somewhere between the crashing waves and the child's frightened eyes.
Then the woman entered. Her eyes found Shu Yao immediately.
"Mr. Shu," she began gently, "please—let me have my medic rebandage your hand. You'll get an infection otherwise."
He shook his head faintly, taking a half-step back. "It's fine. I can do it myself."
The woman blinked, taken aback by the quiet firmness in his tone. "Then at least," she said after a pause, "allow me to help you change out of those wet clothes."
Her voice carried the effortless authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. But Shu Yao's reaction was immediate—a faint flinch, almost imperceptible, his shoulders stiffening as his eyes lowered.
"No need," he murmured. "I can change by myself."
The silence that followed was brief but heavy. The woman studied him for a moment longer, recognizing the fragile line between pride and fear. Finally, she sighed softly and held out a folded set of clean clothes—soft cashmere, clearly expensive.
"If you insist," she said. "Then take these. And the changing room's just there."
Shu Yao hesitated before taking them, fingers brushing the fabric. "Thank you," he said quietly.
She gave a small nod and gestured toward the corridor. "This way."
He followed, his steps slow, the echo of water still whispering in his ears. When she stopped by a door and motioned inside, he offered a faint smile of gratitude before stepping through.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside the dim room, the sound of his own breath filled the silence. He stood there for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the mirror—the dripping hair, the pale lips, the tired eyes.
A sigh escaped him, soft and tired.
He set the clothes on a chair and reached for the buttons of his shirt, each movement deliberate, trembling slightly. The fabric clung stubbornly to his skin. His bandaged hand hurt with every motion, but he said nothing, only exhaled slowly through his nose, controlling the shiver that threatened to escape.
Outside, the murmur of voices continued—the woman, the assistants, the crew. But in that small space, there was only the quiet drip of water, and the fragile silence of a boy who had forgotten how to be warm.
On the far end of the shooting area, the lights blazed against Bai Qi's flawless frame, the rhythm of the camera shutters relentless. His jaw was set, his gaze cutting through the lens with cold precision.
"Perfect, Mr. Bai! Just one more shot!" someone called.
He adjusted his collar, expression unreadable, until a soft, uncertain voice broke the spell.
"Mr. Bai—your assistant…"
Bai Qi's head turned sharply. The Suzhou branch assistant froze mid-sentence under that stare—the kind that stripped words from throats.
"What about him?" Bai Qi's tone was flat, a blade's edge under silk.
The assistant swallowed. "He… saved a child. From the pool. The staff said he jumped in before anyone could react."
For a heartbeat, nothing. The room waited.
Then Bai Qi's eyes flicked away, dismissive. He reached for his Robes, undoing it with slow precision. "So?"
The assistant nodded, uncertain.
Bai Qi said nothing more. He turned his back to the set and stripped the second hanfu from his shoulders, the movement smooth yet tense. His reflection in the mirror glimmered beneath the studio lights—chiseled, distant, unbothered. He peeled off the the next layer, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.
"What are you staring at, go and tell him to bring my lunch," he said coolly, ignoring the silence that followed.
"Yes, sir.
The assistant's eyes lingered for a moment—perhaps waiting for a flicker of emotion, anything—but Bai Qi gave him none.
Downstairs, in the quieter wing of the building, the air was softer, scented faintly of sandalwood and damp wool. Shu Yao stood before a tall mirror in the changing room, the reflection that looked back at him fragile and pale. The cream-colored cashmere sweater clung to him loosely, its warmth barely touching the cold that still gnawed at his bones.
His hair, still wet, curled slightly against his neck. He'd only half dried it with a towel. Water darkened the collar of his sweater, leaving small stains of water.
He flexed his fingers—still numb, still trembling faintly.
When he stepped outside, the woman from earlier was waiting. Her expression softened at the sight of him. "That looks pretty good on you, Mr. Shu," she said kindly.
He lowered his gaze, a faint pink brushing his pale cheeks. "Thank you." His voice was quiet, careful. "Is there… a first-aid kit?"
"Of course." She turned to one of her subordinates. "Bring the medical kit—now."
Then, more gently, to him, "Please sit down. You need to be treated properly."
He obeyed, lowering himself onto the chair. His damp hair brushed against the sweater's collar as he clasped his injured hand, waiting. The woman excused herself briefly, murmuring something about the shoot.
Moments later, another man approached—the Suzhou branch assistant, carrying a white box. "Mr. Shu," he said, breathless, "you shouldn't move that hand."
Shu Yao flinched slightly when the man knelt before him. "I—it's fine, I can—"
"It's okay," the assistant said quickly, already unwrapping the soaked bandage. "Just let me help."
Shu Yao stiffened but didn't pull away. His eyes followed the assistant's careful hands as the wet fabric peeled away, revealing the angry red mark beneath. The touch was gentle, almost apologetic.
"You really shouldn't have gone in with your injury," the man murmured. "That was somehow recklessness ."
Shu Yao said nothing. His lips parted, then closed again.
"There," the assistant said after a moment, tying the clean bandage in place with a neat knot. "Almost done."
Shu Yao looked down at his hand, freshly wrapped, pale against the white cloth. He drew it back slowly, cradling it with his other hand. "Thank you," he said softly.
The assistant smiled—awkward, sheepish—and scratched the back of his neck. "It's nothing, really. Compared to what you just did… that was unbelievable."
Shu Yao gave a faint, tired smile, eyes lowering once more. He didn't trust his voice to answer.
Bai Qi stood before the mirror, fastening the final button of his suit.
The reflection staring back at him was immaculate — pressed collar, crisp cuffs, and a face carved from restraint. The hum of the studio outside reached him in fractured echoes — voices, camera clicks, laughter he couldn't care less about.
He adjusted the cufflink once more, though it didn't need fixing. It was only to stall the restless pulse beneath his skin.
The shoot was over. Finally.
Downstairs, Shu Yao sat on the edge of a couch, lost in thought. The soft lights of the studio filtered through the blinds, glinting against the faint blue shadows beneath his eyes. His body still ached from exhaustion, but when one of the crew members approached, he straightened immediately.
"Mr. Shu," the assistant said politely. "Mr. Bai's shoot is complete. He'll be having lunch here."
Shu Yao blinked, his fingers tightening on his lap. "H-Here?"
"Yes. He asked me to inform you."
His throat felt dry. "Where is… the kitchen area?"
"I'll lead you, Mr, shu."
The assistant guided him through a polished corridor lined with photographs — every frame a perfect still of charisma and command. Shu Yao walked quietly behind, each footstep careful, as if afraid to disturb the still air.
In the changing room upstairs, Bai Qi sat on the couch, The window stretched across the city — a glittering skyline no longer worth looking at. His gaze lifted to the ceiling. His thoughts, unfortunately, drifted where he didn't want them to.
Shu Yao.
That soft-spoken, infuriating man with the too-gentle eyes.
His jaw tightened. The memory of last night surfaced — the way Shu Yao had flinched when he forced the spoon into his lips, the silence that followed. Bai Qi muttered under his breath, teeth gritted.
"He deserved it," he told himself. "Every bit of it."
The door clicked open.
His gaze snapped toward it.
Shu Yao stepped in carefully, carrying a silver tray laden with expensive dishes — braised duck, jasmine rice, delicate greens. The scent of sesame and pepper filled the room.
Bai Qi's eyes lingered for a moment before he tore them away.
Shu Yao placed the tray on the table. His movements were quiet, deliberate, as though each motion might shatter the fragile air between them.
"I heard," Bai Qi said, his voice cutting through the silence, "you saved a child just now."
Shu Yao froze. "It was nothing," he murmured. "The child was drowning—"
"You wouldn't stop yourself," Bai Qi interrupted coldly, "from gaining sympathy from others."
The words struck like a slap. Shu Yao's shoulders trembled. His head lowered further.
"I… I'm sorry."
"Enough of your sorry." Bai Qi's tone sharpened like glass. He leaned forward, his eyes dark with annoyance. "I'm done with your so called sorry. Now Get the hell out."
Shu Yao flinched — a sharp, involuntary tremor running through his shoulders. He turned, walked to the door, and opened it slowly. The faint click as it shut behind him was almost inaudible.
Bai Qi stared at the closed door. His lips curved in a cold, humorless smirk.
"Still talking about sorry," he muttered. "Hmph."
He picked up the chopsticks and began eating — each bite mechanical, tasteless, as though chewing through silence itself.