Bai Qi stepped forward first, sliding the card key into the slot with a practiced flick. A faint green light blinked—click—and the door swung open.
Behind him, Shu Yao lingered, his balance uncertain, his breath shallow. The air seemed too heavy to draw in, his pulse fluttering weakly in his throat.
"Finally," Bai Qi said curtly, not bothering to turn.
Shu Yao nodded once, though the motion was barely there. He took a step, then another, the world tilting ever so slightly beneath his feet. The light from the corridor dimmed as he crossed the threshold—then the floor vanished from under him.
Bai Qi had just turned to speak when it happened.
A sudden weight struck his chest.
Shu Yao's head collided against him, a muffled sound escaping the boy's lips as his knees buckled. For an instant, Bai Qi froze—his body rigid, caught off guard. He could feel the shallow, uneven breaths spilling against his shirt, the tremor in the slender frame pressed against him.
"What the—" His words broke off.
Shu Yao didn't respond. His head lolled slightly, his fingers brushing weakly at Bai Qi's sleeve as though reaching for balance that wasn't there. His face was pale, lips bloodless.
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The cold edge of his voice sliced through the silence, but the boy didn't even flinch. His body sagged further, as though the sound came from far away.
Bai Qi's hand shot up, gripping Shu Yao's shoulders. The heat beneath his palms startled him—unnatural, feverish. His breath hitched once, a flicker of alarm quickly buried beneath irritation.
"Damn it—"
He meant to push him away. But as soon as he loosened his grip, Shu Yao's knees gave out completely. Instinct moved faster than thought; Bai Qi caught him by the waist, dragging him upright before he hit the ground.
The closeness was suffocating. Shu Yao's breath burned through the fabric of Bai Qi's shirt, his heartbeat erratic against Bai Qi's chest.
Bai Qi's mind flashed, unbidden, to another image—two days ago, George holding the same fragile figure in his arms, his expression taut with worry.
The memory made his teeth clench.
Fury surged, sharp and unwelcome. He is not George. He wasn't anyone's caretaker.
With a harsh exhale, Bai Qi half-carried, half-dragged Shu Yao across the suite and dropped him onto the nearest couch. The boy's body crumpled instantly, the limp fall of his arm hanging over the edge, breath shallow and unsteady.
Bai Qi straightened, brushing invisible dust from his hands as if the touch had burned him. His expression hardened, cutting clean through any flicker of hesitation.
"Tch. Pathetic," he muttered, turning away.
He stripped off his long coat, tossed it across the bed with a sharp flick of his wrist, and moved toward the mirror. The reflection that greeted him was pale beneath the soft light, his dark eyes colder than usual.
He tugged at the knot of his tie, watching his own expression as though testing it for cracks.
"Disgusting," he whispered under his breath, voice low, tight. "He dares to—"
He stopped.
The words caught mid-sentence, dissolving in the quiet hum of the room.
For a moment, he simply stood there—hands braced against the edge of the dresser, chest rising and falling too fast.
Then, slowly, his gaze lowered. His fingers brushed the spot on his chest where Shu Yao's head had rested moments ago. The warmth hadn't faded yet.
It pulsed there still—subtle, maddening.
Bai Qi stared at his reflection, at the faint crease in his shirt, at the memory lingering like a ghost beneath his skin.
"That place," he muttered, almost to himself. "Was only for her."
The name hovered unsaid in the air, swallowed by silence.
He tilted his head back, exhaling shakily. The tension in his jaw trembled before he ground it back into control.
"She's gone." The words scraped out of him like glass. "No one touches that place. No one."
The mirror reflected every flicker—the faint tremor in his hand, the hollow at the corner of his mouth, the loneliness that anger could not quite smother.
He ran a hand through his hair, black as obsidian, fingers tightening briefly before falling away.
Behind him, the room was still. Shu Yao lay motionless on the couch, his breathing shallow, a faint sheen of sweat glistening at his temple. The chandelier lights made his silhouette in muted gold.
Bai Qi glanced back once, then looked away quickly, his throat tightening with something he refused to name.
He stepped toward the bathroom, his voice a low murmur that barely reached the air.
"Who told you to collapse in front of me…"
Bai Qi's steps echoed against the marble as he turned back toward the couch. The air in the suite was still—too still—and the only sound was the shallow rhythm of Shu Yao's breath.
He stopped halfway across the room, his eyes narrowing. The boy's chest rose unevenly, his sweater clinging to his skin with sweat. Strands of hair plastered to his forehead, framing a face gone pale beneath a fever's flush. His lips were parted slightly, trembling, his lashes—long and brown—quivered with every unsteady breath.
Something in Bai Qi's chest stuttered. He blinked. Once. Twice.
For a moment, his mind faltered between past and present. That same color—those lashes, that faint pink that wasn't from rouge but from heat. His throat went dry.
"Qing Yue…" The name escaped him before he realized it.
He froze, staring down at the fevered figure sprawled across the couch. The boy's face was blurred by exhaustion, but the resemblance slammed into him with merciless force.
Bai Qi tilted his head, lowering it just slightly, as if seeing him from a different angle might make the illusion fade. It didn't. His fingers hovered over Shu Yao's temple, stopping mere inches away.
No.
He straightened abruptly, the air in his lungs turning sharp. "No—it's not her," he muttered through clenched teeth. "It's not Qing Yue."
His tone broke into a cold, defensive snarl. "Wake up," he barked, his voice cracking through the silence. "I said wake up and prepare my bath."
No answer.
Only the faint sound of fevered breathing.
His jaw tightened. His patience frayed. The sight of that fragile body—sweat-soaked, trembling, utterly unresponsive—ignited something fierce and helpless inside him.
"I said get up!" His voice rose, commanding, as if volume could drag Shu Yao back to his feet. "Do you hear me?"
Still nothing.
Bai Qi's fingers flexed restlessly at his side. He took one step forward, then another, until he was standing directly over him. He stared down, his mind racing through methods—cold water? a slap? a shake by the collar? Anything to break the unbearable stillness.
But the closer he looked, the more the tension bled out of him. Shu Yao's face had turned ghostly pale, breath shallow and uneven, the curve of his lips trembling as if whispering to dreams.
Bai Qi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His reflection glinted in the dark window—stern, unreadable.
"Damn it," he whispered, barely audible.
Because for all his fury, he could not bring himself to touch him.
The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city below — a muted pulse against the windows. The chandelier light bled gold into every corner, softening the edges of glass and marble, yet it could not warm the chill that hung between them.
Bai Qi's eyes flicked to the still figure on the couch. Shu Yao's body lay half-curled, one arm draped limply against the cushions. His breathing came in uneven bursts, shallow and trembling, his skin gleaming faintly with fever-sweat.
Bai Qi stood for a long while, expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet scoff, he turned away.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath.
He strode toward the desk, yanked the receiver off its cradle, and pressed the button for room service.
"This is suite 407," his voice cut sharp through the receiver. "Prepare my bath. Immediately."
A nervous voice crackled on the other end. Bai Qi didn't wait for a response. He hung up with a thud, the sound biting through the quiet.
He sank into the opposite couch, elbows on his knees, gaze distant. For a few seconds, the only sound was his own breathing — the kind of rough exhale that scraped the edges of control.
Then, Infront of him, a faint murmur broke the stillness.
It was Shu Yao.
At first, the words were only air — nothing distinct, nothing shaped. But Bai Qi's gaze drifted toward him again despite himself. Shu Yao's lips moved, faintly parted, breath catching with the effort to form sound. His brow tightened, and his voice — hoarse and soft — trembled into the air.
"…cold…"
The word dissolved into a shiver.
Bai Qi's jaw flexed. He looked away. "Pathetic," he hissed again, though quieter now, the word less conviction than habit.
But Shu Yao stirred again, his hand twitching weakly on the couch. The bandaged one. His fingers curled, clutching at nothing, his breath hitching as if the pain was clawing its way through him.
Bai Qi's gaze snapped back to him.
There it was — that face, pale and damp with fever, cheeks flushed red in an unnatural glow, lips pale and trembling. His hair clung to his forehead, brown strands falling over closed lashes.
And then Shu Yao's mouth moved again.
"…Bai Qi…"
The name escaped so faintly it might have been mistaken for a sigh.
Bai Qi froze.
He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until the silence pressed against his ears. His pulse kicked once, twice, sharp and fast.
He rose slowly, almost against his will. The floor groaned beneath his shoes as he crossed the space between them.
He stood over the couch, his shadow falling across Shu Yao's face.
"I told you to wake up minutes ago," he said coldly, voice low. "You didn't even move. And now—"
But the words faltered.
Shu Yao's lips moved once more, trembling. "Bai Qi…. it hurts…"
Bai Qi's throat tightened.
His fingers twitched by his side, the muscle in his jaw jerking once.
The sound — that fragile, broken murmur — struck him with a familiarity that clawed at something long buried. For a moment, Bai Qi's vision blurred; the hospital bed, the red-tinged cheeks, the sweat clinging to a child's forehead…
it was all the same. The half-lidded eyes, big and brown, framed by long lashes — he had seen it before. Qing Yue. That was the child he had watched, helpless, so many years ago.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the small hospital room. Shu Yao lay pale and fevered, eyes half-lidded, sweat clinging to his forehead. Bai Qi, flushed-cheeked and only six, sat beside him, hand lightly resting on Shu Yao's head.
"Does it hurt?" he asked softly.
Shu Yao only nodded, too weak to speak.
Bai Qi's small lips curved into a gentle smile. "It's alright. It'll go away soon." Innocent, unknowing, and entirely sincere, he leaned closer. Shu Yao felt something stirring deep within him, a warmth he had never known — the pure certainty of a child's comfort, the strange, fragile trust that the world could be as gentle as these words.
The fragile little body he had watched over so long ago. He could almost hear the echo of his own childish voice, softly reassuring, leaning close, promising the pain would fade.
And he cherished it. Every trembling second, every gentle word, every warmth pressed against the sickbed — it was precious, a memory he could not, and would not, dare to forget.
He did not realize, could not yet see, that the child before him was not Qing Yue. It was Shu Yao. And in that belief, that unshaken certainty, his heart filled with a tenderness that would linger long after the fever passed.
And Shu Yao again stirred as he forming a word that he had believed it.
He believed it so much that even now — years later, heartbreaks, and cruelties later — the promise had rooted deep in him, so deep that even through fever, he whispered the same name that once comforted him.
Bai Qi.
Bai Qi blinked hard, and the memory snapped like glass.
The suite returned. The feverish man before him. The weight in his chest that refused to fade.
He clenched his teeth, forcing air through them, angry at himself, at everything.
"Enough," he hissed.
His voice cracked the silence, cold, and, brittle.