Shu Yao's eyes fluttered open, sluggish, weighted by fever and an unsettling chill that seeped into his bones. The remnants of a dream clung to him, jagged fragments of the past bleeding into the present. His skin prickled, each movement a labor, as if his body refused to obey.
He blinked against the dim light, disoriented, and realized the room felt emptier than expected. A hollow pang of worry nudged at him. Bai Qi had been there. Surely. But now…
His pulse skipped when he remembered: the bath. Bai Qi.
Abruptly, Shu Yao pushed himself up. The motion was reckless, reckless enough that the world tipped. Pain spiked along his temples. He swayed, uncertain, fumbling toward the bathroom. His throat was dry; his limbs, leaden.
Shu Yao's hand clutched the doorframe, knuckles whitening. His fever-clouded mind could scarcely process. And then—
The door creaked, and Bai Qi emerged. Towel clutched around his form, water dripping from black sleek hair that caught the chandelier light, creating a halo that burned Shu Yao's gaze.
Shu Yao's head spun violently toward him. Pain bloomed like fire at the base of his skull. Vertigo clawed up his spine. The world oscillated; his vision slurred.
Bai Qi's hand shot out, gripping Shu Yao by the elbow, solid and unyielding. His voice snapped, low and commanding.
"What kind of drama do you want to play here?"
Shu Yao's mouth moved, barely. Words, if they were words, faltered. "Bath… I… want to…"
The syllables trailed into silence. His body sagged, surrendering to the fever that hammered through his veins. His knees nearly buckled.
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. "What the hell are you doing? Can't you stand properly for even a minute?" His words were sharp, clipped.
Shu Yao could not respond. Strength had abandoned him, leaving a ghost of himself on shaky legs.
With a growl that was half exasperation, half something else, Bai Qi lifted him effortlessly, the motion abrupt, clinical.
Shu Yao was thrown onto the bed, the mattress dipping under him. He barely landed on the edge, but Bai Qi ignored it entirely.
Bai Qi lifted his gaze from the trembling figure on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his own wet hair, slicking it back, and exhaled slowly, a low hiss of annoyance escaping him.
The movement was deliberate, sharp—an exhalation that carried the weight of command, irritation, and something unspoken.
His eyes flicked once toward Shu Yao, measuring him, silent but cutting, as if the very sight of the fevered boy's weakness grated against his patience.
"Pathetic," Bai Qi muttered, voice low and dangerous. "Always falling in front of me."
Shu Yao's eyes fluttered shut again, the wave of heat surging, unrelenting. The room spun, the edges of light and shadow melting into each other.
Bai Qi turned, methodical, almost detached, retrieving his clothes. His movements were precise, practiced. The sick boy on the edge of the bed, barely conscious, barely coherent, was nothing more than a detail to be acknowledged and controlled.
Shu Yao stirred faintly, a groan slipping past his lips. The sound drew Bai Qi's attention for a heartbeat, but he didn't pause. The tension hung between them, taut and simmering.
A gust of fever made Shu Yao convulse slightly; he shivered despite the warmth of the blanket beneath him. His gaze, fever-laden and unfocused, drifted toward Bai Qi again. His vision swam with disorientation, yet the presence of the man was an anchor, harsh and commanding.
Bai Qi's silhouette moved against the pale light, damp hair clinging to sharp shoulders. Every gesture was precise, controlled, measured. There was no tenderness in his approach, only a rigid necessity.
Shu Yao's eyelids fell again, the pull of unconsciousness irresistible. His body surrendered, limp, a fragile form at the mercy of the man who stood over him, black hair still dripping, eyes dark and unreadable.
Shu Yao's chest rose and fell erratically, fever shaking him. And though he could not understand, could not resist, the presence of Bai Qi was a weight, oppressive and undeniable—a strange, commanding gravity that left him dizzy, fevered, and strangely anchored all at once.
Bai Qi had shrugged into something light—a single crisp shirt, sleeves rolled, paired with tailored trousers. The water still clung to his black hair. He roughly dried it with a towel and tossed it aside, careless, almost aggressive in the gesture.
His gaze landed on Shu Yao. Fever painted the boy's cheeks crimson. Hair clung to flushed skin, trembling lips parted with shallow, labored breaths. Every inch of him radiated fragility, and it made Bai Qi's chest tighten, a flicker of something sharp that he refused to name.
He clenched his teeth, irritation masking concern. Grabbing his phone, he barked, "I want a doctor. Right. Now."
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, posture rigid, eyes flicking over Shu Yao without daring another word. His gaze, sharp and measuring, returned to the phone.
A knock. Sharp, deliberate. Bai Qi's jaw tightened. Every motion, every breath felt like friction. Reaching for the door, he muttered under his breath, "Everything is so damn annoying."
The door opened. A servant stood there, and behind him, the doctor. Bai Qi didn't bother with pleasantries. "The patient is inside." He turned his head away, retreating to the couch, exhaling with clipped precision.
The doctor moved forward with quiet efficiency, checking Shu Yao's pulse, temperature, eyes. Needle prepped, arm exposed, he administered an injection. Bai Qi received a buzzing phone. Armin. He gritted his teeth and answered.
"What is it?" His voice sharp.
"Your tickets have already been paid," Armin's calm voice came through. "By tomorrow, you'll both will fly to Beijing."
"Whatever," Bai Qi snapped.
"Can't you pay attention to work for a moment?" Armin's sigh carried annoyance.
"I'm sick and tired of the person who's with me," Bai Qi spat, voice low and precise.
"Bai Qi, he's your assistant. As long as our parents are out, you shouldn't go anywhere without him."
"Whatever," Bai Qi muttered, eyes on nothing.
"What can I say, then?" Armin's tone clipped, and the line went dead.
Bai Qi stared into the air. The suite felt suddenly heavier. The doctor returned, stepping lightly to the edge of the couch.
"The patient's fever was extremely high," he said, handing Bai Qi a prescription.
Bai Qi's eyes scanned it. His jaw tensed, teeth clenching. "Do you expect me to go fetch the medicine myself?"
The doctor flinched, startled by the sharpness in his tone.
"Go fetch it yourself," Bai Qi barked at the servant.
The servant froze, bowing rapidly before vanishing down the hall. Bai Qi exhaled, long and sharp, a low hiss of frustration.
"What kind of trouble have I gotten myself into…" he muttered, gaze flicking back to Shu Yao. Fevered, fragile, utterly dependent. The words carried weight, but the edge of irritation never left his tone.
He leaned back into the couch, muscles taut. The city lights outside the Four Seasons Suzhou flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Shadows stretched across the suite, catching the polished mahogany and muted gold. The night pressed in, intimate, cinematic, and utterly indifferent to the small drama unfolding within.
Bai Qi stepped into the suite. The muted gold light of the top-floor room caught the faint sheen of city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Shu Yao lay perfectly on the bed, cocooned beneath the crisp sheets. Somehow, they were pulled snugly around him, folded with quiet care—likely the work of the servant or the doctor. Bai Qi didn't notice, didn't glance up. His eyes were elsewhere, calculating, tense.
Bai Qi's eyes returned to Shu Yao, who shifted slightly, cheeks flushed, lips trembling with each shallow breath. He exhaled through his nose, frustration and something unspoken knotting in his chest.
Bai Qi clenched his jaw again, exhaled sharply, and muttered, "I really am in deep trouble."
He moved with quiet, deliberate steps, each one precise, methodical. The bed loomed large in the middle of the suite, Shu Yao a fragile figure buried beneath fabric and fever. Bai Qi ignored him entirely.
Sliding onto the opposite side of the bed, he positioned himself with practiced ease, a barrier of cool detachment. His gaze didn't shift, didn't soften. Attention locked elsewhere, unreadable.
Shu Yao's chest rose and fell unevenly, shallow breaths betraying restless sleep. His brows furrowed, lips parted slightly, and even in repose, he shivered beneath the weight of heat and weakness.
The sheets rose and fell with him, the cocoon imperfect yet careful, evidence of someone else's diligence. Bai Qi's eyes remained on the darkened corner of the room, the cityscape beyond the glass, the soft hum of night pressing in.
Shu Yao shifted slightly, murmuring in his fevered haze. His hands twitched against the sheets, curling and uncurling in unconscious agitation. The boy was asleep, yes—but not peacefully. Shadows flickered across his features as though chasing remnants of dreams, jagged and unresolved.
Bai Qi exhaled slowly, a hiss of air that seemed to cut through the room's quiet. He made no move to adjust, no gesture toward comfort. Nothing. Only the low, contained tension of a man unwilling to succumb to concern.
And yet, presence alone suffused the space. Shu Yao's fragile body, trembling beneath fever and restless sleep, felt the weight of it—though he couldn't see, couldn't comprehend it fully.
The suite held them in tense equilibrium: luxurious, silent, cinematic. Two figures, side by side, worlds apart in awareness yet tethered by circumstance, by fragility, by the unspoken.
Bai Qi shifted, stretching just slightly, shoulders brushing the edge of the mattress. The motion was casual, deliberate, indifferent—but the air hummed with intent, with silent command.
A knock rang sharply on the suite door.
"I swear I—" Bai Qi muttered, cutting himself off mid-grumble. He shoved himself to his feet, every movement precise, controlled.
He opened the door. The servant stood there, hands trembling slightly, holding a small package of medicine.
Bai Qi glanced away, thoughts threading rapidly. He's sick. He won't take it himself. I can't—won't give it to him myself either.
His gaze snapped back to the servant, who flinched under the weight of Bai Qi's scrutiny.
"Wake the person inside," Bai Qi ordered, voice clipped, sharp. "Give him the medicine."
The servant hesitated, bowing uncertainly. "Just like you say, Mr. Bai."
He moved into the suite, feet shuffling, careful not to disturb the stillness. Bai Qi followed, stopping at the doorway. He observed, rigid, like a sentinel.
Inside, Shu Yao lay cocooned beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling in fevered rhythm. The servant hovered, hesitant, package clutched in both hands. He brushed a trembling hand over Shu Yao's shoulder.
"Sir," he whispered. Soft, tentative.
Shu Yao stirred slightly, barely, caught in fever's haze.
"Wake up and take your medicine, sir," the servant tried again.
No response. Only the shallow rise and fall of chest beneath the sheets.
Bai Qi let out a sharp tch, exhaling a clipped breath. "Don't even know how to wake someone," he muttered.
He crossed the room with deliberate steps, each footfall precise and heavy in the silence. Stopping at the bed, he crouched, bringing himself closer to the fevered boy.
"Shu Yao," he barked, almost, the sound low and commanding.
Shu Yao's eyes flicked open, half-dazed, half-terrified. Fever dulled clarity, and panic sharpened it.
"What… can I… help you?" he croaked, voice hesitant, unsteady, eyes clouded.
The servant froze, startled at the sharp exchange. Bai Qi's gaze, cool and cutting, swept over him.
"See? That's how it works," Bai Qi said flatly, turning his eyes back to the boy with a low exhale.
The servant bowed deeply, hands still trembling. "Please, sir… take your medicine."
Shu Yao blinked rapidly, caught between haze and fever, gaze unfocused. His lips parted but no sound came.
The room was still except for the quiet hum of the city outside and the shallow, uneven rhythm of Shu Yao's breathing.
Bai Qi exhaled through his nose, sharp, precise. The command had been given, the order issued. Now all that remained was waiting, observing—an exercise in patience he rarely practiced.
Shu Yao blinked again, still in haze, still trembling beneath the weight of sheets and fever. The medicine sat in the servant's hands, ready, but the boy remained motionless, fragile, caught in the thin space between sleep and awareness.