The weather had begun to turn.
By the time Monday arrived, the skies were the color of bruised silk, and rain whispered against the windows of the Wang Conglomerate like a lullaby that refused to be heard. Inside the building, the halls still pulsed with urgency—but Xiao Zhan moved slower now, more aware of the rhythm of the place. Of his place.
And of him.
"Don't forget the Kintsugi mock-up," Secretary Lan murmured as she passed by him near the elevator. "CEO Wang hates being unprepared. Especially when the investors are foreign."
"I have it," Zhan smiled softly, patting the slender folder tucked beneath his arm.
She stopped, just briefly, and glanced at him again. "He's talking more to you."
Zhan blinked. "I—what?"
"Mr. Wang," she clarified. "He rarely asks twice, let alone... listens."
Zhan didn't know what to say. He simply gave a polite nod and stepped into the elevator.
But her words haunted him.
—
The meeting room on the top floor smelled faintly of bergamot and old wood. Yibo was already seated when Zhan entered, dressed in a crisp dark blue suit that softened the cold edges of his expression. He didn't look up immediately, but Xiao Zhan could sense the shift in his posture—he'd noticed his arrival.
"Sit," Yibo said, without looking.
Zhan took his place at the assistant chair, beside the CEO, not across from him.
This had become the norm.
But it never felt normal.
During the presentation, Yibo's voice was steady and sharp as always. But when Zhan rose to speak briefly—just to explain the Japanese cultural tie-in with the design—something subtle happened.
Wang Yibo leaned back slightly in his chair.
He listened.
Not just tolerated, not just nodded—listened.
The Japanese delegates across the table noticed too. One of them smiled warmly at Zhan, nodding in quiet approval. The atmosphere softened. The tension drained from the corners of the room.
It was a small triumph.
And when the presentation concluded, and the investors left satisfied, Yibo finally turned to face him fully.
"You're good with people."
Zhan tilted his head. "Not with everyone."
Yibo's eyes flickered—quiet amusement, or something close to it.
"Then be good with me."
Zhan froze.
It wasn't flirtation. Not really.
Just a quiet command. But the words stayed with him like heat after flame.
—
Later that evening, Zhan found himself walking through an old district in the city, guided by the heavy quiet of his thoughts. He stopped at a lantern-lit stall and bought a steamed bun, then another for the old man sitting behind the counter.
"You look thoughtful," the man said as Zhan handed him the snack.
"I work for someone difficult," Zhan murmured.
"Ah," the old man chuckled, "those are the ones you learn the most from."
"Or lose yourself in," Zhan said, too quietly.
He sat by the street for a while, watching people walk past—umbrellas spinning like petals in the rain. His phone buzzed.
[Unknown Number]: Bring me that tea you were drinking the other day. Jasmine.
He blinked.
His fingers hesitated before replying.
[Zhan]: How did you get my number?
[Unknown Number]: I'm Wang Yibo. I can get what I want.
His pulse skipped.
After a moment, he texted again:
[Zhan]: I'll bring it tomorrow. Do you want honey?
There was a pause. Then:
[Yibo]: Yes.
It was just tea. Just a message.
But it felt like a confession.
—
The next morning, Xiao Zhan entered the office earlier than usual. He placed a cup of jasmine tea on Yibo's desk before the man arrived, the cup wrapped in a paper napkin he folded himself.
No note.
No need.
He sat in his usual chair and waited.
When Yibo finally entered, his eyes caught the cup immediately. He didn't speak for a full minute, simply walked to his desk, sat down, and took a slow sip.
And then, quietly:
"Sweet."
Zhan smiled without looking up. "You said yes."
The room fell silent again.
But something else lingered there now—unspoken, fragile, almost dangerous.
Yibo reached for the folder beside him and handed it to Zhan without explanation.
Inside was a design—gold lacquer running through a fractured porcelain crown.
"It's the new logo for the joint venture," Yibo said.
Zhan's heart stilled.
"It's… based on Kintsugi," he whispered.
Yibo didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
—
That night, Zhan stood in front of his mirror at home. He touched the skin at his neck, where a pendant used to rest long ago—a family crest he abandoned when he fled his royal lineage.
He thought of his mother's voice, quiet and painful, telling him: "To choose love is to choose ruin."
But he also thought of a man who drank tea sweetened with honey, who stared at him like a storm he could not control.
And he wondered if ruin might feel like velvet.
---