The moon lingered in the sky like a quiet sentinel, veiled in gossamer clouds that drifted slow and silver. The world outside Shu Yao's window had gone still again, tucked in shadows and silence, the occasional rustle of wind like the breath of dreams passing through.
Inside his room, the lamp cast a golden hush across the walls. A moth hovered briefly near the light, then disappeared into the dark corners.
Shu Yao sat at the edge of his bed, the soft grey pajama set folded beside him like a quiet invitation. His slender fingers hesitated on the buttons of his suit, and his gaze—smoke-shadowed and unreadable—fell to his bandaged ankle.
It still ached.
Dull. Persistent. Familiar.
But he moved anyway.
With slow, deliberate motions, he unfastened the buttons of the black suit he had worn that morning—one by one, the tiny metallic clicks sounding louder than they should have in the stillness. The vest followed, sliding from his shoulders like water rolling off marble. The shirt clung a little, damp where it met his skin, and he winced faintly as he leaned forward to peel it off, his breath catching when his ankle protested again.
He didn't cry out. He never did.
Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and moved through the pain like a ghost passing through walls.
Once bare-chested, he paused—let the air brush across his skin. Then he reached for the pajama top, pulled it on slowly, the soft fabric a comfort, like something whispered. A lullaby in cotton form.
Now for the trousers.
This took more time. He had to brace himself, careful not to jostle the swollen ankle. Every inch of fabric rolled over the bandages felt like a needle dragging under skin. But still, he did it. Inch by inch. With the grace of someone used to doing difficult things alone.
Once dressed, he exhaled softly and let himself lower back against the bed, careful, measured, like a leaf settling on still water.
He stared at the ceiling.
Eyes open.
Lips parted just enough to show he was breathing—but only just.
Sleep didn't come. It hovered just out of reach, coy and unbothered.
Instead, the memories came.
From morning.
From before the quiet.
From the bench beneath the flowering camphor trees, where he had sat, ankle twisted, alone.
Until Bai Qi appeared.
Shu Yao's eyes closed, lashes brushing faintly against his cheeks as the scene played again in his mind.
He hadn't called him.
Hadn't asked for anyone.
His taxi was already there. The driver waiting with polite disinterest.
And yet—
Bai Qi had waved the car away with a sharp flick of his hand, declaring in that insufferably confident voice: "I'll take care of him."
As if it were simple.
As if he were simple.
Shu Yao hadn't wanted the help. Not truly. But when he tried to stand, his ankle had faltered, refused to carry him. And Bai Qi—completely ignoring Shu Yao's pride—had grabbed him.
Wrongly.
Twisted the ankle again.
Not once.
But twice.
The pain had blurred the corners of his vision.
And still—still—he remembered the way Bai Qi had looked at him. Not pitying. Not mocking. Just... focused.
He remembered the pressure of arms beneath him—one behind his back, the other under his knees.
He remembered being lifted.
Effortlessly.
As if he were something fragile. Something to be carried gently, not for show, but for care.
But it was in front of people.
That was the part that turned his stomach now.
In the present, in his dimly lit room, Shu Yao's hand drifted up to touch his cheek—warm.
Blushing.
So softly pink it was nearly rose.
And no one was there to see it.
He turned his face into the pillow, as if trying to hide the warmth from even the walls.
"I love him too much," he whispered into the cotton, a confession meant for the linen, not for the air.
It wasn't anger that bloomed inside him. Nor shame.
Just this unbearable tenderness, folded like a letter he hadn't the courage to send.
He wanted to hate that Bai Qi lifted him like that.
But he didn't.
He wanted to pretend it hadn't mattered.
But it had.
His fingers curled slightly against the sheets, grasping nothing but the silence around him.
The memory burned sweeter than it should've.
That clumsy rescue. That public humiliation. That ache in his ankle.
And still… all he could feel now was the way Bai Qi had looked at him.
As if he were the only thing in the world worth noticing.
Shu Yao's chest rose with a sigh—quiet, trembling, private.
Then stillness again.
His blush still lingered—brilliant, bashful.
And beautifully unseen.
Outside, the city breathed.
The moon kept watch.
And somewhere across the city, Bai Qi sat awake in his room, unaware that the boy he carried like a prince from a battlefield now lay sleepless in the aftermath—heart echoing with the sound of footsteps and words unspoken.
Morning would come.
But not yet.
For now, it was just Shu Yao.
And the memory of being held.
Too tight.
Too kindly.
And not nearly long enough.
The Morning of Unspoken Things
Shu Yao turned in bed once.
Then again.
The sheets whispered beneath him like restless thoughts. His eyes—open against the darkness—refused to surrender to sleep. The hush of midnight had passed, but still his body lay taut, suspended between weariness and longing.
No dream came to claim him. No silence offered peace.
Only the soft echo of memories…
And the ache of wanting something he couldn't name out loud.
He shifted carefully, mindful of the dull throb in his ankle. The bandage pressed like a phantom reminder against his skin—of today, of Bai Qi, of everything unspoken.
He exhaled.
Rolled onto his back.
Stared once more at the ceiling, where shadows played a quiet waltz across the plaster.
Eventually, at some hour too late to be night and too early to be morning, his eyes finally closed—not in sleep, but in surrender.
And then—
Morning.
Soft.
Slow.
Spilling in golden mist across the city like spilled milk and honey.
The first light brushed over the vast white bungalow of the Bai estate like the gentlest of blessings. It crept in through the tall windows, danced along the velvet drapes, and finally settled on the still figure sleeping in the grand bedroom at the top of the eastern wing.
Bai Qi.
Half-asleep, hair tousled across the pillow like dark ink spilled in elegant ruin. His lashes—long and absurdly delicate—shimmered faintly as the sunlight kissed them. The sheets had slipped to his waist, revealing a sculpted silhouette that rose and fell with quiet breath, like the sea in sleep.
A beam of light curved across his cheekbone, catching in the soft angle of his jaw.
He stirred.
Not all at once.
Just a slow shift—first of the fingers, then of the brow, then his dark lashes lifting like velvet curtains at a royal debut.
His eyes opened—onyx, still glinting with sleep, catching the morning like precious stone beneath water.
Bai Qi blinked once, then again, turning his head toward the clock.
6:02 AM.
He groaned softly into the pillow. "Too early…"
His voice, husky from sleep, barely carried past the satin sheets.
Then, with the discipline of someone used to early demands, he pushed himself up—slowly, gracefully—like a prince waking in a palace of mirrors.
The morning light made his features seem carved: all sharp jawlines and smooth brows, the softest furrow between them like he was already thinking too much. His hair—black as obsidian—caught the sun in cool glints, each strand tumbling in gentle waves across his forehead like a wolf in repose.
"Need to get up," he murmured again, stretching once before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
Minutes later, steam unfurled behind the frosted glass of the bathroom door. The sound of running water filled the space, and Bai Qi, framed in mist and clarity, stood like a myth rendered in porcelain and firelight. The shower washed away the dreams. The scent of fresh cedar soap lingered on his skin like memory.
When he stepped out, a towel slung low at his hips, he looked into the mirror.
And the mirror looked back—offering a version of him that was devastating.
Polished.
Collected.
Dangerously poised.
He dried his hair with a few languid passes of his hand, then dressed—crisp white shirt, tailored navy suit, tie a deep shade of wine. He fastened the silver cufflinks, each movement precise, each choice deliberate.
Then he smirked.
Just a little.
Enough to acknowledge the power in his reflection.
His gaze lingered in the mirror—meeting his own eyes, unreadable and dark.
"You'll see her today," he whispered to himself.
He adjusted his tie one final time, exhaled slowly, and turned away.
The halls of the estate greeted him with quiet opulence: paintings from another century, polished floors reflecting chandeliers, curtains that swayed without wind.
He descended the staircase, each step echoing softly as if the house itself were listening.
In the dining room, sunlight spilled like amber across the long table. The breakfast spread was immaculate—fruits arranged like a still-life painting, silver cutlery gleaming under morning's gaze.
His mother was already there.
Charming as ever. She wore a pale lavender gown today, her dark hair swept up in a bun held by an ivory pin. There was grace in her every gesture, elegance without effort.
She smiled at her husband beside her—a warm, private smile that softened her sharp beauty—and her hand rested lightly over his.
Then she heard the footsteps.
She turned. Her face brightened.
"Ah, there you are," she said, her voice velvet-sweet.
"Come, darling," she added, patting the seat beside her. "Have a seat."
Bai Qi nodded once, crossing the room with practiced ease. His movements carried the weight of someone born into expectations—and the charm of someone who had learned to play with them.
He pulled out the chair, lowered himself gracefully, and met his mother's eyes.
"Good morning," he said with a slight smile.
The air smelled of warm toast, fresh berries, and polished silver.
But beneath all of that, in the corners of his mind, the memory of qing yue lingered still—
Beautiful.
The clink of fine porcelain echoed gently in the dining room as Bai Qi lifted his cup to his lips, the tea fragrant—steeped to perfection in delicate floral notes. The morning light filtered through the sheer drapes, washing everything in soft gold.
Across the table, his father—sharp-eyed, regal in a grey suit tailored to tradition—folded his newspaper with a single, deliberate motion and looked up at his son.
"Today," he said, voice low but firm, "you will be handling things on my behalf."
Bai Qi blinked once, then twice, as if the weight of the statement needed a second to settle.
"…All of them?" he asked, eyebrows raised just slightly.
His father arched one brow in return. "Each one. No excuses."
There was a beat of silence. Bai Qi exhaled slowly, like a man accepting the terms of some unspoken contract with fate.
"Yes, yes," he said at last, lifting both hands in mock surrender, his smirk returning. "Just as you say."
But his father wasn't done.
"If you complete every task—successfully," he added, his gaze narrowing slightly in that way only years of patriarchal expectation could achieve, "then I suppose I can finally begin preparations for your engagement."
Bai Qi froze.
His cup paused mid-air. His breath caught just behind his throat. The world slowed—just a little—as if time itself leaned in to see his reaction.
"…Engagement?" he echoed.
"To Qing Yue," his father said simply, already returning to his tea as if discussing the weather.
Bai Qi stared.
His eyes widened with the rare bloom of something softer than surprise. Something warmer. As if a secret, half-buried hope had suddenly dared to lift its head from the soil.
To Qing Yue.
The thought bloomed inside him like jasmine on a summer night—unexpected, fragrant, thrilling.
He pushed back his chair abruptly and stood, spine straightening with pride. Then, with a grin curving at the edge of boyish charm and princely honor, he raised one hand in a playful salute.
"Just as you say, Sir."
His mother chuckled behind the rim of her teacup, watching the display with fond amusement. Her eyes danced over her son as if seeing the little boy he used to be—so full of drama and daydreams.
"Don't forget to eat," she called after him gently.
But Bai Qi was already full—not with food, but with adrenaline and the reckless energy of someone whose world had just tilted toward desire.
He walked with purpose through the front hall, his leather shoes echoing against marble, the long shadows of the grand columns following behind him like loyal attendants.
Outside, the air was crisp—cool, kissed by dew and early sun.
The black car gleamed like ink in the light, parked just beyond the steps of the estate. The driver, in his uniformed neatness, stood tall beside the open door, hands behind his back, waiting.
Bai Qi didn't slow his pace.
He swept down the stairs in smooth strides, and his coat fluttering slightly with each movement. The wind ruffled his hair—wolf-dark and glinting—and he didn't bother taming it.
He didn't need to.
He looked the part.
A man in control. A man with a future.
A man who just might marry the girl whose laugh still rang in his ears.
Without a word, he slipped into the back seat, the cool leather welcoming him like an old confidant.
The driver closed the door with a soft, respectful click.
The engine purred to life.
And the car rolled forward—leaving behind the estate, the golden morning, and the whisper of promises that now rode quietly in Bai Qi's chest.