The room, for one suspended breath, stood still.
Even the wind outside dared not whisper.
George's frame loomed within the doorway—an immovable sculpture of fury carved in winter.
His coat still held the bite of the morning frost, but his voice—
His voice was colder.
He spoke not with volume, but with precision,
each syllable like steel drawn across silk.
"What, exactly," he began, his glacial gaze never wavering from Shu Yao,
"were you doing just now?"
No name was used. No courtesy given.
Only the weight of a question,
branded like fire.
The man, whose hands had only moments ago ached to graze something sacred,
jerked back as if doused in scalding guilt.
His tongue fumbled in the cathedral hush,
"—I-I didn't mean—it wasn't—I was just—"
He looked like a marionette cut from its strings,
lips trembling in the aftermath of George's presence.
He dared not meet Shu Yao's eyes again—
those long lashes were still lowered,
shivering like frostbitten feathers.
Shu Yao, too exhausted to craft a shield,
had folded in on himself like a winter bloom refusing to open.
His arms were crossed tightly over his delicate frame,
his shoulders drawn up in silent retreat.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
George's eyes slid to him—
and in them, no accusation,
only a storm held at bay.
He knew.
He always knew.
That Shu Yao was not the flame that invited moths—
but the one that burned quietly behind glass,
never asking to be touched.
George's tone fell again—
not louder, but sharper.
"If you ever find yourself tempted to lean over another man like that again,"
he said to the intruder,
"make sure he invites you.
Otherwise—"
he stepped closer, boots echoing across marble like gunfire,
"—you'll find I'm not nearly as polite as I am right now."
The man's face had gone as pale as ash,
his confidence crumbling like wet parchment beneath the storm of consequence.
His eyes darted upward—
to Shu Yao—
as if hoping, praying, for redemption in the very face he had just defiled with audacity.
And what he saw there
was not rage,
not fear,
but silence—
the kind that echoes in mausoleums and breaks men more cruelly than any scream.
He lowered his head like a sinner before the altar,
shoulders stiff with shame.
"Forgive me," he muttered, voice quivering like leaves in a dying wind,
"I shouldn't have… I won't do it again. I promise."
But Shu Yao did not answer.
He didn't even blink.
The man turned,
his steps faltering like a broken melody as he stumbled to the door,
fleeing not just from George—
but from the weight of his own disgrace.
The heavy door shut behind him with a final click
that seemed to seal the air itself.
Only two remained.
The scent of tension still lingered in the room like smoke after lightning.
And yet—
within it, a new stillness formed.
Not peace.
But something waiting.
George's eyes did not follow the man's retreat.
They lingered on the closed door only a moment,
as if confirming it would not dare open again
not with him here.
Not with Shu Yao in the room.
He turned, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor,
and slowly stepped forward,
each movement deliberate,
as though approaching something sacred.
His hand rose—not with haste, but reverence—
and settled upon Shu Yao's shoulder.
It was a weightless touch,
as if he feared pressing too hard might unravel the boy entirely.
"Are you alright?" he asked,
his voice gentler now, stripped of its ice,
like snow melting at the edge of spring.
"Did he… do anything to hurt you?"
But Shu Yao gave no reply.
He merely stood there, his breath barely stirring,
like a statue carved of sorrow and restraint.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't lean into the touch.
He simply remained.
Silent.
Still.
Unyielding as moonlight over stone.
And somewhere beyond the walls,
in some corridor of the company,
a jealous heart festered—
burning not for love,
but for the untouchable grace that even tall, quiet George could reach…
and he could not.
The silence between them shimmered like silver threads in a spider's web—delicate, quiet, tense. George did not speak immediately. His gaze lingered on Shu Yao, whose figure stood frozen by the moon
light, draped in a hush too heavy for someone so fragile. And yet, there he was—composed, as if sculpted by restraint itself.
George's expression shifted, just slightly, into something carved from iron and stormlight: a vow. That subtle clench in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes—it was not anger, but a promise. No one would dare lay a hand on Shu Yao again. Not while he breathed. Not while he stood.
But then, Shu Yao's gaze finally lifted, catching George's with those deep, glistening brown eyes, and spoke—his voice like silk pulled through a needle's eye. Soft, firm, just barely trembling beneath its weight.
"It's… it's too late.
I can't walk home alone.
Could you…"
He paused to draw breath, steadying himself.
"Could you drop me off?"
He said it with a quiet conviction, one that demanded no pity—only presence. As though he would not allow himself to break, not in front of George. Not now.
George blinked. For a second, his breath caught. Then, slowly, a smile bloomed across his lips—not the wide, careless kind, but a thin line of reverence, like someone entrusted with a sacred task. He straightened his spine with soldier's discipline, every motion threaded with silent joy.
"Of course,"
he said, his voice low and warm,
"I'd be happy to."
He moved to the door and opened it with a grace that felt rehearsed, practiced—not out of arrogance, but devotion. Shu Yao took a few small steps toward it, his arms still loosely folded across his chest, each movement echoing exhaustion. Yet he did not flinch. He did not retreat.
And George? George's heart thundered like distant drums of victory.
Because for the first time… Shu Yao hadn't walked away.
Shu Yao stepped out of the office like a porcelain wraith—graceful, yet carved from weariness. The overhead lights flickered against his pale skin, casting delicate shadows beneath his eyes. Behind him, George followed with the silent authority of a knight out of time—tall, poised, with golden hair brushed back in a manner too effortlessly regal to be mere coincidence. His green eyes glimmered not with desire, but with something rarer: a sentinel's vow. Protection, steady and unspoken.
The hallway stretched before them, hushed and dim, corridors swallowing echoes of a day nearly ended. George walked slightly behind Shu Yao at first, as if to shield him from whatever unseen thing the world might dare to hurl his way. The glass and metal of the office shimmered faintly around them, a cage of luxury now emptying with the evening's retreat.
When they reached the elevator, George stepped ahead, pressing the button with calm precision. The doors whispered open.
Shu Yao entered first.
And then George followed, his presence filling the space like dusk settling into a room—quiet, inevitable, gentle.
Inside the lift, silence curled around them like mist. Shu Yao stood near the mirrored panel, eyes fluttering too fast, lashes brushing his cheeks with every blink. Sleep was beginning its slow seduction, crawling behind his eyelids, heavy as velvet.
George glanced sideways, only once.
He didn't speak.
He didn't touch.
He merely watched—respect tethering his hands, restraint clenching his jaw. He knew some things were earned in silence. Trust was not a door to be broken down; it was a lock that asked for patience.
The elevator sighed and descended.
When the doors parted with a delicate chime, they stepped out together.
The ground floor was quieter now, nearly ghostly. Most of the workers had already fled the day's demands, desks empty, lights dimmed. A few stragglers remained, hunched in their cubicles, their faces lit by screens and fatigue. But no one looked up.
The glass doors at the building's front glowed ahead, framed by the city's nightlight. Shu Yao and George approached, their footsteps echoing in tandem.
As they reached the threshold, the glass doors slid open automatically with a soft hiss—like the world itself parting for their exit.
George stepped out into the night.
And Shu Yao followed, just a beat behind.
But his steps were slower, heavier—like petals falling from a flower too long in bloom. Each movement carried the weight of exhaustion and something else: the strange vulnerability of allowing another to walk beside you when the armor is off.
George didn't rush him.
He simply waited.
The car rolled to a gentle stop, its headlights bathing the curb in a soft, gold hush as if announcing royalty's arrival. George, tall and composed like a sculpted knight from some forgotten epic, stepped forward without hesitation. He moved not with the urgency of obligation but with the quiet grace of someone who believed in gentleness—especially toward delicate things. Unlike his elder brother, whose kindness wore the sharp teeth of expectation, George's decency bore no claws. It was warmth offered without demand, a sunbeam that never asked to be noticed.
Without a word, he opened the back door.
For Shu Yao.
Only Shu Yao.
Shu Yao turned his head slightly, his long lashes catching the city's neon reflection. The question ghosted through him again: Why be treated like this, when there's no point to loving someone who won't love you back? But even that question trembled and fell apart beneath the weight of George's sincerity. It was disarming, like being offered a bouquet of lilies in the aftermath of war.
Wordless, Shu Yao stepped into the car. His limbs obeyed out of habit, but his mind remained a muddle of fractured questions and unfamiliar stillness.
George, circling the car with quiet confidence, slipped into the seat beside him. For a moment, the interior of the car felt like a snow globe—silent, sealed off, its quiet shaken only by the soft tick of time and the rhythmic breath of engines humming.
Shu Yao's gaze remained fixed on the floor, as if studying the invisible constellation of dust on the mat. He hadn't fastened his seatbelt. Sleep clung to his lashes like frost, and in his haze, it simply slipped his mind.
George noticed.
He hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
Then leaned.
It was a small, reverent motion—but it flooded the space between them like the tide. His arm brushed Shu Yao's side, not intimately, but protectively—as one might lean over a fallen bird to shield it from the rain. His fingers found the belt, pulled it across gently, and clicked it into place with a soft snap.
Shu Yao froze, breath halting mid-lung. His heartbeat fluttered like a moth beneath glass. The scent of George—something fresh, like cedar and morning air—filled his lungs before he even realized he was inhaling it. He didn't dare look up, didn't dare move.
George never looked at him during it. Not once. His eyes remained forward, focused on the road ahead, as if the act meant nothing.
But it meant everything.
Shu Yao turned his head, embarrassment blooming faintly across his cheekbones. It wasn't the touch that unsettled him—it was the intention behind it. That quiet, unwavering care.
The engine rumbled to life like a sigh, and the car eased forward, as if even the vehicle understood the silence between them had become something sacred.
Neither of them said a word.
And yet the air said everything.
The engine purred to life like a feline curling into slumber, soft and steady beneath the hush of night. Outside, the city had begun to forget itself—offices dimmed, doors locked, hearts retreating into quieter lives. But inside the car, silence had become a symphony of unsaid things. A space too delicate to break.
Shu Yao sat with sleep tugging at the corners of his consciousness like a child pulling at their mother's sleeve. His lashes blinked—once, twice, slower each time—until finally his lids fluttered shut, sealing him within the fragile quiet of exhaustion. His breath rose and fell like a prayer made flesh, soft and even, the kind only the truly weary offer without knowing.
Beside him, George remained still—but not still in the way statues are. Still in the way oceans are before a storm. One elbow propped against the car's interior, his cheek rested in his hand, fingers curling under the sharp line of his jaw. He was watching. Not out of lust, but out of something far more dangerous—adoration.
There was something about Shu Yao in sleep that disarmed George entirely. He looked too fragile, like a pressed flower caught between pages of a forgotten book—his beauty timeless, untouched by the weight of hours. George's heart, that once held nothing but logic and duty, now ached with unspoken longing. A strand of Shu Yao's hair had drifted forward like a whisper across his cheek. George's hand lifted before he could stop it, yearning to tuck it gently back.
But he paused.
So close. So close that he could feel the warmth of Shu Yao's skin before even touching him. He could hear the quiet music of his breath, count the rise and fall of his chest. And still, he hesitated—not out of fear, but reverence. What if his touch woke the sleeping boy? What if Shu Yao turned away again with that soft flinch, that distant silence?
So, George let his hand fall slowly back to his lap, the gesture folding into patience.
He would wait.
He would wait until the one with the broken heart dared to believe again. Until Shu Yao looked not away, but toward him. Until love became not something George offered alone, but something Shu Yao accepted with both trembling hands.
And if that moment never came?
Then George would remain beside him anyway, silent as the stars—loving him from a distance only fate could measure.
Because sometimes, the deepest affections are the ones that bloom in shadows.
And only the god knew's whether Shu Yao would someday melt into that waiting warmth,
—or remain a frozen cathedral with doors no one could open.