The car continued its smooth passage through the sleeping veins of the city—its rhythm soft, yet unyielding. Outside Shu Yao's window, neon lights swam like rainbow in a velvet pond, reflected against the black glass. But George no longer watched the road. His gaze had drifted, quietly, toward Shu Yao's side—the part of the window where his breath ghosted, fleeting and fragile.
It hurt.
It hurt him in ways he could not explain—even to himself. To see someone so exquisitely breakable, simply existing. Breathing. Lost in sleep's mercy. There was no warning in how affection had crept into George's chest. It hadn't announced itself with drums or roses. No. It arrived like snowfall—quiet, slow, inevitable.
But what he did remember—more vividly than any kiss ever stolen or word ever whispered—was the sting of Shu Yao's slap.
He still remember's the first shu Yao
It had been his first day in China. His coat still smelled of the German rain. His heart, however, had not yet learned restraint.
He had been called in haste by his older brother—summoned into a world of polished corridors and foreign etiquette. He was tired, jet-lagged, distracted. The elevator door opened with a mechanical sigh, and he stepped in without glancing, only to find himself beside someone whose existence rearranged the very air.
Then, he caught his breath on a sharp inhale and muttered, in German, like the world had been holding its breath just for him:
"Geschafft… auf den letzten Moment."
(Made it… at the last moment.)
Shu Yao—already poised, already inside the lift—glanced up.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
That voice. That entrance. That sheer nerve.
Then George hadn't even looked at him. Not properly. He hadn't even noticed him. He'd entered like the air belonged to him, like the world had always parted for his stride.
A spoiled prince, cloaked in late summer light.
And then—
That voice again.
This time addressed to Shu Yao directly.
Still in Deutsch. Still blithe. Still blind.
"Entschuldigen Sie, elegante Dame—wissen Sie, wo das Büro des Chefs ist?"
("Excuse me, elegant lady—do you know where the boss's office is?")
Time… paused.
Something cold slid beneath Shu Yao's skin.
He turned his head—not quickly. Slowly. Silently. The kind of movement dancers make when their body does the speaking.
His spine lifted, lengthened.
His lashes fell, a soft curtain of offense.
And his lips… curved. Barely.
Then—he turned.
His eyes, dark as roasted chestnuts in winter light, locked on the man's face. Not with rage.
But with the soft, devastating precision of disappointment.
And in flawless, diamond-cut German, he answered:
"Ganz oben. Wenn Sie aussteigen, gehen Sie nach links. Die große Tür gehört dem Chef."
("Top floor. When you get out, go left. The wide door belongs to the boss.")
Then that was the moment—George— froze.
Not because of the information.
But because of the voice.
It didn't match the image he'd spoken to. It didn't match his mistake. It didn't sound like a woman.
It sounded like velvet-gloved thunder.
He looked again. Really looked.
The throat—smooth, but unshaved.
The jaw—graceful, but undeniably male.
The frame—poised, but firm beneath the silk layers.
And then George whispered it, without meaning to.
"Oh… mein Gott…"
His steps shifted forward without permission.
His hand hovered up to his own chest, as if something needed confirming.
"Du bist ein—?"
A soft gasp caught between curiosity and shock.
He never finished.
Because in the space between inhale and arrogance, Shu Yao moved.
Smack.
The sound was clean. Crisp. Echoed like silver dropped on marble.
George reeled back—eyes wide, hand flying to his cheek, now glowing in a rose-colored bloom.
Shu Yao didn't flinch.
Didn't breathe hard.
Didn't tremble.
His hair ribbon danced behind him, whispering through the air like silk justice.
Then came the final line—spoken like frost wrapped in silk:
"Vielleicht sehen meine Lippen weich aus, aber das heißt nicht, dass du sie zählen darfst."
("Perhaps my lips look soft, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to count them.")
And with that—
The elevator gave its soft chime.
The doors parted.
Shu Yao stepped out, leaving silence in his wake, walking as though the floor itself had been waiting for his feet.
And George?
He stayed.
Back pressed lightly to the mirrored wall.
Palm still resting on the place where Shu Yao's hand had touched him.
He laughed, once—soft, unsure.
And then, to no one at all, in a whisper meant only for the ghosts in the air, he muttered:
"…Was für ein Teufel in einem Tempel aus Rosen…"
(What kind of devil lives in a temple of roses…)
Then the doors closed.
And that had been their beginning.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
But unforgettable.
She spoke.
And his heart stuttered.
The voice was soft, yes, but not feminine. It carried the clear, unflinching cadence of a boy too lovely to belong to a world that knew how to handle him. George had blinked. He'd stared. He had even leaned closer, confusion blooming across his face like frost under heat.
"I'm sorry," he'd asked, genuinely baffled, "is… is my brother's office on this floor, Miss—?"
That was when it happened.
The slap was not vicious. It wasn't even painful. It was precise—an exclamation mark to a paragraph he hadn't meant to write.
A red bloom briefly kissed his cheek.
And Shu Yao, unflinching, turned his face slightly away, lips curved in a frostbitten line.
"Perhaps my lips look soft," he said, voice calm as snowfall, "but that doesn't mean you may speak whatever you please."
He didn't even look back.
The elevator doors had opened. He stepped out, a strand of his ribbon slipping from his hair like a cherry blossom falling onto cold marble.
George had stood there—half in the lift, half in a dream—with the imprint of that boy's voice seared into his spine.
He had slightly apologized. He had never forgotten.
And now, in this car it's only days later, minutes later (he couldn't tell anymore)—he sat watching Shu Yao sleep in the seat beside him. The boy who once slapped him with elegance now dozed like a fallen swan. And all George wanted was to reach out and gather every piece the world had chipped away from him.
But he didn't.
He kept his hands on his lap, his eyes on the memory, and let the silence write its own kind of forgiveness.
Because some hearts are not won by words,
but by waiting.
And George would wait—even if it took a lifetime woven of moonlight and patience.
Just to be close enough to protect, without ever being asked.
And now—
that same beauty, the one who'd once slapped him without mercy and walked away like a storm in velvet—
was leaning beside him.
Graceful.
Unbothered.
Fast asleep.
Shu Yao's body was angled ever so slightly toward the window, the soft shadows of passing streetlights kissing his lashes as they lay closed in elegant surrender. His breath rose and fell like a lullaby hummed by porcelain lungs. His head lolled gently against the leather seat, brown strands of his hair spilling over his cheek like autumn melting through a silk curtain.
George swallowed.
His hands were still on his lap, but one had started to tremble slightly.
Not from fear. Not from cold.
From the ache of being near something he was never supposed to touch.
How cruel—how stupidly cruel—that he, of all people, had fallen for someone like this.
Someone who didn't even know he had George's entire heartbeat tucked in the corner of his closed eyelids.
Someone who hadn't done a damn thing to earn George's devotion—except exist.
Was this love?
Or some kind of beautiful madness?
Back in his German town, he hadn't even blinked at the women. Tall blondes. Soft-spoken brunettes. A parade of perfection, all of them with curated smiles and wine-tasting conversation.
He never lingered.
Never flirted.
Never even entertained the idea.
And yet—here he was now.
Blushing like a schoolboy beside a sleeping man who had once mistaken him for trash and slapped him square across the face for it.
His lips twitched into a private, helpless grin.
He was a fool. A royal, stupid fool.
But what a beautiful way to lose your mind.
He glanced at Shu Yao again—soft, fragile, oblivious—and something in his chest tightened. It wasn't just attraction. It wasn't even desire.
It was quiet worship.
And maybe… just maybe…
It wasn't the country.
It wasn't that German girls weren't charming.
It wasn't about culture or language or anyone else at all.
It was his heart.
That treacherous, foolish heart of his…
had simply refused to fall for anyone—
Until it saw him.
Until it saw Shu Yao.
Sleeping.
Breathing.
Unaware that even in silence, he made someone's world come undone.
But not until—
Shu Yao stirred again, caught in the barbed thorns of a nightmare that clawed at his sleep.
A sudden shift in breath—
shallow, ragged, trembling.
His delicate fingers curled tightly into the leather seat beneath him, gripping as though the dream had weight—had teeth.
George's gaze snapped to him, his own chest tightening.
They were still in the backseat. The hum of the engine whispered softly, and the world outside passed like ghosts behind the glass. But inside—inside was a storm unraveling in silence.
Shu Yao's brows furrowed.
His lashes quivered.
Sweat had begun to gather on his temple, glinting beneath the dull cabin lights like dew on cold marble.
George leaned in, cautious, unsure.
He didn't want to startle him—
God, not again.
But the sight of him suffering like that—
He reached out and gently tapped Shu Yao's shoulder.
"Shu Yao…" he whispered, low and warm, as though afraid his voice might break him.
No response.
Only a deeper tremble.
A quiet, aching gasp escaped Shu Yao's lips as his entire frame jolted—
and then, suddenly—his eyes flew open.
Too wide.
Too tired.
Too haunted.
For a moment, Shu Yao didn't seem to know where he was. His breathing was still uneven, shoulders still trembling. He blinked as though dragging himself out of whatever dark place the dream had taken him. His eyes didn't meet George's. They stared ahead, unfocused, lost.
He remembered stepping into the car.
And now…
Now, George was beside him, watching—silent, steady.
But George didn't ask.
Didn't press.
Didn't speak.
Because whatever that nightmare was—it wasn't his to invade.
It wasn't something you rip open with clumsy questions.
So instead, he just stayed there, sitting quietly beside him.
Not as a stranger.
Not even as a friend.
But as someone who, for once, would simply wait.
Someone who'd earn his trust—
even if it meant saying nothing at all.
Shu Yao's voice came out in a tremble, soft as broken porcelain—
"When… will we reach?"
George turned his head slowly, as though afraid the sudden motion might shatter the fragile beauty beside him.
Shu Yao's expression—
it wasn't just tired.
It was ghosted.
Worn thin by whatever horrors clawed at him behind closed eyes.
George swallowed, the warmth in his chest both aching and tender.
He answered in a voice carefully wrapped in calm, as though every syllable were a silk thread:
"Just ten more minutes," he said gently, "not long now."
But Shu Yao didn't respond.
He didn't nod.
He didn't blink away the weight behind his lashes.
He just stared forward,
rigid as frost on a winter pane,
his gaze locked on the winding road ahead—
refusing sleep, as if closing his eyes again might drag him back into the storm.
George watched him in silence.
And a guilt bloomed in his chest—slow and relentless.
Because in this moment, with all his kindness,
with all the warmth he wished to offer,
he could do nothing.
No spell to erase those nightmares.
No hand gentle enough to reach past those thorns.
So he sat there—
beside a boy sculpted of sorrow and moonlight—
wishing, for once, that his love could be enough to mend what the world had broken.