The corridor was silent, but not with peace — it was the silence that comes before a storm, stretched thin, ready to shatter.
Shu Yao lay breathless against the marble, its polished chill seeping into his spine, numbing the ache that had exploded there when he struck the floor. He could feel the tremor in his fingers as his clipboard slipped away, papers scattering like startled doves, fleeing his grip, his order, his composure. Yet none of it — not the fall, not the sting along his back, not the sharp jolt racing through his bones — mattered as much as the weight above him.
Bai Qi.
His breath was close — too close. Shu Yao felt it ghost across his cheek, warm, unsteady, as though the collision had stolen air from them both. His body pressed against his own, heavy and overwhelming, a nearness Shu Yao had never dared to imagine outside the reckless corners of his heart. The scent of him was sharp — leather and faint cologne, like smoke swallowed in winter air — and the shame of it nearly broke him.
He could not move. He could not push him away. His limbs betrayed him, trembling beneath the warmth, beneath the weight, beneath the unspoken truth Bai Qi would never guess. His face was already aflame, blood rushing so hot to his skin that he thought for certain Bai Qi would feel it, would notice, would know. His chest burned, not from the fall but from the closeness, and each beat of his heart hammered louder, frantic, as if it meant to confess what he himself could not.
Not like this. Not here. Not under his gaze…
The thought clawed at him as he forced himself not to look. Not into Bai Qi's eyes. He dared not. If he did, his secret would spill, his silence unravel, and everything would come undone.
But the world was merciless.
Shu Yao's gaze, seeking refuge, seeking anywhere else to rest, collided instead with Armin's.
Armin had stepped from the elevator with all the stillness of a shadow. His expression had been unreadable — blank, as if carved in stone. But now… now it twisted. Not with surprise. Not with curiosity. With disgust.
Those eyes, pale and cutting, stared at Shu Yao as though he were something unspeakable, something crawling, something shameful pinned beneath his brother. The contempt was raw, sharp as a blade, and it cut deeper than any cold words ever could.
Shu Yao's breath faltered.
His body tensed, but it was not Bai Qi's weight that made him tremble now. It was the stare. That stare. The way it stripped him bare, left him with nowhere to hide. First his boss, Niklas, had looked upon him with that terrible, frigid command that nearly drove his heart to ruin. He had survived that cold gaze by the thinnest thread. And now this — this new judgment, younger but no less merciless, was carving into him, layer after layer, until his ribs felt hollow and his heart fragile within.
The back of his neck throbbed where pain had already made its nest. His head pulsed with the aftermath of too many shocks — the fall, the fear, the humiliation — and it seemed the marble beneath him might at any moment open and swallow him whole.
I can't… I cannot
His thoughts wavered, weak as his limbs. He could faint. Yes — faint from exhaustion, from pain, from the weight of everything pressing down. Perhaps it would be easier. To close his eyes, to let go, to slip into darkness where no stares could pierce him, where no shame could burn him alive.
Yet even in that breaking, even with the air stuck shallow in his throat, Shu Yao felt the warmth above him still, and his heart betrayed him once more.
Bai Qi — unaware, unknowing, unseeing — had fallen onto him by accident, nothing more, yet it was enough to unravel Shu Yao entirely. If Bai Qi knew the truth, if he guessed what this closeness did to him, he might laugh. He might recoil. He might look upon him with the same disgust his brother now carried.
And so Shu Yao endured.
He bit down on silence, though his lips quivered. He forced his gaze down, though the weight of Armin's stare still pierced him. He bore the ache in his spine, the throb in his head, the suffocating warmth of the man he loved pressing him into the floor.
All of it. He endured it all — because that was what Shu Yao had always done.
The corridor stretched on, timeless, suspended between breaths. Bai Qi stirred faintly, regaining himself, his movements heavy against Shu Yao's trembling form. Armin stood rigid, his disgust unsoftened, the judgment in his gaze unwavering.
And Shu Yao… Shu Yao thought he might finally break. Or faint. Or both.
But still he did not move.
Pinned beneath judgment, trapped beneath the weight of love unspoken, Shu Yao let the silence swallow him whole.
Bai Qi winced, rubbing at the sharp sting blooming across his brow. His head still rang from the collision, the dull ache echoing down to his teeth. He muttered beneath his breath, frustrated at his own clumsiness, but when he finally blinked the haze away and saw who he had struck, his heart lurched.
"Shu Yao…"
The name left him like an exhale — half shock, half shame.
The boy lay beneath him, trembling, his clipboard scattered, his breath uneven as though the impact had jarred not only his body but his very spirit. Bai Qi's eyes widened, the sight snapping him fully from distraction. How could he have been so blind again? Careless once more, dragging others into the wake of his thoughtless steps.
Guilt coiled sharp in his chest.
"Are you okay?" His voice broke through the silence, urgent, stripped of his usual ease.
But Shu Yao did not answer. His chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow, and his lips parted as though words sat there, trapped, yet none came. The sight made Bai Qi's stomach twist.
Cursing himself, he crouched lower, ignoring the throbbing in his own head. His hand slipped beneath Shu Yao's arm with instinctive care, lifting him slowly, as though the boy might shatter if moved too suddenly. "Did you hurt anything? Tell me if it's bad, alright?"
Still, only silence.
Shu Yao's gaze was unfocused, his breath ragged. For a fleeting second, Bai Qi thought he might collapse altogether. Fear surged through him — a kind of fear he was unaccustomed to, sharp and unfamiliar.
At last, Shu Yao's voice came, quiet and fragile, breaking against the weight of the moment. "It's… it's alright. It was my fault."
Bai Qi froze, staring at him, disbelief flickering across his face. Fault? His fault? Impossible. It had been Bai Qi who stepped blindly, Bai Qi who failed to watch the path, Bai Qi who allowed this accident to unfold. His throat tightened with shame as his hand lingered, steadying Shu Yao's trembling form.
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "It wasn't you. It was me. I should've looked ahead."
He lowered his gaze, the words tasting bitter, his guilt gnawing deeper. He wanted to say more — to apologize again, to promise better — but before he could, Shu Yao cut softly across his regret.
"It's okay."
Bai Qi's eyes flicked up at him, confusion etched across his face. But Shu Yao's expression, though pale and pained, carried no anger. No reproach. Only that gentle, impossible calm that seemed to forgive him even when he had not asked for it.
Why? The thought scraped at him. Why won't he ever blame me?
His lips pressed together. A nervous laugh escaped him, brittle at the edges, and he scratched at the back of his neck with sheepish clumsiness. "I swear," he muttered, half to himself, "I'm cursed to bump into you. First your ankle, now this…"
He exhaled, long and heavy, hoping — praying — that Shu Yao hadn't strained anything this time. His gaze swept over him, searching for hidden signs of pain, for the flinch or gasp that would betray injury.
But Shu Yao only stood, silent still, his clipboard abandoned at their feet, his eyes lowered.
And Bai Qi, heart twisting with shame, told himself again that he must be more careful — not for his own sake, but for Shu Yao's.
The air in the corridor was still carrying the echo of their collision when Bai Qi, rubbing the sore red circle on his forehead, turned toward the towering figure just beyond the elevator.
"Sorry, brother," he said, his voice pitched with the sheepishness of a boy caught in mischief.
Shu Yao, still trembling, bent swiftly to retrieve his clipboard, though his fingers shook so badly it seemed the polished marble floor might snatch the papers back from him. He forced himself to gather them one by one, the edges cutting against his skin, each slip of paper fluttering like his own startled pulse. When he dared to glance upward, his eyes collided with Armin's.
The stare nearly undid him. Cold. Unblinking. It was the same gaze he had only just survived in Niklas's office—a gaze that stripped him to the bone, that left no refuge for trembling hearts. Shu Yao almost flinched, his shoulders jerking before he pulled them tight, as though bracing against a blow.
Armin's voice broke the silence. Deep. Measured. Mature where Bai Qi's was quick and unguarded. "When will you grow up?"
The words struck heavier than any reprimand. Bai Qi winced, scratching the back of his neck with boyish shame, his grin faltering though he tried to mask it. The red welt across his forehead was nothing compared to Shu Yao's own flush. His complexion burned so fiercely it put Bai Qi's mark to shame, his cheeks nearly crimson from the nearness he had endured. He pressed the clipboard to his chest, as though it might shield him from Armin's gaze, his lashes lowered to veil the tremor in his eyes.
Bai Qi crouched without a word, joining him on the marble floor. His long fingers swept quickly across the scattered pages, gathering what Shu Yao's trembling hands could not. When at last he stacked them neatly and slid them back into place, Shu Yao clutched them to himself, holding the clipboard so tightly it pressed into his ribs.
But Armin's stare did not shift, and Shu Yao's breath quickened under its weight. It was the same as before: sharp as glass, cold as iron.
Bai Qi rose to his feet, and without thought placed a steadying hand against Shu Yao's back. His touch, however clumsy in intent, brushed against Shu Yao's waist first — long, plain fingers grazing far too close. Shu Yao's breath caught at once, his throat tightening as though it could choke down the flame that shot across his skin. Again the touch lingered, again it grazed, and Shu Yao swallowed hard, his heart pounding with the unbearable awareness of it.
"Come," Bai Qi urged, pressing him forward. "I'll introduce you."
Shu Yao could hardly breathe. Each push of Bai Qi's hand sent another rush of heat into his already burning face, and though his legs obeyed, his mind trembled with shame. He wanted to pull away, to keep distance, but the warmth of that hand—careless though it was—held him captive.
Armin's gaze sharpened further as they approached. To stand beneath it felt like standing beneath judgment itself. Shu Yao lowered his head, wishing desperately for invisibility. Yet Bai Qi's arm settled loosely around his frame, boyishly protective, utterly unaware of the turmoil it caused.
"Brother," Bai Qi said with cheerful pride, " He is my best friend, Shu Yao."
The words struck Shu Yao with both sweetness and agony. Best friend. He swallowed, his lips parting though he dared not speak. His gaze fell further to the floor, the papers still pressed tight against his chest, trembling.
Bai Qi continued, unheeding of his silence. "And Shu Yao — He is my older brother, Armin Volker. He lives in Germany. He hardly ever visits China."
Shu Yao lifted his eyes, just enough, mustering courage as fragile as glass. The gaze that met his nearly broke it again: cold, disdain sharpened into a blade. Still, with trembling fingers, he extended his hand toward Armin, willing himself to bridge the distance, to be polite, to be kind even when kindness would not be returned. His lips parted, a breath away from offering his name
Armin turned from him.
The dismissal was brutal in its simplicity. No word, no handshake, no acknowledgment. Only his voice, curt and iron-edged, directed at Bai Qi. "Where is the office?"
The words hollowed Shu Yao's chest. He let his hand fall, quickly, as though burned, the clipboard clutched even tighter to hide the shame in his trembling. His throat ached, but no sound would rise.
Bai Qi blinked, stunned. Even for Armin, the gesture was too cruel. "Brother—" he began, half protest, half confusion. But Armin was already walking away, his long stride unbroken, his figure cutting cleanly across the hallway until he vanished from view.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bai Qi turned at once, his guilt overflowing. "It's my fault again," he said, his words spilling fast. "He doesn't… he doesn't like to get along with others. I'm sorry, Shu Yao. I really am."
Shu Yao's lips parted, but his voice would not come. The ache in his chest was too heavy, the humiliation too raw. At last, he shook his head faintly, murmuring the only words he could. "It's okay."
It was not okay. But still he said it.
Bai Qi gave him a searching look, as though he wanted to press further, but he only sighed, scratching again at the back of his neck in nervous shame. "See you, Shu Yao," he said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. Then, with one last flicker of a smile, he turned and followed his brother's path across the hallway.
And Shu Yao was left.
The weight of the day bore down all at once — the cold stare of his Boss, the collision that left his body aching, the brush of Bai Qi's hand that burned too warmly, the cutting dismissal of Armin that froze him through. His heart throbbed with pain both physical and unspoken, and he pressed the clipboard tighter to his chest, as though it might cage the storm within him.
Alone again. Trembling, aching, silent.
The marble floor beneath him seemed too cold, too vast, and yet the warmth of Bai Qi's careless touch lingered still — a sweetness as painful as the humiliation he could not forget.
And Shu Yao, delicate as glass, wished only for strength enough to endure.