The engine hummed softly, a steady vibration beneath them, carrying the sleek vehicle forward into the night. Shu Yao leaned against the passenger seat, thin shoulders pressed lightly to the leather, as though the cushion might cradle him from the weight of the day. He had been embarrassed even to sit here, side by side with George, but exhaustion had stripped him of pride, leaving only the raw ache that throbbed through his limbs and heart alike.
Outside, the night had settled fully. Streetlights spilled gold upon the asphalt, glinting briefly on passing cars, on the faces of pedestrians hurrying past. But Shu Yao hardly noticed. The events of Bai Qi and Qing Yue's engagement, the sharp collisions of the day, the careless brush of Bai Qi's fingers along his waist—every detail threaded itself through his mind, sending goosebumps cascading over skin that was already too sensitive, too exposed.
He lowered his autumn-hued eyes to his shoes, unwilling to meet George's gaze, unwilling even to think that George might look at him now. And yet, his thoughts betrayed him. The morning, the evening, Bai Qi, the engagement, the way every encounter pressed into him like iron weights—they all melded into one blurred ache. He tried to shake the thoughts away, but they refused. They danced in his mind, intertwining in a bitter waltz with fatigue, humiliation, and the strange warmth that still lingered from Bai Qi's careless touch.
Across the narrow expanse of the car, George watched silently. At first, his gaze lingered only in passing, as though the passing city held some subtle fascination, the ordinary streetlights and idle pedestrians a distraction. But even as he stared outward, the human edge of his attention refused to be tamed. He was aware—painfully, insistently—of Shu Yao beside him, leaning into the seat as though the world itself could be kept at bay by the thin barrier of leather and fabric between them.
George did not watch him outright, because he knew he would scare Shu Yao; he let his eyes roam outward, scanning the night, the street, the ordinary life beyond the glass. Yet the silence between them had grown too loud, a taut string vibrating with tension. And in the briefest, most delicate moment, his green eyes flickered, betraying him.
Shu Yao's head tilted slightly, the fatigue deepening, and George caught it in a breathless moment of awareness. His heart thudded in his chest, a soft drum against the night's low hum. He had never seen Shu Yao so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he wore like armor. Thin, beautiful lips pressed together, pale skin kissed by the car's dim light, long brown lashes casting fragile shadows across his cheeks—he looked like someone caught between two worlds: the fragile boy of his youth and the stoic man forced too soon to endure everything.
George's breath hitched without permission. Shu Yao's hair had come loose from the knot at the nape of his neck, strands falling carelessly across his shoulders. The exhaustion in him made the boy careless, and yet it only heightened the grace of him, the impossible allure of someone who had carried so much yet appeared so delicate. George's gaze lingered, almost hypnotized, wishing he could protect that hair, that skin, that fragile form from the world outside.
Time slowed in the car. Each passing light became a blur; each reflection off the window, a mirror to George's racing thoughts. And then, in the capricious way fate always enjoyed, the car trembled—a small, sudden shiver of motion that startled them both. Shu Yao's head slumped sideways, falling toward George, a feather drifting against the broader expanse of his shoulder.
In a heartbeat, George's arm rose. He caught him, fingers curling lightly against Shu Yao's shoulder to prevent the boy from sliding fully into his lap. Heat rose to George's cheeks in an instant, burning bright against his calm composure, leaving him a flustered, fumbling mess. His swallow was audible even to himself, thick with sudden awareness of proximity, of intimacy forced by circumstance.
Shu Yao did not stir. Exhaustion claimed him fully, pulling him into a suspended half-sleep where the day's traumas and the night's weariness melded into one. He pressed lightly against George's shoulder without knowledge, surrendering the fragile weight of himself to the man beside him. It was a quiet surrender, subtle and trembling, but George felt it entirely.
The green of his eyes seemed to catch light in that moment, brightening unnaturally as he studied him. Thin lips, soft and impossibly precise, seemed caught in a line of endurance—perhaps dreaming, perhaps still in some silent calculation of propriety. Long lashes rested lightly on pale skin, undisturbed by wind or motion, betraying vulnerability in a way no word could capture. George's chest tightened. He could hardly believe that after all that had passed, after every careful boundary Shu Yao had held, the boy had come this close, his trust—or fate—pressing him gently into George's awareness.
It was not just proximity. It was a confession without sound, a fragile offering of reliance that George would not waste. His fingers brushed along the seat, steadying himself, even as his heart threatened to betray him in quick, erratic beats. For a fleeting moment, he wished time would stop, that the car would freeze in motion, that this night, this closeness, this delicate surrender could remain suspended indefinitely.
In that brief, trembling intimacy, George allowed himself to think—perhaps Shu Yao had chosen this moment, or perhaps some benevolent force had guided them here. Either way, the boy's unconscious trust was a gift, and George knew, quietly and without hesitation, he would not let it fall.
Shu Yao's head rested against him, fragile and yielding, and George's hand stayed on shu Yao shoulder, but not to move him, not to claim him either, but to ensure that the boy remained safe, supported, unshaken. And in the silent hum of the car, amid passing lights and muffled streets, George allowed himself one thought: that tonight, for the first time, Shu Yao had surrendered—if only for a moment—and that moment was theirs alone.
Meanwhile, the towering edifice of Rothenberg Industries hummed with the quiet authority of power, each polished floor reflecting ambition and legacy alike. Bai Qi's shoes clicked sharply against the marble corridor, a rhythm punctuating the silence as he trailed his brother, Armin, who moved with measured, distracted precision. Armin's mind was elsewhere, a storm of thoughts he did not dare voice, while Bai Qi's presence beside him was a deliberate disturbance—calculated, teasing, inevitable.
The office doors loomed ahead, grand and imposing, their mahogany surfaces polished to a reflective sheen that mirrored both the light and the arrogance of the men who crossed the threshold. Bai Qi's grin widened, a flash of mischief that always seemed at home in the halls of Rothenberg power. He moved forward without a knock, letting the ancient protocol bend beneath his audacity.
Armin, meanwhile, followed mechanically, his mind entangled with fragments of the day—the sight of Shu Yao, the careful calculations of politics, the weight of expectation pressing against his spine. He was present, yet absent, swept along by Bai Qi's irreverent momentum.
Niklas sat behind his vast desk, a fortress of authority carved in wood and gold. He leaned back in his chair, a faint sigh escaping him before his eyes narrowed in irritation. "Bai Qi," he said, voice even but layered with exasperation, "how many times have I told you—first, knock. Then enter."
The words struck Armin with the clarity of a bell, and he jerked slightly as awareness returned, a ripple of consciousness piercing his daze. Niklas's gaze sharpened, pinning him in place, and then, more pointedly: "Armin, you too."
Armin's eyes flicked to his father, confusion and restraint warring in his features. Yet no word came from him; the mischief was unmistakably Bai Qi's handiwork. Armin's silence spoke volumes as he sat across from his father, posture immaculate, every line of his frame a study in controlled tension.
Bai Qi, unbothered by protocol or reprimand, leaned slightly toward his brother, voice low but teasing. "You were too rude just now with Shu Yao," he said, the faint lilt of amusement dancing in his tone. "So this… is your punishment."
Armin's jaw tightened imperceptibly, a muscle flickering as he resisted the impulse to argue, to claim control. Bai Qi's eyes sparkled with the mischief he so often wore like armor, and Armin felt the familiar tug of exasperation and reluctant fondness intertwining.
Niklas exhaled, a soft, exasperated puff, his gaze scanning his youngest son with weary precision. "When will you grow up, Bai Qi?" he asked, though his tone carried more resignation than expectation.
The smirk only widened on Bai Qi's face, the glint of impish defiance clear. "When I get married," he replied, light, teasing, deliberately ignoring the sharpness of his father's stare.
Niklas's glare was immediate, slicing across the room with the precision of a blade, yet Bai Qi surrendered in mock defeat, tilting his head, shrugging with a grace that mocked protocol itself. His laughter was soft, barely audible, but resonant, filling the space like a playful wind through austere corridors.
"Today," Niklas continued, reclaiming some authority, "go back to Rothenberg Villa. Take Armin with you." His tone was final, an unspoken acknowledgment that the day's battle for dominance had ended—not in defeat, but in temporary truce.
Bai Qi's expression shifted, a rush of genuine delight breaking through his playful veneer. The wordless thrill of leaving the office, of abandoning this carefully ordered prison of his father's making, surged through him. The future remained uncertain—would he continue in the shadow of Rothenberg Industries, a careful, obedient successor? Or would he run, carving a path of his own design? For now, the answer rested in the next few steps, in the motion of leaving this chamber of power behind, taking his brother and his mischief along with him.
Armin rose quietly, composure intact, though subtle tension remained in his shoulders. He followed Bai Qi without word, their steps echoing against the polished floor, a twin cadence of restraint and chaos. The corridors, normally a testament to order, seemed to bend around them, acknowledging the impossible combination of mischief and control, of rebellion and obedience.
Niklas watched them depart, leaning back in his chair once more, lips pressing into a thin line. He knew well the fire and audacity that burned within Bai Qi, and the silent resilience coiled in Armin. Both were his sons, yet so different—a tension of light and shadow, defiance and discipline, mischief and meticulous order.
Bai Qi paused at the door for a moment, shooting a glance back over his shoulder, a silent salute to authority, mock and real at once. Then he stepped forward, pulling Armin with him into the wider corridors, where the city beyond awaited, and where the first breaths of freedom stretched out before them, long and inviting.
As the office doors closed behind them with a gentle thud, a moment of quiet rebellion lingered in the air, a testament to Bai Qi's irrepressible spirit, and to the complex dance of power and family that would define them both for years to come.
The heavy mahogany doors closed behind them with a muted thud, muffling their father's sigh within. The corridor beyond was bathed in silver light from the chandeliers, its polished marble gleaming like a stage upon which every Rothenberg son was forced to perform.
Bai Qi slipped a hand into the pocket of his black tailored suit and drew out his phone, his movements fluid, practiced, yet carrying that careless grace only he could muster. The screen lit his features in a pale glow, and in an instant the world beyond the device vanished for him. His lips curved upward, and his obsidian eyes softened in a way that seemed almost foreign within the austere corridors of power.
Armin walked at his side, tall, broad, his steps slow and deliberate. His expression, however, was carved from stone. Thoughts clashed behind his stern façade—thoughts he despised, thoughts he could not banish. Shu Yao. That fragile boy. That slight, delicate posture that seemed to bend beneath the weight of the world yet refused to break. Every time Armin's gaze touched him, an unwelcome fire ignited, a fury without reason. His jaw clenched hard, molars grinding as if the very act could shatter the feeling that gnawed at him. He wanted to sweep it away, to bury it, to erase it—but it lingered, persistent as a wound that refused to heal.
Beside him, Bai Qi chuckled under his breath, his thumbs dancing across the screen. He tilted the phone closer, his grin spreading, his cheeks warming as though even the mere exchange of words through text was enough to unravel his composure. His shoulders relaxed, and his whole frame radiated an easy lightness—so unlike the rigid tension of Armin's silence.
Armin's eyes flicked briefly toward him, a faint sigh slipping past his lips. Bai Qi's world was alight with secret laughter, the promise of affection burning bright enough to paint his features with blush. Armin, by contrast, found himself shackled to silence, to anger, to the kind of thoughts he could neither voice nor understand.
So he said nothing.
The two brothers walked on, their strides matched yet their worlds immeasurably apart—one lost in tenderness he dared to confess through a screen, the other chained to emotions he wished desperately to deny.
And between them, silence stretched long, taut, and inevitable.