The car hummed like a restless heart, its engine's low purr threading through the silence. Outside, the streets rolled by in dusky ribbons of lamplight, each familiar turn tightening the knot in George's chest. He sat rigidly, his hands folded over his knees, though every nerve urged him to shift, to breathe, to move. He could not. For Shu Yao's head rested delicately against his shoulder, feather-light, as though the boy had collapsed there not out of choice but pure exhaustion.
George dared not breathe too loudly. The faint tick of Shu Yao's even breaths ghosted against George chest, each one a reminder of the fragile trust placed upon him, however unintentional. His hand hovered in the narrow air between them, trembling slightly as if it longed to reach out, to steady, to soothe. But to touch would risk breaking the spell. And George, for all his strength in boardrooms and beneath chandeliers, felt reduced to trembling cowardice in this small, unbearably intimate space.
The car glided closer to its inevitable stop. Shu Yao's neighborhood loomed just beyond the next turn, a place George knew only from memory—simple walls, narrow windows, a humble doorway that always seemed to hide him away the moment George's gaze sought him. Each passing second brought them nearer, and with each second George's dread swelled, thick and suffocating.
He knew that when the car halted, the fragile weight upon his shoulder would lift. Shu Yao would stir, rub his eyes, and vanish into that modest home like smoke vanishing into night air. And George would be left again with nothing but his own empty hands, the ghost of warmth on his sleeve.
The thought gnawed at him. What right did he have to want more? Shu Yao was not his to keep. Yet still, George's heart betrayed him, craving this fleeting closeness with an ache too sharp to ignore. His mind swirled with half-born words—stay a little longer, don't go yet, let me hold this moment. None of them escaped his lips.
The driver slowed, tires crunching softly against the gravel. The familiar corner turned, and there it was—Shu Yao's house, bathed in the faint glow of a lone lamp in the window. George's throat tightened as he stared at it, at the simple frame that would so soon reclaim Shu Yao.
The car came to a stop. The engine's hum faded into silence, leaving George's thoughts too loud, too frantic. He looked down. Shu Yao's lashes quivered faintly against his pale cheeks, but still he slept, utterly unaware. George's heart clenched. To wake him would be to sever this moment. To let him sleep would be to trespass on a grace not meant for him.
He froze in that impossible choice, trapped between yearning and propriety, between desire and fear. His hand lifted an inch, hesitated, and fell uselessly to his lap again.
the final tremor of the engine slipping into stillness. From the driver's seat came a cautious glance into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of duty and hesitation. Clearing his throat softly, he leaned half an inch toward the leather partition.
"Mr. George," he murmured, voice subdued, "we have reached the place you informed—"
George's hand lifted at once, two fingers pressed against his lips in a sharp command for silence. His gaze darted to the boy resting against him, lashes brushing against fragile skin, mouth parted ever so slightly in a breath that seemed borrowed from the gentlest corner of sleep.
The driver stilled. He followed his master's glance and for the first time noticed the boy properly—Shu Yao, curled lightly as though the world itself had pressed him into retreat. The driver's weathered expression softened, and a faint, weary smile ghosted his lips, almost paternal in its resignation. He gave the smallest of nods, as if to say, I understand, before turning forward again, straightening his spine against the seat as though silence itself were now his duty.
George's eyes, however, refused to stray. They lingered, tracing each fragile line of Shu Yao's face with reverence he could neither name nor allow himself to admit. In this softened glow of the streetlamps, Shu Yao seemed impossibly delicate, almost otherworldly, as though born from the breath of a fleeting dream. His head still pressed against George's shoulder, the faintest weight—yet to George, it was crushing, not in pain, but in the unbearable flood of feeling it summoned.
He thought of poems he had once read in youth, words written by men who spoke of muses they could never touch. Now he understood their torment, for Shu Yao was a poem incarnate—one George could gaze upon but never decipher, one whose verses twisted into silence before they could be read aloud.
Outside, the quiet night pressed in. The lone lamp in front of the modest house waited like an unkind truth, its glow a reminder that the boy beside him did not belong to him, but to another world entirely. Still George lingered, reluctant, trapped in the paradox of wanting to wake him and wishing he would never stir.
And so he sat, hushed, staring at Shu Yao as though the boy were a scripture he was forever forbidden to translate.
The quiet spell of the car shattered in an instant.
George's pocket trembled, then the violent chime of his phone rang so vibrantly it felt as though the sound had reached into his very ribs and dragged his soul out by force. His whole body jerked, his breath caught, and the world he had so carefully preserved around Shu Yao—silent, fragile, sacred—was broken.
The boy stirred. A small shift, the faintest murmur. Shu Yao's lashes fluttered against the pale curve of his cheek, struggling as though each blink weighed a thousand stones. Slowly, with the timidity of a dawn unfurling, his eyes opened.
George froze. His cheeks flushed crimson, not from heat, but from the panic of being seen—seen too close, too intimately, at a distance he had no right to hold. Shu Yao rubbed his left eye with the soft back of his hand, childlike in the gesture, while George turned away with almost military urgency, snatching the phone from his breast pocket as though the device itself might shield him from those drowsy, unguarded eyes.
"Who is it?" His voice was sharp, edged with fury he had not intended, for the interruption had cut too deep. His gaze, still averted, locked on nothing, jaw clenched as if to bite the invisible thread that had dared disturb him.
On the other end, words poured through—unwanted, demanding, insistent. George's responses grew terse, clipped, like a man fending off an enemy with a dull blade. His free hand tightened over his knee, while beside him, the boy he had feared to disturb was slowly piecing his world together again.
Shu Yao's gaze drifted out the window. The familiar gate stood there, bathed in the pale wash of the streetlamp. His home. He blinked, confusion dimming his tired eyes. When had they arrived? He did not remember the car slowing, nor the street's end. Only the weight of sleep pressing against him, Shame prickled his chest. Had he truly surrendered so easily?
His head turned slightly, his lips parting to shape the simple words he owed—thank you. But George was locked in his quarrel, voice low and heated, refusing any pause. The moment for gratitude slipped away. Shu Yao's hand hovered on the seat for only a breath before he moved. Quietly, deliberately, he opened the door, its muted click swallowed by George's clipped argument.
He stepped out, bowing his head in the smallest gesture of courtesy, though none would see it. His figure, fragile and uncertain, drifted away from the car like mist dissolving into the night.
"Drive!" George barked suddenly, still clutching the phone, his words more command than request. The engine roared awake. Shu Yao turned just enough to see the dark vehicle pull away, its tail-lights vanishing down the street until there was only night and silence again.
He stood still, the cool air brushing against him, and thought with a hollow ache: Because of me, Mr, George is facing some kind of trouble. The shame weighed heavy, as if he carried a curse he could never lift. Always trouble, always a burden. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, stung with the sting of self-reproach.
At last he turned, feet dragging toward the gate. His finger pressed the bell, and he stood waiting, pale and weary beneath the yellow lamp, a lone figure half-swallowed by the shadows.
Meanwhile in George car:
George sat rigid, the phantom warmth of Shu Yao's weight still burning into his shoulder, though the boy was gone. His chest felt hollow, as though he had been robbed of something both fragile and immense in the same breath.
The phone, now silent in his palm, felt like a weapon turned against him. The name that had split his composure—Niklas. His brother. The monarch of Rothenberg Industries, whose voice could slice through steel. George had answered with fire, with instinct, but when recognition struck, he had forced his tone to cool, to bend. To stand before Niklas's temper was to stand at the edge of a precipice; one wrong word, and you plummeted into his abyss. George had learned that long ago.
Sliding the device back into the inner pocket of his black tailored suit, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. His reflection flickered faintly in the tinted window, and the blush still burning his cheeks was a betrayal he could not hide from himself.
From the front seat, the driver's low chuckle broke the tense silence.
"Never seen you like that, sir. Face turned red as a summer apple. And all over… what? That boy?"
George's head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing, his stare sharp enough to cut stone. He didn't need the man to name Shu Yao; the suggestion alone pierced him. The driver, foolish in his levity, grinned at the road ahead, his words dripping with playful irreverence.
"Whoever he is, must be—"
"Enough." George's voice was low, dangerous, his glare searing into the back of the man's skull. "Shut your mouth."
The grin faded. The car swallowed itself in silence once more, leaving George alone with the thundering of his own heart and the unbearable truth: someone had seen what he himself dared not admit.
Back to shu Yao point of view;
The doorbell chimed, soft yet resonant, and within moments a familiar sweetness answered from inside.
"Come in!" Qing Yue's voice floated through the narrow hall, gentle as a songbird.
Shu Yao stood beneath the lantern light, his frame weary, his eyelids heavy, yet when the door opened and her small figure appeared, he straightened instinctively. A smile, carefully crafted, bloomed across his lips—the smile he had practiced endlessly, the one meant to shield, to reassure, to perform.
"Welcome back, gege," Qing Yue said, her eyes sparkling as though his return itself was reason enough for joy. She stepped aside, ushering him in with the warmth of one who had been waiting.
He nodded faintly, the smile still clinging to his face like porcelain painted too finely to crack, and stepped into the threshold. The air of home—warm, fragrant with spices and faint incense—wrapped around him. Behind him, Qing Yue closed the door with a soft thud, sealing the world outside.
He bent to untie his shoes, moving slowly, each gesture deliberate, as if speed might betray his exhaustion. Qing Yue's voice followed him, light, practical, the rhythm of domestic concern.
"gege"Dinner is ready. I'll place it on the table. You go and get fresh first.
Shu Yao straightened, fingers brushing briefly against the wall for balance. His smile thinned, yet remained. "No need," he murmured, his voice quieter than he intended. "I'm not hungry. I just want to rest."
The words, so small, so fragile, hung between them.
Qing Yue's expression faltered, worry shading her features. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning him as though she could measure the truth of his body against the lie of his words. "Gege," she said softly, "look at yourself. You've grown thinner again. You think I don't notice? You think I can't see when you skip meals?"
Her voice was tender, almost scolding, yet laced with concern. Another day, another plea.
Shu Yao turned his gaze away, his autumn-hued eyes sliding toward the floor. Silence was safer than confession. If he spoke, the walls would tremble; if he shared, she would bear the weight that was his alone. And so he stood, still and evasive, the faintest curve of his lips suggesting composure even as his chest tightened beneath.
Qing Yue would not let the silence rest. Her voice softened further, a thread of worry woven into every syllable. "Gege… what is happening to you? You've always been the good brother, the kind one. Whatever you're hiding You can share it with me?"
He did not answer. His silence was both shield and prison.
Qing Yue's brows knit, yet her determination did not falter. She could sense it, the shadow coiling around him, though he refused to name it. At last, she let her words shift into a promise unspoken.
If he would not confess, she would uncover it herself. Whatever troubled her brother—whatever ate away at his smile—she would find it, protect him, even if he resisted.
Still, she offered him kindness instead of pressure. A smile, warm and resilient, bloomed across her face as she reached out, patting his shoulder with a touch light as silk.
"It's okay, gege," she whispered. "If you don't want to talk, then don't. Just rest. You need it more than anything."
And in that gentle concession, she disguised her vow: to shield him, to uncover the truth he tried so hard to bury, and to remind him that even when he chose silence, he was never alone.