The knock on the door came when Jiang Zhenyu was at his lowest. He was on his knees in the dark kitchen, pressing his forehead to the cool floor tiles, trying to force the dizziness to pass. He hadn't eaten since the single stale bun yesterday afternoon. He'd run out of tea. Even the cheap instant noodles were gone.
His phone lay face-down on the table — a single message blinking on the cracked screen: "We can't help you anymore. Don't call again."
Another polite rejection from a company where he'd once been the rising star.
He dragged himself up, palms slipping on the counter. He hated how the apartment felt now — too empty, too damp, the plaster on the walls peeling in damp patches like flaking skin. The rain outside bled city lights into dirty pools across the floor.
The knock came again, soft but firm. Not the police. Not the gossip reporters who still sometimes loitered by his door like crows.
He braced his weight on the doorframe before opening it.
At first, his vision blurred — the hallway light was too bright. But then the shape resolved: tall, composed, hair slicked back just like he remembered from their neighborhood years. The boy who used to trail behind him through the broken fences and narrow alleys had grown into something sharp enough to draw blood with a smile.
"Yu Bai…" Zhenyu croaked, his voice scraping raw against his throat.
Yu Bai's eyes flicked over him — the thin sweater, the bones pressing under skin that hadn't seen a full meal in days. He said nothing at first, but his fingers twitched at his side like they wanted to touch.
"Gege." His voice was low, gentle, careful. Like he was afraid of breaking something already cracked beyond repair. "May I come in?"
Zhenyu laughed — a dry, broken sound. "Come in? There's nothing to see here."
Still, he stepped aside. He hated that old habit — still polite, still helpless when someone asked for a place to stand.
Inside, the room felt even smaller with Yu Bai in it. He looked so clean — dark tailored coat, crisp shirt, eyes as calm as the winter sea. He set down a bag he carried: fresh buns, soup containers, a packet of tea Zhenyu hadn't tasted in months.
Zhenyu stared. "You didn't have to—"
"It's not charity," Yu Bai interrupted softly. "I was nearby. I heard you were unwell."
"Who told you that?" Zhenyu snapped, sharper than he meant. But he was so tired of pity — of whispers behind his back, of so-called friends who said "poor thing" but laughed the moment he turned away.
Yu Bai just looked at him — that quiet, unshakable look that made Zhenyu feel like a boy again, knees scraped, secrets hidden under his tongue.
"I heard," Yu Bai said, voice so calm Zhenyu couldn't pick at it. "Eat first."
He guided Zhenyu by the elbow to the battered couch. Zhenyu flinched at the touch — too intimate for two grown men who hadn't spoken properly in years — but he let himself be lowered down.
Yu Bai unpacked the food carefully, setting the containers on a folded newspaper. Zhenyu caught the faint scent of ginger — familiar, nauseatingly warm.
"Is it true?" Yu Bai asked softly as he stirred the soup. "They froze your accounts?"
Zhenyu let out a shuddering breath. "Not all. Enough that I can't pay the lawyer. The apartment's under my sister's name — otherwise, I'd be on the street by now."
His voice cracked. He hated that. He wanted to sound calm, cold, above it all. But Yu Bai's presence felt like pressing on a bruise he'd wrapped too tightly — it throbbed now, swollen and exposed.
Yu Bai's brow furrowed, the only sign of anger he allowed himself. "And the company?"
"They say my position's under review," Zhenyu spat. He dug his nails into his palms. "Under review — after everything I built for them. They say my reputation is poison. No one will take me. Not entertainment, not finance, not even the charity boards."
Yu Bai hummed, a sound Zhenyu remembered from when he'd been a boy — the sound he'd make when he was thinking about how to get out of a beating, or how to sneak bread for his mother.
"They're fools," Yu Bai said. He brought the spoon to Zhenyu's lips — a gesture so careful it felt rehearsed. Zhenyu hesitated, but the warmth smelled too good to refuse. He took a sip, then another. The soup sat heavy in his empty stomach, an ache but a good one.
"You always hated ginger," Yu Bai murmured.
Zhenyu looked up, startled. "How do you remember that?"
Yu Bai smiled faintly. "I remember everything about you."
Something cold unfurled in Zhenyu's chest. He wanted to tell him don't say things like that — but the words stayed lodged under his tongue.
Yu Bai set the spoon aside, wiping a drip from Zhenyu's lip with his thumb. "I have a small company. Logistics. All legal," he added, as if reading Zhenyu's suspicion. "We've been looking for someone to handle the accounts. You could do it in your sleep."
Zhenyu's shoulders stiffened. "I'm not your charity case."
"It's not charity." Yu Bai's tone was still gentle, but Zhenyu felt a coil of steel under it. "It's work. You need stability — I need someone I trust."
Zhenyu's laugh turned into a cough. He covered his mouth, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. Yu Bai immediately leaned forward, tucking the blanket back, smoothing it over his collarbones with a touch that lingered too long.
"You're still so stubborn," Yu Bai murmured. "It's not weakness to take what you're owed."
"Owed?" Zhenyu snapped. "I don't owe you—"
"Not you." Yu Bai's smile returned, calm, patient. "The world owes you. I'm just here to collect."
Zhenyu flinched at the finality in his voice. He wanted to tell him to leave — to scream, to cry, to beg. But the soup was warm in his belly, the blanket tight around his shoulders. He hadn't felt this safe in weeks — and that was the cruelest part.
Yu Bai watched him with that same unreadable gaze. "How's your boy?"
The question stabbed deeper than any insult. Zhenyu looked away. "With my sister. She's worried about the press — they keep calling her. I can't bring him here."
"You want custody?" Yu Bai asked — so casual, like he was discussing the weather.
Zhenyu's throat constricted. "I'll never get it back. The lawyers — they say I don't look stable. They say the rumors about the affair make me unfit—"
Yu Bai reached out, catching Zhenyu's shaking hand in his own. His grip was gentle — but Zhenyu knew that if he tried to pull away, Yu Bai wouldn't let him.
"You'll get him back," Yu Bai said softly. "I'll make sure of it."
Zhenyu felt his heart skip — not with hope, but with dread. "Don't. Don't make promises you can't keep."
Yu Bai's eyes darkened, but his smile stayed. "I don't make promises, gege. I make guarantees."
The way he said it made Zhenyu's chest tighten painfully. He looked at Yu Bai then — really looked: the crisp lines of his suit, the faint callus on his thumb where he always clicked his pen when he thought too hard, the tiny scar above his brow from that fight when they were kids.
How could someone still hold so much of him after all these years?
"You shouldn't be here," Zhenyu whispered. "It's bad for you. The press—"
Yu Bai's chuckle was soft but terrifying in its patience. "Let them talk. They won't dare for long."
Zhenyu blinked. "What did you do?"
Yu Bai just tilted his head, that same careful touch stroking Zhenyu's wrist like a secret. "Eat more. Rest. Tomorrow, we'll talk about the custody case — and the job."
Zhenyu's body betrayed him again. He let Yu Bai feed him a few more spoonfuls. He let that gentle touch linger on his shoulder. He let his eyes close for just a moment — and in that moment, he thought he heard Yu Bai's whisper slip past the storm rattling the windows.
"I won't let them have you, gege. Not now. Not ever."
But when Zhenyu forced his eyes open, Yu Bai was only smiling — calm, warm, like a loyal brother or an old friend.
Somewhere deep inside him, Jiang Zhenyu knew: this was the kind of comfort that didn't let you leave once you tasted it.
And Yu Bai — he'd waited too long to lose him again.
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