The rain returned to Beijing in early March.
It didn't fall in torrents but came as a misty, persistent drizzle, soft like silk and stubborn like fate. It painted the city in hues of melancholy and motion—umbrellas blooming like wildflowers, reflections dancing in the puddles, and footsteps clicking like measured piano notes on cobblestones.
Xiao Zhan sat by the wide window of the guest lounge on the 38th floor of the Wang Group tower. His tea had long since gone cold, untouched. He had been scheduled to return to the fourth department floor an hour ago, but Assistant Jiang had instructed him to "wait for further instructions from the CEO."
It had been thirty minutes since that message. Thirty minutes of thinking.
And he wasn't doing a good job keeping his thoughts from spiraling.
He traced a finger along the rim of the porcelain cup, his mind playing loops of the night before—of Wang Yibo's hand brushing his when he passed the coat, of the faint rasp in his voice when he'd murmured, "You should go home, it's late," of the way their eyes had locked for a moment too long in the quiet of the garage.
Nothing had happened.
But everything had, in a way.
Since their talk on the rooftop weeks ago, something had shifted. Slowly. Deeply. Invisible to others. But Xiao Zhan had always been attuned to subtleties. He'd learned it the hard way in the Japanese courts—the smiles that held venom, the gestures that meant warnings, the silence that screamed truths.
Yibo had begun to linger in rooms just a little longer than needed. He no longer corrected Xiao Zhan's polite bows, though he'd always frown after. And sometimes, at late hours, Zhan would see his office light still on and wonder… what kept him awake?
And now, Xiao Zhan felt it—a current between them. Not spoken. Not named. But undeniably there.
The door clicked.
He turned quickly, standing instinctively.
It was Wang Yibo.
Dressed in his usual charcoal suit, a silk tie sharp and spotless. But his hair was slightly damp from the rain, and a few drops clung to the edge of his collar. His eyes flicked to Zhan, unreadable.
"You're still here," he said.
Zhan bowed slightly. "I was told to wait, CEO Wang."
Wang Yibo's jaw clenched at the formality, as it always did now. But he said nothing about it. Instead, he walked toward the window, standing beside Xiao Zhan, silent.
The air thickened.
From the corner of his eye, Yibo observed Zhan's profile—his long lashes, the faint hollow under his cheekbone, the way he held tension in his shoulders as if he was always preparing for a fight.
"You're good at your job," Yibo finally said. "Better than most people I've seen. Even in Japan."
Zhan turned to him, slightly surprised.
"Thank you."
A beat.
"Why do you avoid asking for more?" Yibo's voice was low. "You've worked quietly, taken every department rotation seriously. But you never compete for promotions. You let the others race ahead."
Xiao Zhan's lips parted, but it took a while before the words came.
"Because… I didn't come here to rise," he said. "I came here to live. Quietly. I already know what power does to people."
Yibo turned fully to him.
"You say that like you've lived inside power."
Zhan smiled faintly. "Maybe I have."
The look in his eyes wasn't defiant—it was quietly haunted. And Wang Yibo's breath caught.
"You're hiding something," he murmured.
Zhan didn't flinch. "We all are."
Yibo studied him, then walked away from the window toward the far shelf. He poured fresh tea into a second cup and brought it back. Held it out. Zhan stared for a moment, startled, before accepting it with both hands.
This was new.
Unspoken, like everything between them. But laced with meaning.
"Do you ever miss Japan?" Yibo asked.
Zhan hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes. I miss the old Kyoto houses… the smell of tatami. And I miss the quiet."
"You're quiet here."
"It's different," Zhan whispered. "Here, I'm quiet by choice. Back home, I was quiet by duty."
That startled something in Wang Yibo.
They didn't say anything more for a long while. The rain continued its whisper. The tea warmed their hands.
Then came the moment. Soft. Subtle. The kind that would never make headlines but would leave a mark all the same.
Yibo's fingers brushed Xiao Zhan's as he reached for the sugar pot. Neither moved away.
They simply stayed.
One heartbeat. Two. Five.
And in that stillness, something ancient stirred. Something dangerous. Something tender.
---
Elsewhere, in a black car parked just outside the building, a woman in red gloves watched the tower through binoculars.
"Still loyal to Japan's secrets, is he?" she murmured in fluent Japanese. "Or perhaps he's falling."
A man in a tailored coat beside her didn't respond, but the shadow in his gaze deepened.
"Watch them. Closely," she said. "Especially Wang Yibo. The son of China's only modern royal line? We cannot let them bond."
---
Back in the tower, as the drizzle softened, Xiao Zhan felt Wang Yibo's gaze linger on him long after he turned to leave.
It wasn't love yet.
But it was already something far more dangerous.
---