The driver had been waiting by the curb for quite some time.
The morning air shimmered faintly against the shimmer of the black car, and the dull ache behind Shu Yao's eyes.
He stood still for a heartbeat — laptop clutched against his chest, breath unsteady. The weight of the coming journey pressed on him, though he wasn't sure whether it was the travel or the memory he feared more.
"Shu Yao," George said softly, stepping closer. "If anything happens—"
"I'll call," Shu Yao interrupted, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. He managed a small, tired smile. "Don't worry, Mr. George."
George hesitated, hands fidgeting by his sides, before blurting out, "Can I… hug you before you go?"
For a second, Shu Yao blinked — uncertain, caught off guard. His throat ached when he nodded. "It's alright."
George stepped forward, arms wrapping around him with hesitant warmth. Shu Yao's eyes fluttered shut. It wasn't comfort he felt — not really. It was weariness, and the weight of being held when his body had forgotten how.
When George finally pulled away, there was an awkward half-smile on both their faces. "Take care, Shu Yao."
"For once,Thank's again."
The car door shut, and the world outside folded away in silence.
The hum of the engine became a kind of lullaby — steady, indifferent, almost kind.
Shu Yao rested the laptop on his knees, staring at the reflection of the passing world against the Polish glass. His bandaged hand trembled when he adjusted it.
He hadn't been to Bai Qi's house before.
Only Qing Yue had — she used to tease him about it, laughing as she described how vast it was, how the marble gleamed like moonlight. "Like an actor's villa," she'd said.
Now, as the car took a turn down the long paved road, Shu Yao wondered if he'd even recognize the man who lived there anymore.
His lips quivered. He pressed them together until the tremor stopped.
The memory came uninvited — the kiss.
That night when Bai Qi had grabbed him by the shoulder, slammed him against the wall, and pressed his lips to Shu Yao's in a fevered rush of alcohol and confusion.
A mistake.
Bai Qi had been drunk, mistaking him for Qing Yue.
Shu Yao had told himself a thousand times that it meant nothing — but the taste of it still lingered, somewhere between shame and longing.
He rubbed his eyes quickly. The tears stung.
When the car stopped, he didn't realize it at first. The driver cleared his throat gently. "We've arrived, Mr. Shu."
Shu Yao stepped out — and froze.
The villa rose before him like something out of a dream: a marble fortress of wealth and silence. The walls gleamed white under the late sun, and a fountain murmured in the courtyard, its spiral design catching rainbows in the spray. Lavender hedges bordered the walk, the air heavy with their scent.
A pool shimmered on one side, framed by white arches and palm shadows. It was the kind of place that had its own gravity — grand, aloof, untouched by ordinary sorrow.
He had never felt smaller.
When Bai Qi was still kind, he had once invited Shu Yao here. Shu Yao had always declined — not because he didn't want to go, but because he couldn't bear to intrude on something so perfectly not his.
Now fate had dragged him to the doorstep he had once refused.
A servant opened the wrought-iron gate with a polite bow. "Mr. Shu. You eventually arrived. Please, follow me."
Shu Yao lowered his gaze, his bandaged hand pressing lightly against the laptop. Every step made the wound throb, but he said nothing.
The hallways were vast — floors of pale stone, chandeliers catching fragments of sunlight, portraits in gilded frames watching from the walls. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something colder — the kind of scent that belonged to Bai Qi alone.
The servant stopped by a set of double doors. "This is the young master's room. Everything he needs for the flight is inside. Please prepare his luggage."
Shu Yao nodded wordlessly. The servant bowed and slipped away.
For a moment, Shu Yao just stood there — hand hovering near the door. He hesitated, throat tightening.
He hadn't forgotten, what Bai qi had done just hours ago— or the rage that came after. Bai Qi's hands around his throat, his voice sharp with disgust.
His fingers ghosted over his neck; it still hurt to swallow.
He drew a slow breath and knocked softly.
No answer.
"Sir?" he tried. Still nothing.
Maybe he's not here.
Good.
He took it as mercy and pushed the door open.
The room was breathtaking — spacious, modern, meticulous. A wide study table stood near the window, neatly arranged with documents, pens, and a clock that ticked too softly to hear. A single framed photograph rested on the shelf — Bai Qi as a child, smiling in sunlight, eyes bright with innocence that no longer existed.
Shu Yao's lips curved faintly, a shadow of warmth flickering through the exhaustion. "You were so innocent," he murmured under his breath.
He set the laptop down on the bed — the scent of Bai Qi's cologne clung to the sheets, rich and heavy. It made his chest ache in ways he didn't want to name.
He began to pack quietly — shirts folded, files arranged — each movement small and careful, as if silence could make him invisible.
Then a sound cut through the stillness.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Shu Yao turned — and froze.
Bai Qi stood in the doorway, droplets of water trailing down his bare shoulders, a towel slung carelessly around his waist. His hair clung to his temples, his expression unreadable — caught halfway between shock and disdain.
Shu Yao's pulse stuttered. He spun around, eyes averted, face burning. "I—I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know you were—"
"What the hell are you doing in here without my permission?" Bai Qi's voice was low, sharp as broken glass.
Shu Yao flinched, every muscle tightening. "I thought… you weren't here. I was only—packing your things for the flight."
There was a pause — long enough for humiliation to settle like dust between them.
"Get out," Bai Qi said flatly.
The words hit harder than they should have. Shu Yao lowered his head. "Yes, sir."
He stepped aside as Bai Qi moved past him, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, water still glistening down his spine. Shu Yao tried not to look — but then it happened.
Bai Qi's foot caught on something — a pen, slick and unnoticed. He slipped forward, and before either of them could react, he crashed straight into Shu Yao.
The impact sent them both stumbling — Shu Yao's back hit the bedframe, breath stolen from his lungs. Bai Qi landed against him, one hand braced on the mattress, the other pressing down— directly on Shu Yao's bandaged hand.
Shu Yao gasped, pain flaring white behind his eyes.
"Damn it—" Bai Qi hissed, but didn't move fast enough.
For one unbearable second, they were too close — Bai Qi's breath against his cheek, the scent of rain and soap and something darker. Shu Yao's pulse fluttered violently.
Then Bai Qi pushed himself up, jaw clenched. "You—pathetic."
Shu Yao didn't defend himself. He only turned his face away, voice trembling. "I'm sorry, sir."
Bai Qi snatched another towel, running it over his face with sharp, angry motions. "Can't you stay out of my sight for a single minute?"
Shu Yao said nothing. His hand throbbed beneath the bandage, but he kept it pressed against his chest, the pain somehow preferable to speaking.
Bai Qi turned away, reaching for his clothes — his shoulders tense, his movements clipped.
Shu Yao stood frozen for a long moment before finally stepping toward the door.
He didn't look back.
The door clicked softly behind him.
Shu Yao stood still for a long moment, his pulse wild beneath his skin. Each inhale came ragged; each exhale trembled as though dragged out of him.
He pressed his palm against his chest. The throbbing from his bandaged hand had worsened — faint lines of crimson seeping through the linen.
"I shouldn't have entered," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I shouldn't have—"
But the words dissolved before they could finish.
He waited in the hall, time slipping past like slow rain. The air was still heavy with Bai Qi's scent — rain, cedar, and something colder.
When the door finally opened, Bai Qi stepped out, fully dressed in a white suit that seemed to sharpen every angle of him. His hair was still damp, brushed neatly back. He looked immaculate — almost cruelly so.
Shu Yao lowered his gaze immediately. "Should I… continue?"
Bai Qi's reply was instant, hard. "Do whatever it is."
Shu Yao nodded and bent back to work, folding clothes, arranging passwords, checking schedules — every motion careful and quiet, as though even sound might offend him.
Bai Qi sat on the couch across the room, a tablet in his hand. His gaze never lifted. The soft flicker of the screen reflected on his face — cool, distant light against an expression that refused to soften.
Minutes stretched into an hour.
By the time Shu Yao was done, the silence had grown so dense it felt like air had weight.
He stood before Bai Qi, the tremor in his injured hand faint but visible. "The things are ready, sir."
Bai Qi rose from the couch in one smooth motion, buttoning his coat. "Then what are you staring at?" His tone was quiet, sharper than a shout.
He reached for the door handle, glancing only once over his shoulder. "Since you're my personal assistant, you'll carry them to the car."
Before Shu Yao could answer, Bai Qi was already gone.
For a moment, Shu Yao just stood there — staring at the half-open door, the echo of the command still clinging to the walls. Then he bent down, lifted the suitcase with his good hand, and slung the laptop bag across his shoulder.
The straps bit into the tender flesh near the bandage, but he didn't flinch.
Outside, the air was bright — too bright. The white marble of the villa reflected sunlight like shards of glass. Bai Qi stood near the fountain, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.
Shu Yao walked toward him, each step deliberate, each breath a silent plea for strength.
"Do you want me to miss my flight?" Bai Qi's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Shu Yao froze, eyes widening slightly. "I'm sorry, sir."
He hurried forward again, the weight of the luggage pulling at his arm. Servants watched from a distance — eyes filled with quiet pity.
One of them, an older man with kind eyes, finally stepped forward. "Let me carry that, Mr. Shu."
Shu Yao shook his head, voice low. "It's alright. I can manage."
"But sir, your bandage—it's bleeding."
Shu Yao glanced down. Crimson had bloomed faintly across the fabric, soaking through the edge. He turned his hand quickly, hiding it from sight. "It's fine."
From across the courtyard, Bai Qi's voice thundered again. "Are you planning to make me miss my flight or what?"
Shu Yao flinched. "Coming, sir."
He moved faster, almost stumbling under the weight. The fountain's water shimmered beside him, scattering tiny rainbows that he couldn't see.
When he reached the curb, the driver was already there, waiting by the open trunk. The man looked at Shu Yao's trembling arm and said gently, "Let me help you, sir."
"No," Shu Yao murmured, his tone soft but unyielding. "I'll do it myself."
The driver hesitated, then stepped aside, watching in silence as Shu Yao lifted each piece carefully, settling them inside with painstaking precision.
When everything was in place, Shu Yao wiped the faint sheen of sweat from his forehead and turned toward the car.
Bai Qi was already seated inside — gaze fixed on the opposite window, jaw set in that familiar line of indifference.
Shu Yao opened the door quietly and slid in beside him, clutching the laptop on his knees like armor.
"It's all done," he said softly, trying for a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Bai Qi didn't look at him. "So what?"
The words hit like a slap — not loud, but heavy.
Shu Yao's smile faltered. He lowered his gaze, fingers tightening around the edge of the laptop. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Bai Qi turned his head slightly, still refusing to meet his eyes. Outside the window, the world blurred into motion — sunlight on marble, petals caught in wind, servants fading from view.
Inside the car, only silence remained — brittle, suffocating, stretched thin between two men who once might have understood each other, and now couldn't even share a glance.
Shu Yao sat still, his reflection ghosted in the glass. For a fleeting second, he imagined reaching out — saying something, anything — but the words withered before they reached his tongue.
He kept his eyes down, watching the faint bloom of red darken his bandage as the car rolled forward — carrying both of them toward another silence they would not name.