The car slowed to a perfect halt before Beijing Capital International Airport, the morning light gleaming across its mirrored facade.
The driver stepped out first, hurrying to open Bai Qi's door with a quiet bow.
Bai Qi emerged in a crisp white suit — a slash of calm precision against the restless tide of travelers. His sunglasses caught the sunlight; his expression, however, absorbed none of it.
Shu Yao followed.
He climbed out quickly, adjusting the laptop bag that kept sliding from his shoulder. The air hit him — sharp, metallic with jet fuel and winter wind. He moved to the trunk, lifted out Bai Qi's luggage with his bandaged hand, biting back the small tremor that sparked beneath the gauze.
By the time he turned around, Bai Qi was already walking.
His long strides cut through the crowd, unhurried yet untouchable. Heads turned. Someone gasped his name. Within seconds, the first cluster of admirers gathered near the curb — phones raised, eyes shining.
"Bai Qi! Just one picture—please!"
He didn't slow down. Didn't smile. Didn't even glance their way.
He moved like light refracted — seen by everyone, reached by no one.
Shu Yao hurried after him, dragging the suitcase behind. When a few fans stepped too close, he bowed slightly, voice soft but firm.
"I'm sorry—sir is busy"
They barely heard him. Cameras clicked. A few more voices called out.
Bai Qi kept walking.
The automatic glass doors of the terminal parted before him, releasing a gust of cold air and the faint scent of coffee and jet engines. Shu Yao trailed behind, head lowered, laptop strap digging into his shoulder.
Each step made his bandaged hand throb — a deep, dull ache that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The fever that had been simmering since morning now pressed heavy against his temples, blurring the edges of his vision.
Still, he kept pace.
Bai Qi didn't once look back to see if he was following.
The marble floor reflected their silhouettes — one tall, unyielding, the other slightly bent beneath invisible weight.
"Tickets," Bai Qi said at last, his voice low, clipped.
Shu Yao blinked, forcing himself upright. "Y–Yes, sir."
He set the luggage down, fingers fumbling slightly as he retrieved the travel folder from his bag. His breath trembled when he handed it over.
Bai Qi took it without a word, eyes already shifting toward the departure gate. The faint hum of conversation around them blurred into static — the airport's rhythm, steady and indifferent.
A group of young women nearby whispered excitedly, recognizing him again. Someone raised a camera.
Bai Qi adjusted his collar and walked on, the crowd parting instinctively.
Shu Yao followed close behind, his voice almost lost in the noise.
"Sir, your flight's boarding at gate fourteen. The assistants from the Suzhou branch will meet us once we land."
"Whatever," Bai Qi said simply.
He didn't slow down.
Shu Yao tightened his grip on the handle, trying to ignore the faint sting spreading across his palm. The warmth of blood was seeping faintly through the bandage again. He turned it inward, hiding it from view.
The light inside the terminal caught in his hair — soft brown against the sterile white glow. He glanced at Bai Qi's back, the white of his suit almost blinding beneath the glass ceiling.
Shu Yao drew a small, unsteady breath.
There was distance even in the way Bai Qi walked — a space no one dared cross, not even him.
The announcement echoed overhead. Flight CZ311 to Suzhou now boarding at Gate 14.
Bai Qi adjusted his cufflinks, voice even. "Hmph what are you staring for."
As,Shu Yao flinch then, nodded, pulling the luggage behind him again. The wheels clicked softly against the marble, steady and small — the rhythm of someone who followed because he had nowhere else to go.
The automatic doors parted with a sigh, releasing a rush of cold air and distant announcements. Inside, the airport pulsed with motion — the roll of trolleys, the murmur of voices, the flash of phones raised toward Bai Qi.
Security guards tried to keep the crowd at bay, but cameras still followed. Shu Yao lowered his head, half-hidden behind the luggage, while Bai Qi walked ahead with the indifference of someone used to being watched.
"Sir, the boarding gate—" Shu Yao's voice was soft, but Bai Qi didn't turn.
"I know," came the curt reply.
The distance between them felt heavier than the suitcases.
Shu Yao adjusted the strap on his shoulder again, the fabric biting into his palm. His fever made the lights blur, every sound sharper, brighter. He steadied himself, eyes on Bai Qi's back — the man who seemed to move through chaos untouched.
The cabin air smelled faintly of leather, jet fuel, and expensive silence.
Bai Qi sat by the window, expression carved from stillness. He removed his sunglasses and folded them neatly on the armrest. His eyes — dark, unreadable — fixed on nothing in particular.
He didn't want to look at Shu Yao.
Didn't want to see the face that made his pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
His arms crossed tightly over his chest, the gesture as defensive as it was habitual. A soft hmph escaped him — not quite a sigh, not quite anger — something in between, sharp enough to cut the air.
Shu Yao sat just beside him, gaze downcast, spine drawn like a line of quiet submission. He hadn't spoken since they boarded. The world seemed to drain the moment he sat down. Exhaustion clung to his shoulders like a second coat.
Even looking at Bai Qi was tiring now — the kind of tired that settled deep in the bones, beyond sleep.
He simply sat there, eyes lowered, hands resting on his knees. The bandaged one trembled faintly, still blotched in fading crimson.
"Tablet," Bai Qi said without looking.
The word cracked through the quiet like a whip.
Shu Yao startled, immediately fumbling for the device in his bag. "Y–Yes, sir."
He extended it carefully. Bai Qi took it — snatched it — without a glance, turning his head away as though proximity itself burned. The gesture stung more than words.
Shu Yao's hand hovered in the air for a moment longer, then fell to his lap. He sat back slowly, the faint hum of the engines lulling against his temples.
His eyes slipped shut.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He only meant to breathe — just breathe for a while.
But exhaustion was a patient thief.
Within minutes, his shoulders slackened, his head tilted slightly to one side. The soft rhythm of his breathing blurred into the background drone of departure.
Across from him, Bai Qi remained rigid, scrolling through his tablet in mechanical silence.
Thirty minutes passed.
Maybe more.
The hum of the engines deepened, steady as a heartbeat. Yet something began to gnaw at him — an unease, quiet but insistent.
Why was Shu Yao so silent?
He looked up, annoyed at himself for even noticing. His gaze flicked toward the seat beside him.
Then he stilled.
Shu Yao had drifted into sleep.
His lashes — long, soft, absurdly delicate — rested against his pale cheeks. His autumn-brown hair had slipped loose, falling across his forehead. His lips were parted slightly, color drained from them as though the world had taken more than its share.
Bai Qi blinked once. Then again.
Something twisted faintly in his chest — irritation, maybe. Or something dangerously close to guilt.
His eyes lowered, tracing the line of Shu Yao's throat — the pulse faint beneath skin too fragile. He saw again, unbidden, the memory of his own hand pressing there not long ago — the cruel indentation of his grip, the fury he had poured into someone who hadn't deserved it.
His jaw tightened.
He tore his gaze away — but it wandered again, traitorous.
That's when he saw it: the bandaged hand, resting loosely against Shu Yao's leg, faint red seeping through the linen.
A reminder.
Of his own carelessness.
Of how rough he'd been.
Bai Qi's teeth clenched until his jaw ached. He looked away sharply, turning toward the window where clouds rolled beneath them like distant mountains.
He didn't know whether to wake him — or to let him sleep and pretend he hadn't seen.
Part of him whispered that Shu Yao deserved rest.
Another voice — colder, harsher — hissed that he was the reason for that wound, and silence was the least he could offer in return.
His reflection ghosted in the window — unreadable, distant, tired of itself.
He exhaled, a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.
Shu Yao shifted faintly in sleep, brow furrowing as though even dreams refused to grant him peace.
Bai Qi watched, and for one fleeting second, guilt softened his gaze — before he caught himself, looked away again, and shut the feeling back behind his ribs.
Outside, the plane cut through a corridor of white clouds, sunlight scattering like shards across the wing.
Shu Yao was still asleep.
The hum of the engines filled the cabin, low and endless, like the sound of a heartbeat muffled beneath water.
Bai Qi leaned back in his seat, tablet forgotten on the table. He had waited an hour—almost—and the man beside him hadn't stirred once.
He should wake him.
He should say something. Anything.
But instead, he only watched.
The soft rise and fall of Shu Yao's chest irritated him, for reasons he couldn't name. The calmness of that face, the faint tremor of lashes against pale skin—how could he sleep like that, after everything?
Bai Qi cleared his throat, sharply.
The sound broke the silence like glass.
Nothing.
He clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, then stilled.
Once, he knew how to be gentle. Once, he knew how to care. He had been someone else—a man who listened, who protected, who… forgave.
That man no longer existed.
The memory of Qing Yue flickered behind his eyes—his bright bridge, the only light that ever steadied him. Gone.
And the reason for that loss sat inches away, breathing evenly, unknowing, unforgiven.
His throat tightened.
He hated how his voice sounded when he finally spoke—rough, uncertain, almost human.
"Shu Yao," he said, low but sharp enough to pierce through the drone of the engines. "Wake up."
The voice cut through the hum of the cabin.
"Shu Yao."
He flinched as if struck. His lashes fluttered, breath catching before his mind caught up. The cabin light washed his skin in silver, too pale, too fragile. He straightened instantly, hands pressed to his knees.
"I— I'm sorry, sir," he murmured, the words trembling out like air escaping a wound. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
Bai Qi's gaze was cold, unreadable. The reflection of the clouds drifted across his dark eyes, and for a moment Shu Yao couldn't tell if he was staring at him or through him.
"What are you even doing?" Bai Qi said, voice low but sharp. "Do you really think that appearing pitiful will make me forgive you?"
The words struck harder than they should have. Shu Yao stopped breathing for a second. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to shake his head—too quickly, too obediently.
"N-no, sir," he whispered.
Bai Qi exhaled slowly, a sound more like restraint than breath. His fingers pressed against his temple before lowering to his lap. The small crack in his composure vanished as soon as it appeared.
"Then you should remember your place."
Shu Yao nodded, a single jerking motion, like a string being pulled. "Yes, sir."
Silence settled again. The sound of the engine roared on, hollow and distant.
Shu Yao's pulse thundered in his ears. Every word Bai Qi spoke left a mark deeper than he would admit. He told himself he deserved it—every cold syllable, every glance of contempt. Perhaps that was easier than believing Bai Qi truly meant them.
He kept his eyes down, the way he always did. He didn't see Bai Qi turn away, didn't see the faint tremor that passed through his hands before he hid them beneath the table.
Outside, the sky was an endless white blur. Inside, it was suffocating.
Shu Yao swallowed hard. The pain in his burned hand had faded, but the ache inside his chest would not ease. He wondered when it had started hurting this way—when the man he loved became the one who carved every bruise in his heart.
And still, he could not hate him.
He never could.