The morning felt like it had been carved out of silence.
Shu Yao remained still in his bed longer than he meant to—blankets pulled to his chest like a shield, as if they could protect him from memories that hadn't yet faded.
The air was pale with morning light. But even the sun, it seemed, refused to warm the hollow inside him.
Slowly, with the fragile grace of someone learning how to move again, he pushed back the covers and sat up. His bare feet touched the floor. Cold. Real.
He crossed the room like a ghost through a dream, until he stood before the mirror.
There, in the silver reflection, he met himself.
His fingers rose—delicate, trembling—until they brushed his lips.
The same lips Bai Qi had kissed.
Not with meaning.
Not with knowing.
A kiss not meant for him.
He looked away.
Because what was left to see on a mouth that carried someone else's name?
The shower hissed behind the bathroom door.
Steam curled in the air like smoke from a ruin. Shu Yao stepped in slowly, his body vanishing behind glass and heat. He let the water run down his skin like it could rinse the ache from his bones, but no amount of warmth reached the cold blooming behind his ribs.
Afterward, he wrapped a towel around his slender waist with quiet movements, the fabric whispering as it folded around him. Another towel cradled his wet hair, soft bangs clinging to his cheeks and temples.
He dried himself slowly, as if touching his own skin might make him remember what it felt like to belong inside it.
Then came the black suit.
Pressed. Tailored. Unforgiving.
He slid it on piece by piece—shirt, vest, jacket—like armor forged of silence. His shoes gleamed like polished grief. When he combed his hair, it framed his face gently, brushing just past his collarbones. Beautiful, but tired.
The black file sat on the bedside table like a weight, a reminder. He picked it up, thumb brushing the cover once.
And then he turned to the mirror again.
He tried to speak.
To practice how he'd introduce himself at the meeting.
But the words caught in his throat like thorns.
"Hello. I'm Shu Yao."
It sounded… wrong. Like someone else's name stitched into his chest.
Still, he repeated it. Quietly. Just once more.
Then he gathered the file, his expression smooth and unreadable, and made his way downstairs.
---
The sound of laughter greeted him before his feet reached the last stair.
"Gege! Come look at these designs!"
Qing Yue's voice rang like a bell—bright, unknowing.
She sat at the dining table, her cheeks pink with excitement. Their mother beside her, examining something in a glossy magazine. And Juju—curled in Qing Yue's lap, tail twitching like it, too, could sense a storm beneath the calm.
Shu Yao blinked once.
And stepped closer.
The sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on golden trim and turning the house into a painting.
He stopped behind Qing Yue's chair.
She didn't notice the shadow flickering across his face. She held up the magazine instead, fingers pointing to pastel spreads of silk-draped arches, flower-covered aisles, diamond chandeliers.
"Gege, which one is prettier?" she asked. "Be honest."
Their mother gently patted her shoulder. "Don't rush, dear. There's time."
But Qing Yue laughed, giddy. "No, I want it to be perfect! So beautiful that all my friends will want to get married next!"
The words struck him like lightning—soundless and blinding.
Shu Yao's smile faltered.
His heartbeat stuttered once, like a dropped note in a song.
Engagement?
He looked again.
The magazine's spread was nothing he could decipher—an entire world of centerpieces, ring displays, veil fabrics, flower arrangements. Not a single word he could hold onto.
And suddenly, the air tasted like metal.
He took a step back.
"Shu Yao," their mother called gently, "aren't you going to have breakfast?"
He shook his head, barely meeting her eyes. "I'm not hungry."
"But you didn't eat last night either," she said, voice tinged with concern. "You were gone for hours."
Qing Yue chimed in with a bright smile, "Gege, today's your first interview, right? You look so handsome—I'm sure they'll approve you."
He nodded faintly.
But he wasn't present. Not really.
Not when last night was still coiled around his throat like smoke.
When Qing Yue had handed Bai Qi to him with a laugh and a flick of her hand—"Take him home, gege, he drank too much again"—then disappeared into the night with her friends.
Not when Bai Qi, drunk and heavy in his arms, had turned to him with half-lidded eyes, whispered "You have beautiful eyes," and kissed him like he belonged to someone else.
Not when morning came, and Bai Qi had looked at him with nothing but regret.
Not when now—his sister was planning the engagement of her dreams.
And he was expected to smile through all of it.
He didn't say another word.
He simply turned and stepped toward the door.
---
The sunlight outside was too bright.
Too honest.
Shu Yao stood in the doorway, the black file clutched to his chest like a shield.
He didn't move for a long moment. Just… breathed.
Then he booked a taxi.
The pavement beneath his shoes felt uneven—like the ground was shifting just beneath the surface, and all it would take was one more thought to make him fall through.
A car pulled up with a quiet hum. Shu Yao opened the door, slid in, and leaned back.
The moment the door shut, he closed his eyes.
And behind them—
Flickered dreams.
A kiss not meant for him.
A voice calling him by the wrong name.
A heart held out in silence.
Too much had happened.
Too much for such a small, delicate soul to hold without breaking.
And yet—
He said nothing.
Just breathed.
As the city blurred by the windows, Shu Yao pressed his forehead to the cool glass.
And in that quiet ride, between the weight of yesterday and the dread of tomorrow…
He wept without tears.
Because some pain is too polite to make a sound.
The city passed like a watercolor outside the window, blurred by morning haze and memory.
Shu Yao sat in the back of the cab, the black file resting in his lap like a weight heavier than it seemed. His hands curled around it tightly, knuckles pale.
His thoughts drifted in spirals—like smoke without a fire.
That kiss. That morning. That look in Bai Qi's eyes.
The cab turned, slowly crawling through the curve of a well-polished street, and then—
It came into view.
The company building stood tall enough to scrape the clouds, a glass giant that made Shu Yao dizzy just looking at it. Its sleek, mirrored surface reflected the sky in fragments, like even the heavens had to bow before its symmetry.
He stepped out of the taxi, clutching the file tighter.
Each step toward the entrance felt louder than it should.
His shoes clicked against the marble pavement like a countdown.
The glass doors parted automatically as he approached—silent, seamless, like opening a secret he wasn't ready to read.
Inside, everything gleamed.
Marble floors stretched like frozen lakes. Chandeliers dripped crystal light. And voices—soft, professional, constant—rippled around him like wind through a forest of ambition.
The woman at the front counter greeted him with a polite smile. "You may have a seat. The boss will call your name."
He nodded once and sat on the waiting couch, back straight, head lowered slightly—not from submission, but self-preservation.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too much everything.
He folded into himself, the file held close to his chest like armor, and stared at the floor as time crawled.
Minutes stretched.
Half an hour slipped through the cracks.
Then at last—
"Shu Yao," the woman called, her voice slicing gently through the hum. "The boss will see you now."
---
The elevator ride felt eternal.
Shu Yao stood still, watching the floor numbers blink by like heartbeats.
12. 19. 24. 30.
Each number felt like another breath held.
Finally, the doors opened with a chime.
He stepped out onto the top floor.
Everything here was quieter.
Carpeted. Muted. Powerful.
He reached the tall, dark-wood office door and raised his hand.
A heartbeat passed.
Then he knocked.
A cold voice answered from within: "Enter."
He obeyed—slowly, cautiously. Head lowered.
The office swallowed him in quiet luxury. Bookshelves lined the walls, wide windows revealed a skyline painted with glass towers, and behind a sleek black desk sat a man carved in sharp light.
Shu Yao bowed.
The man, without rising, nodded once and gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Shu Yao did, smoothing the file as he placed it gently on the desk. He met the man's gaze—just once—and was caught off guard.
Eyes the color of a deep ocean.
Hair gold as sunlight struck on coins.
Handsome. Too handsome.
Not old, not stiff. Composed. Dangerous in stillness.
The boss took the file and began to read.
Silence stretched.
Shu Yao waited with every breath held taut like a violin string.
Then—
"You studied well," the boss said finally, flipping a page. "Languages, too."
Shu Yao nodded, voice low but confident. "Yes, sir."
Their conversation unfolded, soft and deliberate. Questions. Answers. Professional, measured, but with a growing spark of something else—curiosity, maybe. Interest.
Time passed like pages in wind.
And after an hour and a half, the boss closed the file, set it down, and rose.
"You'll return tomorrow," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It was approval.
Shu Yao stood quickly, bowing his head. "Thank you, sir."
They shook hands.
The boss turned to his laptop. Dismissed him without cruelty.
And just like that—
He was outside the office, the door shutting gently behind him.
Shu Yao blinked.
He had been selected.
He had made it.
But the disbelief clung to him like morning fog. He was halfway through the elevator ride when it happened—
Ding.
The doors slid open, and a man in a rush stepped in—
Too fast. Too sudden.
Crash.
The impact knocked the breath out of him.
Shu Yao's body hit the floor with a dull thud. The air vanished from his lungs as he sprawled backward.
And the man?
On top of him.
Dark suit shimmering like obsidian.
Cologne like spice and expensive silence.
Sharp jaw. High collar.
Voice—
"Ah—shit, I'm sorry—did you get hurt?"
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Shu Yao blinked.
The man moved off him quickly, rising with practiced ease, but Shu Yao's body had frozen, stunned.
Then he saw him.
Bai Qi.
In full businessman armor, sleek and devastating. His hair was brushed back, lips slightly parted in surprise, concern threading his brow.
Shu Yao tried to rise too fast.
But—
Pain.
A flash of white-hot fire surged from his ankle.
He winced.
Stumbled.
His head bumped Bai Qi's chest—soft fabric, strong chest, scent of regret and something unspoken.
"You're hurt," Bai Qi said, gaze narrowing. "Here, sit down."
He placed a hand around Shu Yao's shoulder—gentle but firm—and guided him toward a nearby couch.
Shu Yao sank into it, chest rising and falling rapidly, as if he was trying to breathe through the sudden wreckage of the moment.
Everything was too much.
Too fast.
Bai Qi crouched in front of him.
Their eyes met.
"I didn't expect you to be here," Bai Qi said, his voice quieter now. "Are you here for an interview?"
Shu Yao nodded.
Bai Qi exhaled slowly. "It's my father's fault. I wasn't even supposed to be here—he called me in last minute."
That stopped Shu Yao cold.
"…Your father?"
Bai Qi tilted his head slightly. "Yeah. The boss on the top floor? My father."
The words struck like a gong in a quiet temple.
Shu Yao stared at him—eyes wide, expression unreadable.
Bai Qi didn't notice. His attention had turned to Shu Yao's ankle.
"You're limping," he said. "Let me see."
Before Shu Yao could protest, Bai Qi had already reached for it—his hands warm and familiar.
"You shouldn't—"
"I've done this before," Bai Qi interrupted. "On friends. Myself. I just need to twist it gently back."
Shu Yao turned his head.
Hesitant.
Uncertain.
But Bai Qi had already gripped his ankle.
And then—
Twist.
The pain struck like lightning.
Shu Yao jolted, body seizing for a second, soul halfway out of orbit as his breath caught in his throat.
It hurt.
God—it hurt.
But worse than the pain… was that Bai Qi was still close.
Still touching him.
Still looking at him like nothing had changed.
And for Shu Yao—
Everything had.