Outside, the air was still.
The sky hung low in faded blues, painted with the last embers of dusk. Bai Qi's car idled at the gate, the engine humming like a quiet thought waiting to be dismissed.
Qing Yue stood at the doorway, her slender hands clasped in front of her, face flushed with warmth from earlier laughter. She stepped closer to him—soft steps, barely pressing against the earth—and looked up at Bai Qi.
The driver waited respectfully beside the open door, pretending not to hear the hush between them.
"Take care on the way," she murmured, eyes glimmering.
And Bai Qi, almost reluctant to leave the comfort of her nearness, leaned down and brushed a kiss against her lips.
It was slow.
Unhurried.
Like a promise wrapped in the folds of twilight.
Shu Yao heard it all.
Upstairs, in the silence of his room, he remained still—eyes half open, breath tucked into his chest. The faint sound of the kiss, the rustle of movement, the soft scrape of the car door—all reached him through the open window, like a story he wasn't supposed to be part of.
He didn't interrupt.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he hadn't even managed to lift himself from the bed.
He lay there, ankle still throbbing, heart even worse—listening as the car pulled away and the sound of Bai Qi's departure faded down the road like a dream slowly erased.
Then, footsteps.
Soft, swift ones.
The door creaked open.
"Gege?" Qing Yue peeked in, her voice light. "Do you need anything?"
Shu Yao turned his head to her, his voice barely above a murmur. "Just take out some clothes from the wardrobe. And a glass of water. That's all."
Qing Yue gave a quick nod, her brownish hair catching the lamplight like strands of morning light. She padded across the room and opened his wardrobe, the scent of cedarwood and clean linen wafting into the air.
She chose a soft grey pajama set, one of Shu Yao's favorites, and placed it gently on the bed beside him.
"Here, gege. This one should be comfortable," she said with a gentle smile.
Shu Yao gave a small nod, pushing himself slowly upright, leaning back against the frame once more. The pain stabbed at his ankle again, but he swallowed it without a sound.
"I'll bring your water now," she added quickly, and disappeared down the hall like a breeze.
Moments later, she returned with a tall glass, beads of condensation running down the sides like rain chasing glass. She held it out.
"Anything else?" she asked, cheeks a little pink from the hurried walk.
Shu Yao accepted the glass, cool against his fingertips.
"No," he said softly, with the faintest smile. "You can go now. Thank you."
Qing Yue gave a proud little nod, as if she had just tucked the moon to bed, and turned to leave—quietly closing the door behind her.
And once more, the house exhaled silence.
Far across the city, Bai Qi sat slouched in the back seat, arms crossed, head leaning against the window. The streets blurred past him in quiet monotony—lights bleeding into one another like forgotten memories.
His thoughts should have been with Qing Yue.
And yet…
When he closed his eyes, he didn't see her.
He saw Shu Yao.
Not smiling. Not angry. Just sitting there, sad—and distant.
Not looking at him.
"Damn it…" Bai Qi muttered under his breath, pressing his fingertips into his temples. "What is wrong with me?"
He exhaled, rubbing his face as if he could wipe the confusion away.
"No… wait. It's not me. It's him." His eyes narrowed. "What's actually wrong with Shu Yao?"
He glanced out the window again, unimpressed by the same rows of buildings, the same dull stretch of road. His gaze drifted down—toward the empty space beside him where Shu Yao had sat earlier that day.
That was where he had helped him into the car, one arm draped awkwardly around Shu Yao's waist, the other gripping under his knee like cradling something breakable.
Then when the method didn't work, he scoop him up, one hand around his back and other under his leg's.
"Bai qi" thought.
Was that embarrassing?
He frowned.
Then something caught his eye.
A black folder, slightly scuffed at the corners, wedged between the seat cushions.
"What the—" He picked it up, flipping it open. "Shu Yao's file."
He shook his head. "Shit… he forgot it."
Bai Qi considered turning back—but the car had already turned into the familiar lane that led to his family estate. The tall iron gates loomed ahead like watchful sentinels.
He sighed. "Tomorrow, then."
The car stopped.
He stepped out, still clutching the file, and walked up the wide stone steps that spiraled like a lazy ribbon to the massive mahogany doors of the Bangalore house.
Inside, the hall greeted him with its cold marble and echoes of wealth.
Too big. Too quiet.
He took the stairs two at a time, as if trying to outrun his own thoughts, and reached his room at the far end of the corridor. The door closed behind him with a sigh.
His desk sat by the window, flooded in pale lamplight.
He dropped the folder onto it with a soft thud, fingers lingering on the edge longer than he meant to.
Then, wordlessly, he turned away.
And fell backward into his bed—sprawled, motionless, like a man who had fought shadows all day and found them winning.
His eyes traced the ceiling.
His breath evened.
And he whispered into the empty room, barely loud enough to hear:
"Today was a long day…"
The silence agreed with him.
And somewhere in the city, behind another closed door, a boy lay awake—watching shadows crawl across his ceiling.
Neither knew the other was still awake.
Neither knew the next day would change everything.
The clock ticked gently past midnight, its golden hands sweeping across the polished face like dancers in slow motion.
Qing Yue sat alone at the dining table, Juju curled in her lap like a warm loaf of purring contentment. Her fingers idly stroked his soft fur, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the candlelight flickering in the corner of the room.
She glanced at the time again.
11:58.
Her mother was still out—gone to attend the engagement of a friend's daughter. The house felt a little too quiet, the kind of silence that padded softly around your thoughts and made them louder than usual.
And Qing Yue—though she tried to focus on Juju, on the night, on the waiting—found her thoughts drifting again.
To him.
To Bai Qi.
A blush crept slowly up her neck, as soft and uninvited as the breeze that sometimes slipped through half-closed windows. Her lips curled into a faint smile she didn't try to suppress.
I'll be married someday soon, she thought. To the man of my dreams.
And that man had kissed her forehead tonight like she was made of something precious.
She hugged Juju a little tighter, heart fluttering like wings under glass.
But just then—a sound.
The doorbell chimed, crisp and polite.
Qing Yue gently set Juju on the floor. The cat blinked at her in protest but didn't move.
Her bare feet tapped softly against the polished wood as she approached the front door. The hallway was dim, lit only by the pale light from the side lanterns. She placed her hand on the knob, took a breath, and opened the door slowly.
There—framed in the archway like the last scene of a long evening—stood her mother.
Elegant as ever.
She wore a light blonde dress that shimmered faintly in the moonlight, the fabric hugging her silhouette with quiet grace. A pair of delicate heels added height to her already regal bearing, and her wide-brimmed hat—ivory, with a small floral ornament—sat tilted just enough to catch the curve of her cheek and cast a soft shadow across her eyes.
Those same eyes lit up when she saw her daughter.
"I'm home," she said with a tired but fond smile.
"Welcome back, Mama," Qing Yue said, stepping aside.
Her mother entered with a graceful sweep, her perfume trailing behind her like a memory of gardenias and old promises. She sank into the couch with a long sigh, removing her gloves one finger at a time.
Then she glanced up.
"Qing'er," she said. "Did Shu Yao come home?"
"Yes," Qing Yue answered gently, walking over.
There was a pause.
Her mother's gaze lingered.
"…What happened?" she asked, sharp-eyed and perceptive as ever.
Qing Yue hesitated. Then, quietly, "Gege sprained his ankle."
Her mother's brows lifted. "Is it serious?"
"The doctor said… it'll take at least two or three weeks to heal." Her voice softened. "He's resting now."
A longer sigh this time—one born from worry, not fatigue.
"Ohh, that boy," her mother muttered, pressing her hand to her temple. "Always getting into trouble. Even when he's quiet, he finds a way to come home hurt."
Qing Yue said nothing. Her mother's words were fond, but edged with that maternal frustration only born from deep love.
Her mother shook her head. "Alright, go on now. You should sleep. I want to change out of these heels before they kill me."
Qing Yue nodded with a small smile, already walking toward the staircase.
Behind her, her mother stood with a graceful stretch, then disappeared down the hall toward her own room—hat in hand, elegance never faltering even after a long night.
And the house—once again—settled into its hush.
Juju returned to his favorite cushion. The clock ticked on.
And upstairs, behind a half-closed door, Shu Yao lay awake.
Listening.
Always listening.