The rain had gentled to a whisper against the windows, soft and tired, as though the storm itself had run out of breath.
Shu Yao lay on the stretcher, the thin hospital blanket drawn up to his waist. The fluorescent light above him hummed faintly, white and merciless. His lashes fluttered once, twice—then his eyes opened, hazy with confusion.
For a moment he didn't move. The ceiling was unfamiliar. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his lungs. A faint ache throbbed through his skull.
"Where…" he breathed, voice hoarse and small, "…where am I?"
No one answered. The room was empty. Only the rhythmic drip of the IV and the steady electronic heartbeat answered him.
Panic crept in slow, quiet steps. Shu Yao lifted a trembling hand, feeling the plastic mask pressed against his face. The air was cool, mechanical. He tugged it off, gasping softly.
The silence deepened.
When he tried to sit up, a sharp sting bit through his wrist—the IV line pulling taut. His brow furrowed; he reached for it, fumbling with clumsy fingers, and tore the needle free. A bead of blood welled up, then another.
He didn't flinch.
He just wanted to go home.
Shu Yao swung his legs down, the cold linoleum biting against his skin. The floor swayed beneath him, his knees threatening to fold. He caught the bedrail, forcing himself upright.
The door was only a few steps away. He takes shaky steps towards the door, and eventually reached for the handle, breath quick and uneven
The handle was cool beneath Shu Yao's fingers.
He hesitated, breath trembling in his chest, then pushed—
—but the door opened before he could.
From the threshold, George appeared.
The light behind him framed the sharp line of his shoulders, the immaculate cut of his grey dusk suit still untouched by the long night. The faint scent of rain clung to him, subtle and clean. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then George froze.
His gaze fell on the boy standing on the hospital tiles, IV line dangling, eyes wide with something raw and wordless.
"Shu Yao—"
His voice cut short as his attention dropped to the blood beading at Shu Yao's wrist where the needle had been ripped out.
In an instant, George was across the room. His hand closed around Shu Yao's slender wrist, his tone low but fierce.
"Why did you take it off? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"
Shu Yao flinched. His lips quivered; no sound came. He tried to pull back his hand, weakly, like a leaf caught in current.
"Stop," George said sharply. "You'll make it worse."
The tension in his jaw betrayed the worry threading through his anger. He set the paper bag of medicine down on the nearby table, exhaling through his nose.
"You should be lying down."
Shu Yao's breath stuttered, his gaze darting to the floor. His voice was almost a whisper.
"I just… wanted to go home."
George looked at him for a long moment — his expression unreadable, but his grip softened slightly.
"You need rest," George said. His voice trembled, barely controlled.
Shu Yao looked up then—those brown, pain-glazed eyes catching his. There was a quiet plea there, almost childlike. "Please, Mr. George. I want to go home."
George exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. His hand was still around Shu Yao's wrist, and he could feel the faint, fast pulse beneath his fingertips. He released it gently.
"Alright," he said at last. "But—"
"I want to go home," Shu Yao interrupted again, more desperate this time, his words trembling.
George looked at him—really looked at him. The pallor, the exhaustion, the trembling shoulders. He swallowed his protest.
"Fine," he murmured, defeated. "I'll take you home."
Something in Shu Yao's face eased, a faint, fragile relief.
George sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Do you even realize how high your fever was last night? Why would you come to work in such State?"
Shu Yao's fingers found the edge of his sleeve, gripping it. "I… was careless," he whispered. "I didn't know I was sick."
George's brow furrowed. The answer hit him with a strange kind of ache. How can someone be so gentle and so reckless at the same time? he thought. How can I protect a boy who refuses to protect himself?
But he said nothing.
"Alright," he murmured instead, gathering the small medicine packet he had bought earlier. "Let's go."
As he turned, his eyes caught the faint streak of red still glinting on Shu Yao's wrist. His tone sharpened. "Wait. You need that bandaged."
"It's fine," Shu Yao began, shaking his head.
George ignored him. He pressed the call button on the wall. Within seconds, a nurse entered—a young woman with nervous eyes and flushed cheeks. Her breath hitched slightly when she saw him.
"Sir—how may I help you?"
George gestured toward Shu Yao's hand. "He tore out the IV. It needs dressing immediately."
The nurse nodded quickly, lowering her gaze to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "At once, sir."
Shu Yao shifted, uneasy. "Mr. George, it's really—"
"It's not fine," George cut him off gently but firmly.
The nurse moved quickly, cleaning the wound with practiced precision. Shu Yao winced once, barely audible. When she began wrapping the bandage, she couldn't help but murmuring, "You shouldn't pull needles like that. It's dangerous."
Shu Yao lowered his gaze. "I am sorry."
George's jaw tightened again. "It's done," he said curtly, before the nurse could linger.
She startled slightly, bowed, and hurried out of the room—her heart still beating a little too fast for reasons she couldn't name.
The door clicked shut behind her.
"Now now," George said quietly, turning back to Shu Yao. "Let me take you home."
Shu Yao nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
George placed a steadying hand on his back as they walked. Shu Yao flinched at the touch—instinctive, fragile—but didn't move away. He was too tired, too hollowed by fever to argue.
They moved down the corridor together. The nurses at the desk whispered behind their hands, eyes following the tall man and the delicate figure beside him. Their voices were soft, full of awe—how gentle he was, how patient, how utterly unaware of his own beauty.
George didn't hear them. His attention was fixed on Shu Yao, on each step he took.
"Careful," he murmured once, as Shu Yao's knees faltered.
The rain had stopped by the time they stepped outside. The air smelled of wet earth and fading storm. The streetlights glowed amber through the mist.
A shiver ran through Shu Yao's body. George noticed.
He wasn't wearing his coat this time—the fine German wool that had shielded him from a dozen storms. Without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand around Shu Yao's shoulders, drawing him slightly closer.
"Come on," he said softly.
Shu Yao didn't look up. Shame flickered briefly across his expression—shame for being weak, for needing help again. But George didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he noticed too much and simply didn't care.
The Driver opened the car door, and George guide Shu Yao gently inside. Shu Yao sank into the seat, small against the dark leather. George followed, setting the medicine bag on shu Yao lap.
"Take these on time," he said, fastening the seatbelt with careful hands. His voice was softer now, edged with something almost tender. "No work. No skipping meals. Do you understand?
Shu Yao nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the small paper bag in his hands. The medicine rattled softly inside.
"I'm… sorry," he whispered.
George paused, startled. "For what?"
"For troubling you."
The car engine stirred to life, its hum blending with the last whisper of rain outside. George looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he sighed and leaned back, gaze turning toward the blurred city lights ahead.
The city drifted by in silence.
pale threads against the dark. The car's interior hummed softly — low engine, faint scent of leather, and the quiet ache of unsaid things.
Shu Yao's gaze stayed fixed on the paper bag in his lap. His fingers trembled once, brushing over the folded edge. The white label, the neatly printed name, the dull rattle of pills — it all looked heavier than it should have.
George watched him from the corner of his eye. His voice came low, steady.
"Shu Yao… the only thing you need is rest. That's all."
For a moment, there was no response. Only the slow rhythm of the car engine. Then Shu Yao spoke — quiet, but firm in that fragile way of his.
"I can't, Mr. George."
George's brow creased. "Why not? Shu Yao, do not come to work tomorrow."
"I'm deeply sorry, Mr. George," Shu Yao said quietly, his gaze fixed on his lap. "But I can't. I'm his new assistant… I can't miss a day."
"Sir?" George echoed, his tone cooling. "What sir are you talking about? Isn't he's your friend? Why are you addressing him like that?"
Shu Yao's lips pressed together before he answered, softly,
"There are formalities. I can't address him as Bai."
His voice faltered slightly on the last word, as though even now he was trying to protect someone who wouldn't have done the same for him.
George looked at him — really looked at him — and something inside his chest constricted.
When will you understand, Shu Yao, he thought, that you are worthy of everything? Even my heart.
His gaze lingered too long. The streetlights caught in his eyes, burning faintly gold. He turned away before the warmth in his cheeks betrayed him.
Shu Yao shifted in the seat, his voice hushed again.
"I'm sorry, Mr. George. I wasted your time."
George almost laughed, a bitter, quiet sound that never left his throat.
My whole lifetime is a waste without you, he thought. But the words stayed buried where they belonged.
Instead, he said gently, "You didn't waste anything."
"I'll pay you back," Shu Yao murmured. "For everything."
George frowned, his patience thinning with tenderness. "What are you even talking about, Shu Yao? You don't need to think of paying me back. It's fine."
Shu Yao shook his head, still unable to meet his eyes. The paper bag in his lap crinkled under his grip. The car fell silent again, the sound of tires on wet pavement steady and constant.
George finally exhaled. His voice softened, almost breaking through his control.
"Just tell me you won't lie to me about your health."
Shu Yao hesitated — too long, too painfully long. The only sound was the quiet hum of the road.
Then, slowly, he nodded. His head lowered, lashes trembling like wet feathers.
George sighed, turning his gaze toward the window.
The world outside blurred into lights — and between each breath, he swore to himself he'd make sure Shu Yao never had to face that kind of loneliness again.
Shu Yao's shoulders trembled. A small, ragged cough escaped him—soft but sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the car.
George's head turned immediately, his voice tightening. "Are you alright?"
Shu Yao raised a hand to his mouth, then slowly lowered it again, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. He managed a faint nod.
"I'm fine Mr. George."
The lie was small, almost tender in how easily it fell from his lips.
George watched him for a long, quiet moment. The streetlights carved fleeting shadows over Shu Yao's pale face, and something in George's chest ached with the sight. He wanted to argue, to tell him that "fine" shouldn't look this fragile, that no one should have to speak pain so politely.
But he couldn't.
Shu Yao was too stubborn when it came to love—unyielding in silence, loyal even to the hand that hurt him. He would rather be tormented by Bai Qi than let a single word of defense slip past his lips.
George's hands tightened on his thighs. He said nothing.
He could only watch, helplessly, as the boy beside him folded into his own quiet suffering. And still—despite the ache, despite the helpless fury—George couldn't help but adore him all the more.