Five years passed.
Life moved forward.
Not gently—
but steadily.
Wang Yibo became a scientist.
Quietly brilliant.
Hard-working.
Precise.
People respected his work before they noticed his face.
He learned to speak less.
To let results talk.
The sanitizer never left him.
It stayed in his pocket.
On his desk.
Beside his bed.
A habit born from pain.
The day he received the offer letter,
he read the institute name twice.
Then a third time.
His fingers tightened.
Xiao Zhan Research Lab.
Senior Scientist.
Director of the Lab.
Xiao Zhan.
Yibo didn't hesitate.
Not because he was brave—
But because running had exhausted him.
It's just work now, he told himself.
Nothing more.
The lab building was tall.
Clean.
Quiet.
Yibo walked in, wearing his ID card.
Dr. Wang Yibo.
The title felt strange.
Heavy.
He sanitized his hands at the entrance.
Once.
Then again.
Inside the conference room, researchers gathered.
Low voices.
Screens glowing.
Then—
The door opened.
Xiao Zhan entered.
Same height.
Same broad shoulders.
Hair neatly styled.
Older now.
Sharper in authority.
Calmer in presence.
His eyes scanned the room—
And stopped.
Wang Yibo.
For a moment, time failed.
The room blurred.
Five years collapsed into a single breath.
Xiao Zhan recovered first.
He always did.
"Let's begin," he said calmly.
Professional.
Distant.
Like nothing existed between them.
Yibo lowered his gaze.
Sanitizer.
Rub.
Slow.
Careful.
Throughout the meeting, Yibo spoke clearly.
Confident.
Logical.
No hesitation.
Xiao Zhan listened.
Did not interrupt.
Did not praise.
Only nodded.
Once.
After the meeting, assistants left.
The room emptied.
Only two remained.
"Dr. Wang," Xiao Zhan said.
Yibo turned.
"Yes, Professor Xiao."
The title landed like ice.
"You'll be working under my supervision," Xiao Zhan continued.
"Strict protocols. No exceptions."
"I understand," Yibo replied.
No emotion.
Xiao Zhan noticed the bottle in Yibo's hand.
Again.
That familiar movement.
Sanitize.
Rub.
Something tightened in Xiao Zhan's chest.
"You still…"
He stopped himself.
Cold returned.
"…You're free to go."
Yibo nodded.
Before leaving, he spoke—
"I won't cause trouble," he said quietly.
"Whatever happened before… won't affect my work."
Xiao Zhan's jaw clenched.
"I expect professionalism," he replied.
Nothing more.
Yibo bowed slightly.
And left.
That night, Xiao Zhan stayed late.
Files open.
Mind closed.
Yet—
He couldn't forget the way Yibo cleaned his hands
after touching the table.
After shaking hands.
After nothing at all.
Meanwhile, Yibo stood alone in his apartment.
He sanitized his hands.
Once.
Then stopped.
Looked at his palms.
"…It's just habit," he whispered.
But his heart knew better.
Fate had brought them together again.
Not as professor and student.
Not as lovers.
But as senior and subordinate—
Where distance was allowed,
and regret had nowhere to hide.
Scars
Xiao Zhan began to notice them slowly.
Not all at once.
Not like a shock.
Like dust settling on a surface you pass every day
and suddenly realize it was always there.
Wang Yibo worked silently.
Too silently.
He arrived early.
Left late.
Never complained.
Never lingered.
Professional. Polite. Distant.
Perfect.
Xiao Zhan noticed Yibo's eyes first.
They no longer searched the room.
They no longer reacted.
They looked… guarded.
As if something precious had been locked away
and the key thrown far.
Then he noticed the hands.
Whenever Yibo touched equipment,
files,
pens—
Sanitizer.
Always.
Not rushed.
Not nervous.
Careful. Ritual-like.
As if his skin needed permission to exist.
One late night in the lab—
Only two of them remained.
Fluorescent lights hummed softly.
Yibo leaned over the desk, reading data on the screen.
Xiao Zhan stood a few steps behind.
That was when he saw it.
A faint scar near Yibo's wrist.
Old.
Thin.
Not fresh.
Not accidental.
Another day—
Yibo pushed his hair back unconsciously.
Xiao Zhan caught sight of small marks near his jaw.
Not acne.
Healed wounds.
Timeworn.
Xiao Zhan's chest tightened.
He said nothing.
Over weeks, he saw more.
Not physical only.
The way Yibo stiffened when praised.
The way he flinched at careless jokes from colleagues.
The way he always stepped back—never forward.
Like someone who learned long ago
that taking space was dangerous.
Once, during a team meeting, a researcher joked lightly—
"You're too clean, Dr. Wang. Afraid of getting dirty?"
Laughter.
Soft. Casual.
Yibo smiled.
Sanitized his hands.
Said nothing.
Xiao Zhan ended the meeting immediately.
"Focus on work," he said coldly.
No one laughed again.
That night, Xiao Zhan stayed alone in his office.
Lights off.
City glowing outside the window.
He closed his eyes—
And saw the terrace.
The bow.
The smile.
The kiss.
And the word he could never erase.
Dirty.
These are my doing, he thought.
Not the scars.
But the reason they existed.
The next day, Xiao Zhan adjusted lab rules.
No unnecessary physical contact.
No casual remarks.
No personal comments—ever.
Strict professionalism.
Everyone noticed.
No one questioned.
Yibo noticed too.
But he didn't look relieved.
Just… unchanged.
Once, Yibo accidentally brushed Xiao Zhan's arm while passing.
He froze.
Immediately stepped back.
Sanitizer.
Again.
Xiao Zhan turned away.
His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
He wanted to say—
Stop. You're not dirty.
I was wrong.
But words spoken too late
are another kind of cruelty.
So he stayed silent.
And watched.
Watched the scars that time had not erased.
Watched the boy who once loved him innocently
now move through the world
as if apologizing for existing.
Xiao Zhan never asked.
Because he already knew the answer.
And because asking
would mean admitting
that he was the one
who put those scars there.
The Question
It was late.
The lab was quiet, almost empty.
Machines hummed softly, like distant breathing.
Only two people remained.
Wang Yibo stood near the sink, washing his hands.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Water.
Soap.
Then—
Sanitizer.
Xiao Zhan watched from across the room.
He had watched many nights like this.
But tonight—
Something in his chest refused to stay silent.
"Dr. Wang," Xiao Zhan said.
Yibo stopped.
"Yes, Professor Xiao?"
Same calm voice.
Same distance.
Xiao Zhan hesitated.
This was the first time.
In all these years.
"Why," he asked slowly,
"are there so many scars on your face?"
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
The kind that presses on the ears.
Yibo's hands froze mid-motion.
The sanitizer bottle slipped slightly in his grip.
He didn't turn around.
He didn't answer.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Xiao Zhan thought he had crossed a line.
"I didn't mean—" he began.
"It's okay," Yibo said quietly.
So quiet it almost disappeared.
Yibo turned slowly.
His eyes were lowered.
Not avoiding—
just tired.
"I tried to be beautiful," Yibo whispered.
The words were small.
Fragile.
They hung in the air.
Xiao Zhan felt something crash inside his chest.
"For someone," Yibo added.
A pause.
Then a faint, almost self-mocking smile.
"Funny, right?"
Xiao Zhan couldn't breathe.
Yibo lifted his hand unconsciously
and touched his cheek.
Right where a thin scar lay.
"I scrubbed," he continued softly.
"Every day."
His fingers curled.
"Soap. Towels. Sometimes nails."
Xiao Zhan's throat burned.
"I thought if my face became clean," Yibo said,
"maybe I would become… acceptable."
He laughed quietly.
Not happy.
Broken.
"So I scrubbed my pimples," he whispered.
"Hard."
The sentence landed like stone.
Heavy.
Final.
Xiao Zhan took a step forward without realizing.
"Yibo—"
Yibo shook his head gently.
"It's not your fault," he said quickly.
"I'm not blaming you."
That hurt more.
"I just wanted to love once," Yibo continued.
"I didn't know loving someone could make you hate yourself."
The room felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too full of ghosts.
Xiao Zhan's voice came out hoarse.
"Why didn't you stop?"
Yibo looked up for the first time.
His eyes were calm.
"That was the problem," he said.
"I didn't know how."
Silence again.
But this time—
It crushed.
"I stopped long ago," Yibo added softly.
"The scars stayed."
He bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry if they're unpleasant to look at."
That was it.
That sentence.
That apology.
Xiao Zhan turned away sharply.
His hands trembled.
Because the boy who once loved him innocently
had tried to erase himself
just to be worthy of that love.
And Xiao Zhan—
Was the reason.
That Night
The mansion was silent.
Too silent.
Lights were off except one dim lamp in the living room.
The walls stood tall, cold, expensive—
and empty.
Xiao Zhan entered and closed the door behind him.
The sound echoed.
Then nothing.
He loosened his tie.
Slowly.
Mechanically.
Dropped his keys on the table.
They made a sharp sound.
He flinched.
He walked to the window.
City lights shimmered below.
So many people.
So much life.
Yet—
The room felt hollow.
"I tried to be beautiful for someone."
The whisper returned.
Soft.
Crushing.
Xiao Zhan pressed his palm against the glass.
His reflection stared back.
Cold eyes.
Controlled face.
The face that had said—
Dirty.
His breath became uneven.
He turned away abruptly.
Walked toward the sofa.
Sat down.
Then stood up again.
Restless.
"So I scrubbed my pimples."
The sentence landed again.
He heard it clearly now.
Every word.
Every pause.
Xiao Zhan's knees gave way.
He sat on the floor.
Back against the couch.
Head lowered.
For a long time—
Nothing happened.
No sound.
No movement.
Then—
A single tear slipped down.
He didn't wipe it away.
Another followed.
Then another.
His shoulders began to shake.
Silently.
Like he had learned long ago
that crying loudly was weakness.
His hand covered his mouth.
But the pain leaked out anyway.
Tears soaked into his palm.
Hot.
Endless.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Saw the terrace.
The bow.
The smile.
The kiss he never deserved.
"I loved you."
Past tense.
Xiao Zhan's chest felt like it was tearing open.
He bent forward.
Forehead touching the floor.
A position of surrender.
His tears fell freely now.
Onto marble.
Onto nothing.
Each drop carrying regret
he could never return.
He remembered—
Yibo sanitizing his hands.
Stepping back.
Apologizing for scars.
For existing.
A broken sound escaped Xiao Zhan's throat.
Not a scream.
Not even a sob.
Just—
Pain.
"I did this," his heart whispered.
No excuses.
No justification.
Tears blurred his vision completely.
His breathing broke.
Deep.
Shaking.
For the first time in many years—
Xiao Zhan cried
not because he was lonely
not because he was tired—
But because he had destroyed something pure
with words spoken in fear.
The mansion stayed quiet.
It didn't comfort him.
It didn't judge him.
Hours passed.
Tears dried.
Eyes burned.
He stayed there.
Still.
When dawn finally touched the windows—
Xiao Zhan hadn't moved.
Only one thing had changed.
The cold man who believed control was strength
now knew—
Some wounds never bleed.
They just make people cry
in empty houses
long after it is too late.