Why
A few days passed.
Life returned to routine.
Experiments.
Reports.
Deadlines.
The lab moved like a well-oiled machine.
Only Wang Yibo moved differently.
Quieter.
More careful.
As if even silence could hurt him now.
It was afternoon.
Yibo stood near the analysis room, reviewing data on his tablet.
Voices floated in from the corridor.
Two senior researchers.
Casual. Unimportant.
Or so it seemed.
"Professor Xiao should attend the institute dinner this time," one said lightly.
"People keep asking about his family."
Another chuckled.
"Family? He's still unmarried."
Yibo's fingers froze.
The screen dimmed.
"Still?" the first voice asked, surprised.
"At his position? That's rare."
"Yes," the other replied.
"Offers came. Good families too. He refused all."
A pause.
"Some say he's too cold. Others say… he's waiting for something."
Their footsteps moved away.
Their voices faded.
Yibo stood still.
Too still.
Unmarried.
The word echoed.
He hadn't known.
He had never asked.
He had never allowed himself to wonder.
Why? his mind whispered.
Not hopeful.
Just… confused.
That night, Yibo sat alone in his apartment.
Lights low.
Sanitizer on the table.
Unused.
He stared at nothing.
Thoughts drifting back—
uninvited.
Xiao Zhan's controlled distance.
His strict professionalism.
His silence.
The way he never let anyone close.
Not students.
Not colleagues.
Not even life.
Yibo smiled faintly.
A sad smile.
Of course, he thought.
Someone like him wouldn't choose attachment.
Wouldn't choose softness.
Wouldn't choose… love.
And yet—
The memory of that night returned.
The question about scars.
The silence that followed.
The way Xiao Zhan had looked at him.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Broken.
Yibo pressed his lips together.
His chest felt tight.
But he didn't let the feeling grow.
It doesn't matter, he told himself.
It never did.
The next day, in the lab—
Xiao Zhan passed by him.
Their shoulders almost touched.
Almost.
Yibo stepped aside instinctively.
Habit.
Xiao Zhan noticed.
Always noticed.
For a moment, Xiao Zhan looked at him.
As if wanting to say something.
Anything.
But he didn't.
He never did.
Yibo lowered his gaze.
Sanitized his hands.
Once.
Slowly.
Unmarried.
The word stayed with him.
Not as hope.
But as a quiet ache—
Because for the first time,
Yibo wondered—
If Xiao Zhan had rejected the world
the same way he had rejected him.
And if so—
Was it fear?
Or regret?
Or a punishment he had chosen for himself?
Yibo didn't know.
And he didn't ask.
Because some answers,
even if true,
come too late to change the past.
That Night
It was already late.
The lab lights were dimmed.
Most rooms were locked.
Wang Yibo stood alone, staring at the file in his hands.
A critical report.
Data that couldn't wait until morning.
He checked his phone.
No message.
No reply.
Professor Xiao wasn't in the lab today.
That was unusual.
Yibo hesitated.
For a long time.
Then he looked at the file again.
Work was work.
Nothing more.
The mansion gate stood tall and silent.
White walls.
Iron bars.
Yibo rang the bell.
Once.
No answer.
He rang again.
Longer.
Finally, the door opened slowly.
Xiao Zhan stood there.
And Yibo froze.
His shirt was half-unbuttoned.
Hair damp with sweat.
Face pale.
His breathing was uneven.
Heavy.
"Professor Xiao?" Yibo said softly.
Xiao Zhan blinked.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus.
"Dr. Wang…?" His voice was hoarse.
"Why are you here?"
Yibo smelled it then.
Fever.
Strong.
Clinging.
"You weren't in the lab," Yibo said quietly.
"This file is urgent."
Xiao Zhan frowned, trying to straighten.
"I can come tomorrow—"
He swayed.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Without thinking, Yibo stepped forward.
"Sit down," he said.
Not as a subordinate.
Not as a student.
Just… human.
Xiao Zhan resisted weakly.
"I'm fine."
A lie.
Yibo guided him to the sofa.
Careful.
Gentle.
Their arms brushed.
Yibo froze.
Sanitizer.
He almost reached for it—
Then stopped.
Xiao Zhan collapsed back against the cushion.
Sweat rolled down his temple.
His breathing grew rougher.
"You're burning up," Yibo said.
Flat. Controlled.
But his fingers trembled.
"I didn't want to bother anyone," Xiao Zhan muttered.
His eyes closed briefly.
Yibo looked around.
The mansion was immaculate.
Too clean.
Too empty.
No medicine on the table.
No water nearby.
"You're alone?" Yibo asked.
Xiao Zhan nodded weakly.
Yibo exhaled slowly.
He walked to the kitchen.
Found a glass.
Filled it with water.
Returned.
"Drink," he said.
Xiao Zhan tried.
Coughed.
Breath broke.
Yibo moved closer.
Held the glass steadier.
"Slowly."
Xiao Zhan's fingers brushed Yibo's.
Warm.
Too warm.
Yibo's chest tightened.
Old memories stirred.
He pushed them down.
"Did you take medicine?" Yibo asked.
"No."
Yibo closed his eyes briefly.
Then stood up.
"I'll get some," he said.
"You don't need to—" Xiao Zhan began.
"I do," Yibo interrupted quietly.
Not angry.
Not soft.
Certain.
When Yibo returned with medicine and a damp cloth,
Xiao Zhan was half-conscious.
Sweat soaked his collar.
Breathing uneven.
Yibo pressed the cloth gently to his forehead.
Xiao Zhan flinched.
Then relaxed.
"You should've called someone," Yibo said.
Not accusing.
Just tired.
Xiao Zhan opened his eyes.
Looked at Yibo.
Long.
Too long.
"I didn't think… anyone would come," he whispered.
That sentence hurt more than it should have.
Yibo said nothing.
He helped Xiao Zhan take the medicine.
Waited.
Watched.
Minutes passed.
The fever didn't break.
But the shaking eased.
Yibo sat on the edge of the sofa.
Hands clasped.
Sanitizer bottle visible in his pocket.
He didn't touch it.
Outside, the city slept.
Inside the mansion—
Two people stayed awake.
Not as professor and subordinate.
Not as past lovers.
Just two humans—
One sick.
One refusing to leave.
And for the first time in many years—
Xiao Zhan was not alone in that house.
Fell Asleep
The medicine slowly worked.
Xiao Zhan's breathing, still uneven, became a little less strained.
The harsh tremor in his body softened into something dull and weak.
The room stayed dim.
Only the lamp near the sofa was on.
Wang Yibo sat beside him.
Back straight at first.
Hands folded on his knees.
Alert.
He told himself he was only waiting.
Only making sure the fever didn't rise again.
Nothing more.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Xiao Zhan shifted slightly, a faint sound leaving his throat.
Yibo's head lifted immediately.
"You're okay," Yibo murmured without thinking.
His voice was barely above a breath.
He placed the damp cloth back on Xiao Zhan's forehead.
Cool.
Careful.
Sweat still formed at the edges of Xiao Zhan's hairline.
Yibo wiped it gently.
Once.
Then stopped, as if realizing what he was doing.
He pulled his hand back quickly.
Sanitizer.
He reached for his pocket—
Then froze.
He stared at his own hand.
The same hand that was helping.
The same hand he had once punished.
Slowly, he let it rest back on his lap.
Yibo leaned back slightly against the sofa.
Not touching.
Keeping distance.
The quiet stretched.
The kind of quiet that makes the body heavy.
Yibo's eyes burned.
Not with tears.
With tiredness.
Days of work.
Nights of restless sleep.
Years of carrying things alone.
His head tilted just a little.
Then a little more.
Xiao Zhan shifted again.
His hand moved unconsciously
and brushed against Yibo's sleeve.
Just fabric.
Just warmth.
Yibo stiffened.
For a second, he almost stood up.
But Xiao Zhan didn't wake.
His fingers relaxed, falling back limply.
Yibo exhaled slowly.
His shoulders finally loosened.
He didn't notice when his eyes closed.
Didn't notice when his breathing synced with the quiet room.
Didn't notice when his head rested lightly against the back of the sofa.
Sleep took him—
Not gently.
But completely.
In sleep, his brows relaxed.
The careful control faded.
No sanitizer.
No distance.
No fear.
Just a tired man who had stayed too long.
Xiao Zhan stirred hours later.
The fever fog lifted slightly.
His eyes opened, unfocused.
The first thing he saw—
Was Yibo.
Asleep.
Sitting there.
Still.
Like he had decided to stay
and never told anyone.
Yibo's face looked softer in sleep.
Scars quiet.
Pain hidden.
Xiao Zhan didn't move.
Didn't dare.
Afraid even breathing too loud
might wake him
and make him leave.
So he lay there.
Sick.
Weak.
Watching the man who once loved him
now sleep beside him
without expecting anything.
Outside, night deepened.
Inside the mansion—
For the first time in years—
It didn't feel completely empty.
The fever blurred everything.
Xiao Zhan's chest rose unevenly.
Breath shallow.
Heavy.
Pain sat deep in his bones—
but guilt sat deeper.
He watched Yibo sleep.
So still.
So quiet.
Like someone who had learned long ago
that making noise changed nothing.
A sound slipped out of Xiao Zhan's throat.
Small.
Broken.
A quiet sob.
He turned his face away.
Ashamed.
But his body betrayed him.
Slowly—
hesitantly—
Xiao Zhan reached out.
His fingers trembled as they brushed the edge of Yibo's sleeve.
Warm.
Real.
Another sob escaped him.
Soundless tears slid down his face
and soaked into the cushion.
He couldn't stop them.
Didn't want to.
Weak from fever,
weakened by years of restraint,
Xiao Zhan leaned forward.
Then—
He curled toward Yibo.
Not forcefully.
Not demanding.
Like a child seeking warmth in the dark.
His forehead rested near Yibo's shoulder.
Breath warm.
Shaking.
Yibo stirred.
Just slightly.
A soft sound left him in sleep.
But he didn't wake.
Instead—
His arm moved.
Slow.
Unconscious.
Yibo's hand found Xiao Zhan's back.
Pulled.
Gently.
Closer.
Xiao Zhan froze.
His breath caught.
But Yibo only shifted more comfortably,
as if this closeness was familiar.
Safe.
Yibo's arm settled around Xiao Zhan.
Loose.
Protective.
Like it was always meant to be there.
Xiao Zhan's tears fell freely now.
Soundless.
Relieved.
His face pressed lightly into Yibo's shoulder.
The fevered man relaxed.
His breathing slowed.
Evened out.
They slept like that.
Curled together.
No titles.
No past.
No future.
Just warmth shared in the quiet.
Just two hearts resting
where they once hurt.
The mansion stayed silent.
But it no longer felt empty.
Morning
Morning light slipped into the room softly.
Not bright.
Not warm.
Just enough to wake the truth.
Wang Yibo stirred first.
His body felt heavy, unfamiliar.
Warm.
Too warm.
He blinked.
Once.
Then realized—
An arm around his waist.
A weight against his shoulder.
Breathing, close and real.
Xiao Zhan.
Curled against him.
Asleep.
Yibo froze.
Every muscle locked.
His heart dropped hard into his chest.
Memory rushed in.
Too fast.
Terrace.
Words.
Dirty.
Yibo inhaled sharply.
Carefully—
so carefully—
He lifted Xiao Zhan's arm.
Just enough.
Not abrupt.
Not rude.
But even that small movement—
Hurt.
Xiao Zhan's brows tightened in sleep.
A faint sound left his throat.
Like something being taken away.
Yibo swallowed.
His fingers trembled.
He placed the arm back against the sofa.
Not touching himself anymore.
Then he stood.
Slowly.
As if sudden movement might shatter something fragile.
He stepped back.
Distance restored.
Walls rebuilt.
Xiao Zhan woke then.
Not fully.
Just enough to feel—
Cold.
Empty.
His eyes opened.
And Yibo was no longer there.
He sat up too fast.
The fever made his head spin.
But the pain in his chest was sharper.
Yibo stood a few steps away.
Straight-backed.
Calm-faced.
Professional.
"Good morning, Professor Xiao," Yibo said quietly.
The title fell like ice.
Xiao Zhan stared at him.
Eyes still red.
Voice rough.
"…Did I—"
"You were sick," Yibo interrupted gently.
"I stayed to make sure the fever didn't worsen."
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Xiao Zhan looked down.
Saw the blanket that had been pulled over him.
Carefully.
Considerately.
"And now?" Xiao Zhan asked.
Yibo picked up the file from the table.
Held it out.
"Here's the report," he said.
"I've marked the urgent sections."
Work.
Only work.
Xiao Zhan took the file.
Their fingers almost touched.
Almost.
Yibo stepped back immediately.
Habit.
"I'll return to the lab," Yibo continued.
"You should rest today."
He paused.
Just a breath.
"Please."
That word hurt.
Because it wasn't affectionate.
It was distant.
Xiao Zhan's throat tightened.
"Last night…" he began.
Yibo shook his head once.
Small.
Final.
"There's no need to talk about it," he said softly.
"You weren't well."
He bowed slightly.
A gesture full of boundaries.
Then turned toward the door.
"Yibo," Xiao Zhan said.
The name came out bare.
Unprotected.
Yibo stopped.
Didn't turn around.
Xiao Zhan wanted to say—
I'm sorry.
I needed you.
Don't leave.
But what came out was nothing.
Silence.
Yibo opened the door.
Sunlight poured in.
He stepped into it.
Behind him—
Xiao Zhan sat alone again.
Blanket slipping from his shoulders.
File forgotten in his hands.
The warmth from the night was gone.
Only the shape of it remained.
For the first time—
Xiao Zhan understood.
Yibo hadn't pulled away to punish him.
He pulled away
because staying
would hurt too much.
And that realization—
Hurt more than the fever ever could.
It was work.
Nothing personal.
That was what Wang Yibo kept telling himself.
The equipment supplier required an immediate payment.
International. Urgent.
Only one card was approved for it.
Professor Xiao's.
Yibo stood at the office door.
Hesitated.
Then knocked.
"Come in," Xiao Zhan's voice answered.
Cold. Professional.
"I need the card for the supplier," Yibo said calmly.
"They won't release the materials otherwise."
Xiao Zhan didn't look up immediately.
"Take it from my wallet," he said.
"It's in the drawer."
Simple.
Trusting.
He grabbed his coat.
"I have a meeting off-campus," Xiao Zhan added.
"I'll be back in an hour."
Then he left.
Just like that.
The office became quiet.
Yibo walked to the desk.
Opened the drawer.
Inside—
Files.
A pen.
A wallet.
Black.
Worn slightly at the edges.
Not new.
He picked it up.
Carefully.
Like touching something that didn't belong to him.
The card was easy to find.
He pulled it out.
Then paused.
Something slipped from the wallet.
Fell softly onto the desk.
Yibo froze.
A folded paper.
Old.
Edges yellowed.
Handled many times.
He shouldn't have.
He knew that.
But his fingers moved before his mind could stop them.
He unfolded it slowly.
A photograph.
His breath stopped.
It was him.
Younger.
College days.
Sitting in the back bench.
Head lowered.
Notebook open.
Unaware.
Yibo stared.
Heart pounding.
He turned the photo over.
On the back, in careful handwriting—
"Wang Yibo.
Please be happy."
The room tilted.
Yibo's fingers trembled.
He looked again into the wallet.
Carefully now.
Inside, tucked behind cards—
Another thing.
A small, worn sanitizer bottle keychain.
Old model.
Unused.
Empty.
Yibo recognized it immediately.
The same brand.
The same size.
The kind he had used back then.
His chest tightened painfully.
At the bottom of the wallet—
A folded hospital slip.
Five years old.
The date circled.
The same week—
The week after graduation.
Diagnosis: Acute stress disorder. Severe insomnia.
Yibo sank slowly into the chair.
The credit card forgotten in his hand.
Unmarried.
The word returned.
But now—
It sounded different.
Xiao Zhan hadn't kept distance because he didn't care.
He had kept distance
because he had never forgiven himself.
Yibo pressed the photograph gently back into place.
Folded everything carefully.
Returned it exactly as it was.
He took the card.
Closed the drawer.
When he stood up—
His eyes burned.
But no tears fell.
For the first time—
The past rearranged itself.
Not erased.
Not healed.
But understood.
And fate—
For once—
Had been soft enough
to let him see the truth
without forcing him to hear an apology.
Zhan don't know that yibo saw something.
Xiao Zhan never knew.
He never noticed the way Yibo's eyes lingered now.
Never questioned the pauses.
Never saw the weight settle differently on Yibo's shoulders.
Life continued.
Work continued.
Silence remained.
Yibo returned the credit card.
Placed it carefully on Xiao Zhan's desk.
"Payment is done," he said.
Xiao Zhan nodded.
"Good."
Nothing more.
But something inside Yibo had shifted.
Not softened.
Not healed.
Just… rearranged.
Days passed.
Late nights returned.
Again.
One evening, Xiao Zhan asked him to stay back.
"Data verification," he said shortly.
Yibo agreed.
It was routine.
The mansion came up again naturally.
Long hours.
No transport.
Rain outside.
"You can stay," Xiao Zhan said.
"The guest room is unused."
Neutral.
Professional.
Yibo hesitated.
Then nodded.
The mansion looked the same.
Clean.
Minimal.
Quiet.
But now—
Yibo saw it differently.
In the study, while Xiao Zhan reviewed files,
Yibo waited nearby.
His eyes moved without intention.
On the bookshelf—
Between thick academic volumes—
A thin notebook.
Old.
Corners bent.
Yibo recognized it immediately.
His handwriting.
From college.
Notes he had once lost.
Xiao Zhan noticed his gaze.
"That?" he asked.
Yibo looked away instantly.
"Nothing," he replied.
Xiao Zhan didn't press.
He never did.
Later, alone in the guest room,
Yibo couldn't sleep.
The house breathed quietly.
He stepped out.
Slow. Careful.
Not searching.
Just… existing.
In the hallway—
A framed certificate hung crooked.
Xiao Zhan's name.
Beside it—
A small sticky note.
Old.
Faded.
Handwritten.
"Today you answered well."
Yibo's breath hitched.
That sentence—
He remembered it.
Xiao Zhan had once written it on his assignment.
In the kitchen—
A mug sat on the shelf.
Chipped at the rim.
Printed words barely visible:
"Focus, Yibo."
His fingers trembled as he touched it.
He didn't pick it up.
Just rested his hand there.
In the living room—
A box under the side table.
Not hidden.
Not displayed.
Just… there.
Inside—
Old ID photocopies.
A graduation brochure.
A faded ribbon.
His department ribbon.
Yibo closed the box carefully.
Placed it back exactly as it was.
His chest hurt.
Not sharply.
Dully.
Like an ache that had lived too long.
Xiao Zhan had not erased him.
He had preserved him.
Quietly.
Guiltily.
Back in the lab days later—
Yibo noticed more.
Xiao Zhan never assigned him dirty work.
Never raised his voice at him.
Never joked at his expense.
He noticed—
Xiao Zhan avoided standing too close.
Avoided touching.
Avoided even accidental brushes.
Like he was afraid.
Once, during a meeting, someone said—
"Dr. Wang can handle this alone."
Xiao Zhan replied immediately.
"No. I'll review it myself."
Firm.
Protective.
Yibo understood now.
This wasn't distance.
It was penance.
At night, in his own apartment,
Yibo sat quietly.
Sanitizer on the table.
He didn't use it.
Just stared at it.
He whispered to the empty room—
"So this is how you lived."
Xiao Zhan still didn't know.
Didn't know Yibo had seen the photograph.
The notes.
The mug.
The box.
And Yibo didn't tell him.
Because understanding someone's pain
didn't mean it stopped hurting.
Old things don't disappear.
They wait.
And sometimes—
They ask to be acknowledged.
Not with words.
But with time.