The first time Xiao Zhan saw Wang Yibo, it was only through a photograph.
The picture was simple—no fancy background, no expensive clothes. Just a boy sitting quietly on a wooden chair, hands folded on his lap as if afraid they might do something wrong. His hair fell softly over his forehead, framing a face so delicate it almost didn't seem real. Round cheeks, pale skin, and those rare green eyes… clear like glass, yet strangely distant.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Xiao Zhan had stared at that photo longer than he ever stared at business reports or contracts. Something about that fragile face made his chest tighten—not warmth, not affection… something colder. Curiosity, perhaps. Or possession.
"Age?" he asked flatly.
"Nineteen," the broker replied.
Young. Quiet. Harmless. Perfect.
Zhan signed the marriage agreement without another question.
Wang Yibo lived in a house that never felt like home.
His uncle's voice was always sharp. His aunt's eyes always carried annoyance, like his existence was an inconvenience she couldn't throw away. Since his parents died, silence had become his safest friend. Silence didn't scold him when he spoke too softly. Silence didn't sigh when he forgot things. Silence didn't call him strange.
Yibo sat by the window, watching dust float in sunlight. He liked dust. It moved freely. No one ordered it around.
"Stop sitting like a statue," his aunt snapped from the doorway. "You're getting married next week."
Yibo blinked slowly. "…Married?"
"Yes. A rich man. Be grateful someone agreed to take you."
He tilted his head, thinking carefully, like each word needed permission before entering his mind. "Will… he be kind?"
His aunt scoffed. "Kind? He's a CEO. He doesn't need to be kind."
Yibo nodded after a long pause, as if that answer made perfect sense to him.
Kind or not… married meant leaving this house.
And leaving meant… maybe quiet again.
Across the city, Xiao Zhan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, the skyline reflecting in his dark eyes. Employees trembled when he spoke. Rivals stepped aside when he walked. He had built his empire with discipline sharp enough to cut steel.
Love was useless. Emotion was inefficient.
Marriage, however, was practical.
An obedient spouse would be convenient. No arguments. No drama. No distractions.
His assistant hesitated before speaking. "Sir… are you certain about this marriage? You haven't even met him."
Zhan's voice dropped, deep and cold. "I saw enough."
He didn't say what he meant.
He saw innocence. Fragility. Silence.
Things that could never oppose him.
That night, in a small dim room, Wang Yibo traced the edge of the photograph he'd been given.
Xiao Zhan looked powerful. Tall. Sharp features. Eyes like midnight—beautiful, but frightening. Like if you stared too long, you might fall inside and never come back out.
Yibo pressed the photo gently to his chest.
"…Husband," he whispered softly, testing the unfamiliar word.
His voice was so quiet even the walls barely heard it.
He didn't know what marriage truly meant.
He only knew one thing—
He hoped the man in the picture wouldn't be angry if he was slow to understand things.
Far away, in his penthouse, Xiao Zhan looked at Yibo's photo once more before placing it on the table.
His lips curved slightly.
Not a smile.
A decision.
"Let's see," he murmured, voice low and chilling, "how long that innocence lasts."
The mansion looked less like a home and more like a palace carved out of pride.
Crystal chandeliers burned with white light. Marble floors reflected every movement like mirrors. Rows of elite guests filled the grand hall, their whispers weaving together like silk threads—
"CEO Xiao is really marrying today?"
"I heard the bride is very beautiful."
"From what family?"
"No one important."
At the center of it all stood Xiao Zhan.
Tall. Imposing. Perfectly tailored black suit hugging his broad shoulders. His posture alone made people lower their voices. He didn't look like a groom. He looked like a king signing a treaty.
Cold eyes. Calm face. No trace of nervousness.
Marriage, to him, was only a contract with witnesses.
The doors opened.
Every sound died.
Wang Yibo stepped inside.
And for the first time in his life… Xiao Zhan froze.
Because the photo had not lied.
It had understated.
Yibo was ethereal. Soft white suit, delicate frame, pale skin glowing under chandelier light. His green eyes shimmered like wet glass, catching every reflection. His cheeks were round and faintly pink, lips slightly parted as he looked around with open curiosity, not awareness.
He wasn't walking confidently.
He was… looking at everything.
The ceiling.
The lights.
The carpet pattern.
As if he had never seen such things before.
His steps were careful, slow, almost childlike—not out of shyness, but because he seemed deeply focused on each footstep, like walking itself required thought.
Guests began whispering again, softer this time.
"Why is he walking like that…?"
"Is he nervous?"
"…Or…?"
Zhan's sharp gaze didn't leave Yibo for a second.
Strange, he thought.
Not shy. Not scared.
Just… different.
Yibo finally reached the altar. He stopped a little too far away.
The officiant cleared his throat gently. "You can stand closer."
Yibo blinked.
"…Closer?" he repeated softly, voice light as breath.
"Yes."
He took three tiny steps forward. Then stopped again. Then looked at Zhan.
Up.
And up.
And up.
"…You're tall," he said quietly, genuine wonder in his tone.
A faint ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the guests.
Zhan's jaw tightened.
Not because he was offended.
Because no one had ever spoken to him like that.
No calculation. No fear. No flattery.
Just… observation.
The ceremony began.
"Do you, Xiao Zhan, take Wang Yibo as your lawful spouse?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No emotion.
Just a word.
The officiant turned. "Do you, Wang Yibo—"
Yibo was staring at Zhan's sleeve.
Specifically, at the cufflink.
It was silver, shaped like a tiny wolf.
"…Shiny," Yibo murmured.
Silence fell.
His uncle, sitting in the front row, forced a tight smile. "Answer the question."
Yibo looked at him slowly. Then back at the officiant.
"…Question?"
A faint crease appeared between Zhan's brows.
The officiant repeated gently, "Do you agree to marry him?"
Yibo thought.
And thought.
And thought.
The pause stretched too long.
Guests shifted.
Zhan watched him closely now, eyes narrowing slightly. Not annoyed.
Studying.
Finally Yibo nodded once. "Okay."
Another whisper wave spread across the hall.
Not yes.
Not I do.
Just okay.
Rings were brought forward.
Zhan took Yibo's hand.
That was when he noticed.
The boy's fingers were cold.
Not nervous-cold.
Still-cold.
Yibo wasn't looking at the ring. He was watching their hands touch, eyes wide with fascination, like he'd just discovered something new.
"…Warm," he whispered.
Zhan's grip paused for half a second.
Warm?
He slid the ring on anyway.
"Now you may say something to each other," the officiant prompted politely.
Zhan said nothing. He had nothing to say.
All eyes turned to Yibo.
Yibo stared at Zhan very seriously.
Guests leaned forward.
Yibo spoke softly—
"…Will you be angry if I forget things?"
The question landed in the hall like glass dropping.
His uncle's face went pale. "Yibo—"
But it was too late.
Yibo continued, voice gentle, honest, unfiltered.
"I forget words sometimes. And instructions. And names. Aunt says I'm slow. But I try very hard." He blinked slowly. "If I try hard… you won't be angry, right?"
No embarrassment.
No awareness of the tension.
Just sincerity.
That was the moment Xiao Zhan understood.
Not nervous.
Not shy.
Not strange.
Yibo's mind simply worked differently.
And no one had told him.
The broker hadn't mentioned it. The documents hadn't said it. The family had hidden it.
They hadn't given him a spouse.
They had handed him responsibility.
A fragile one.
The hall waited for his reaction.
If he frowned, the wedding would collapse.
If he walked away, no one would blame him.
Xiao Zhan looked down at the boy holding his hand.
Those green eyes weren't calculating. They weren't pleading.
They were just… waiting.
Like a child waiting to know if the sky would rain.
Zhan spoke.
Voice deep. Calm. Controlled.
"…I don't get angry without reason."
Yibo's face lit up instantly.
Not a polite smile.
Not relief.
Pure happiness. Bright. Unfiltered. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"…Okay," he said again softly.
And somehow—
That simple word echoed louder than wedding vows.
Guests didn't know why, but a strange silence filled the hall.
Because the cruel, feared CEO who could crush companies with one command…
Was still holding the boy's hand.
And he hadn't let go.
The Wedding Night
The celebration ended hours ago.
The mansion that once echoed with polite laughter and glass clinks now stood silent again, just as it always had—cold, orderly, emotionless. Servants had disappeared. Lights were dimmed. Even the air felt disciplined, as if it obeyed Xiao Zhan's rules.
And Xiao Zhan did not like noise.
He especially did not like unexpected noise.
Which was why his expression was darker than usual as he stood near the bedroom window, loosening his cufflinks with slow precision.
Behind him—
"…Big."
The soft voice broke the silence.
Zhan's fingers stopped.
He didn't turn.
"…What did you say?"
On the massive bed, Wang Yibo sat cross-legged, gently pressing the mattress with both hands like he was testing clouds.
"Bed is big," he repeated, nodding seriously. "Very big. Can roll three time."
Zhan closed his eyes briefly.
Annoying.
He turned at last.
Yibo had already taken off his wedding shoes and placed them neatly side by side on the floor. Not because anyone told him to. Just because he thought they looked happier that way.
His white suit jacket hung loosely off one shoulder. His hair was slightly messy now. Without the ceremony lights and guests, he looked even younger. Softer. Smaller.
And completely unaware of how out of place he was in a room that looked like it belonged to a king.
"Stand up," Zhan said.
Yibo blinked. "…Why?"
Zhan's tone dropped colder. "When I speak, you don't ask why. You listen."
A pause.
Yibo processed that slowly.
Then he nodded once and climbed off the bed.
But instead of standing straight like ordered, he stood too close.
Close enough that Zhan could see his eyelashes clearly.
"…You smell nice," Yibo whispered thoughtfully.
Silence.
The air froze.
Most people who spoke to Xiao Zhan trembled. Some stuttered. Some couldn't finish sentences.
No one had ever leaned close and calmly commented on his smell.
Zhan's eyes hardened. "Step back."
Yibo stepped back instantly.
Not scared.
Just obedient.
Zhan studied him now the way one examines a strange object delivered by mistake.
"You understand what marriage is?"
Yibo tilted his head.
"…Marriage is… live together. Eat together. Sleep together." He counted softly on his fingers. "…And… not go back to aunt house."
Zhan's gaze sharpened.
"That's all?"
Yibo thought very hard.
His brows scrunched. His lips moved silently as if he were flipping through invisible pages in his mind.
After a long effort he said proudly—
"And… husband is boss."
A faint muscle ticked in Zhan's jaw.
Correct.
But hearing it from Yibo's soft, pleased voice sounded less like submission…
…and more like he was happily stating a fun fact.
Zhan walked closer.
His presence alone felt like a wall moving.
"Look at me."
Yibo looked.
Immediately.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just those clear green eyes staring straight into his.
Zhan searched them.
He expected confusion. Or calculation. Or hidden intent.
There was nothing.
No defense. No mask.
Just openness.
It irritated him.
People should have layers. Motives. Guards. Something to read. Something to control.
But this boy—
was like water in a glass bowl.
Transparent.
"You're slow," Zhan said bluntly.
Most people would flinch.
Yibo nodded. "Mm."
No offense taken.
No hurt.
Just agreement.
Zhan narrowed his eyes. "…That doesn't bother you?"
Another thoughtful pause.
"…Should it?"
For the first time that night—
Zhan had no immediate response.
Yibo suddenly reached forward.
Before Zhan could react—
soft fingers touched his sleeve again.
Not grabbing. Just feeling the fabric between fingertips.
"…Smooth," Yibo murmured. "Like cat ear."
Zhan caught his wrist.
Firm.
Not gentle.
Yibo's hand stopped moving.
But he didn't pull away.
He simply looked at where Zhan held him, curious about the grip.
"You don't touch me without permission," Zhan said, voice low and sharp.
"…Oh."
Pause.
"…Sorry."
No panic.
No trembling apology.
Just simple acceptance.
As if he truly meant it.
Zhan released him.
Slowly.
"…Rules," he said. "You follow them. You don't wander. You don't speak unless spoken to in public. You don't embarrass me. Understood?"
Yibo nodded after carefully memorizing each line.
"…Follow. Don't wander. Don't talk. Don't… emba… embara…"
He frowned.
"…Emba?"
"Embarrass."
"…Emba-rass," Yibo repeated seriously, proud he got closer.
Zhan stared at him.
This wasn't obedience born from fear.
It was obedience born from trust.
And that—
was far more dangerous.
Yibo suddenly smiled faintly.
Soft. Small. Bright.
"…Husband not angry."
It wasn't a question.
It was relief.
Zhan's chest felt… strange for half a second.
He ignored it immediately.
"I said I don't get angry without reason."
"…Mm." Yibo nodded, satisfied.
Then, very naturally, he asked—
"…Can I sleep now?"
No shyness.
No awkwardness.
No awareness of wedding-night expectations.
Just sleep.
Zhan exhaled slowly.
Cold again.
"Sleep."
Yibo climbed onto the bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and curled slightly on his side like a kitten settling into a new box.
Within seconds—
his breathing softened.
He had fallen asleep.
Just like that.
No fear.
No caution.
No doubt.
Sleeping in the bed of a man known for cruelty as if he were lying in sunlight.
Zhan stood beside the bed for a long time.
Watching.
Studying.
Evaluating.
This wasn't what he agreed to.
This wasn't a strategic spouse.
This wasn't a useful partner.
This was—
trouble.
Fragile trouble.
The kind that breaks if handled wrong.
"…You're going to be difficult," Zhan murmured quietly.
Yibo shifted in sleep, cheek pressing deeper into the pillow, lips parting slightly as he breathed.
"…Mm…"
Zhan's gaze darkened.
He should send him away.
He should.
This marriage could be annulled. Explained. Erased.
Simple.
Efficient.
Logical.
But he didn't move.
He kept standing there.
Watching the boy who trusted him without even knowing who he really was.
"…Let's see," Zhan said softly, voice colder than the night air, "how long you last in my world."
The sleeping boy didn't hear.
Didn't know.
Didn't understand—
that he had just entered a cage with a wolf.
Morning Rules
Dawn in Xiao Zhan's mansion did not arrive gently.
It arrived on schedule.
At exactly 6:00 a.m., the curtains opened automatically. At 6:05, coffee was placed on the study table. At 6:10, the first report of the day appeared on his tablet. Every second of morning had been designed, refined, perfected—
Because Xiao Zhan believed one thing:
Control was peace.
And peace did not include surprises.
At 6:00 a.m.
Zhan's eyes opened.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
Like a switch had been flipped inside his mind.
He sat up, posture straight, expression already sharp with awareness. Years of discipline made waking up feel less like rising from sleep and more like resuming command.
His gaze shifted beside him.
The other half of the bed—
was empty.
Zhan's eyes narrowed.
The blanket was messy. Pillow slightly dented. But no Yibo.
Silence.
Cold silence.
Then—
From somewhere in the room came a faint sound.
"…Mm… no… no… turn… turn…"
Zhan turned his head.
And saw him.
On the floor.
Wrapped like a dumpling inside the blanket.
Wang Yibo had somehow rolled off the bed in his sleep and taken the blanket with him. He lay there tangled in soft white sheets, hair messy, cheeks squished against the carpet, still asleep and mumbling faintly.
Zhan stared.
Long.
Unblinking.
"…Unbelievable."
He walked over and nudged Yibo's shoulder with his shoe.
"Wake up."
No response.
Another nudge. Harder.
"Wake up."
Yibo stirred slightly. His lashes fluttered. Lips parted.
"…Five more minute…"
Zhan's expression darkened.
"I don't repeat myself."
Yibo's eyes opened slowly.
Very slowly.
Blink.
Blink.
He looked up at Zhan's tall figure towering above him.
"…Oh," he whispered softly. "…Morning husband."
His voice was warm.
Sleepy.
Gentle.
Like morning sunlight.
Zhan felt irritation prick under his skin.
"Why are you on the floor?"
Yibo considered the question seriously.
"…Bed pushed me."
Silence.
Zhan stared at him.
"…The bed pushed you."
"Yes." Yibo nodded once, convinced. "I was sleeping. Then floor came."
Zhan turned away sharply.
He didn't have patience for nonsense.
"Get up. Now."
Yibo tried.
But he was still tangled in the blanket.
He rolled once.
Didn't get up.
Rolled again.
Still stuck.
"…Mm."
Zhan watched for three seconds.
Four.
Five.
"…Are you incapable of standing?"
Yibo peeked out from blanket folds. "…Blanket hugging me."
Zhan's jaw tightened.
He grabbed the blanket and yanked it away in one swift motion.
Yibo blinked at the sudden freedom.
"…Oh."
He sat up.
Then smiled faintly.
"…Thank you."
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just soft gratitude.
And for some reason—
that simple thank you irritated Zhan more than complaints would have.
"Listen carefully," Zhan said, voice turning colder. "This house has rules."
Yibo nodded immediately, attentive like a student.
Zhan continued:
"You wake when I wake."
"You eat when meals are served."
"You don't wander."
"You don't touch things."
"You don't speak to staff unnecessarily."
"You don't create trouble."
Each sentence was precise. Controlled. Final.
Yibo repeated quietly after him, memorizing—
"Wake… eat… no wander… no touch… no talk… no trouble…"
He looked proud he remembered all.
Zhan added, tone sharp, "If you break rules, there are consequences."
Yibo blinked.
"…Con… se…?"
"Punishment."
Pause.
Yibo nodded slowly.
"…Okay."
No fear.
No resistance.
Just acceptance.
Zhan studied him again.
"You don't even ask what punishment is?"
Yibo tilted his head.
"…Should ask?"
His tone held genuine curiosity, not sarcasm.
Zhan's gaze turned colder.
"Yes. You should."
"Oh."
Yibo thought carefully.
"…What is punishment?"
Zhan bent slightly so their eyes were level.
His voice dropped low.
"Something you won't like."
Yibo processed that.
Then nodded seriously.
"…Then I follow rules."
Zhan straightened.
Efficient. Conversation over.
"Get dressed. Breakfast in ten minutes."
He walked toward the door.
Behind him—
"…Husband."
Zhan stopped.
Slowly turned.
Yibo sat on the floor still, hair messy, clothes wrinkled, looking up at him with calm green eyes.
"…Where clothes?"
Zhan stared.
"…Your luggage is in the wardrobe."
Yibo nodded. "Where wardrobe?"
A long silence filled the room.
Zhan pointed.
Wordlessly.
Yibo followed the direction of his finger… then stood… then walked the wrong way.
Straight into a wall.
Thud.
He blinked.
"…Oh. Not door."
Zhan closed his eyes.
His patience—already thin by nature—felt like glass stretched to cracking.
"Turn. Left."
Yibo turned left.
Walked two steps.
Stopped in front of wardrobe.
Opened it.
His face lit up softly.
"…Big cupboard."
Zhan watched him for a moment longer.
Then left the room.
But he didn't go far.
He stood just outside the door, expression unreadable.
Inside, he could hear faint sounds—
Hangers moving.
Soft humming.
Fabric rustling.
Careless sounds.
Uncontrolled sounds.
Human sounds.
Sounds that did not belong in his perfectly ordered world.
"…Troublesome," Zhan muttered.
And yet—
He hadn't called a servant to deal with him.
Hadn't sent him away.
Hadn't cancelled the marriage.
Even though he easily could.
Inside the room, Yibo finally pulled out clothes and whispered happily to himself—
"…Soft shirt."
He pressed it to his cheek.
Smiling.
Because no one had ever given him a wardrobe this big before.
Outside the door, Xiao Zhan stood still.
Listening.
Watching the closed door like it was a puzzle he hadn't decided whether to solve—
or destroy.
— The First Punishment
Morning sunlight slipped across the long dining table, touching plates that had already been arranged with perfect symmetry. Every fork aligned. Every glass shining. Every chair placed at exact distance.
Order.
Silence.
Control.
That was how mornings existed in Xiao Zhan's mansion.
Servants stood along the wall, hands folded, eyes lowered. No one spoke unless spoken to. No one moved unless necessary.
Because their master disliked mistakes.
Footsteps approached.
Steady. Firm. Commanding.
Xiao Zhan entered first, dressed in a dark suit, already prepared for the day as if the world itself was a meeting waiting for his approval. His presence alone made the air tighten.
He sat at the head of the table.
A servant immediately poured coffee.
Another placed documents beside his plate.
Everything ran exactly as it should.
Exactly.
Just as he preferred.
Then—
Soft footsteps padded into the hall.
Irregular. Light. Unmeasured.
Wang Yibo appeared.
His shirt was buttoned wrong. One side higher than the other. His hair was still slightly messy, as if the comb had lost an argument with it. And instead of walking straight to the chair beside Zhan like instructed—
he stopped halfway.
Because he noticed something.
The chandelier crystals.
They sparkled.
Yibo tilted his head up, staring.
"…Stars," he whispered softly.
A servant's eyes flickered nervously toward Zhan.
Zhan did not look up from his coffee.
"Sit."
Yibo didn't move.
Still staring upward.
"…Shiny stars…"
The room's silence grew tense.
Zhan set his cup down.
The faint click of porcelain against saucer sounded louder than thunder.
"I said," he repeated, voice colder, "sit."
Yibo blinked, finally lowering his gaze.
"…Oh. Yes."
He walked toward the table.
But instead of sitting beside Zhan—
he chose a chair farther down.
Because he liked that one.
The cushion looked softer.
A servant inhaled sharply.
Zhan lifted his eyes.
Slowly.
"Come here."
Yibo looked around.
"…Me?"
"Yes. You."
Yibo stood, obedient, and walked closer. This time he stopped beside the correct chair.
"…Sit here?"
"Yes."
He sat.
Properly.
Hands on lap.
Waiting.
Like a student ready for class.
Breakfast was served.
Toast. Eggs. Fruit. Tea.
Yibo stared at the food carefully, like he was solving a puzzle.
He picked up the fork.
Turned it.
Turned it again.
"…Why teeth?" he murmured, examining it.
Zhan ignored him.
For exactly twelve seconds.
Then—
Clink.
Yibo tapped the fork lightly against his glass to hear the sound.
A servant froze.
Yibo's eyes lit up faintly.
"…Bell sound."
Clink.
He tapped again.
Zhan's voice cut through the air.
"Stop."
Yibo stopped immediately.
"…Okay."
Silence returned.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Yibo picked up a strawberry.
Held it close to his face.
"…Red," he whispered in wonder.
He turned slightly—
—and offered it toward Zhan.
"…For you."
Not polite.
Not formal.
Just sharing.
The servants collectively stopped breathing.
Zhan's eyes lowered slowly to the fruit held near his face.
His expression did not change.
But the temperature of the room did.
"I don't eat from other people's hands."
Yibo blinked.
"…Oh."
He nodded, understanding.
Then—
he gently placed the strawberry on Zhan's plate instead.
"…Now not hand."
The sound came before Yibo understood what happened.
Smack.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was sharp enough that every servant flinched.
Yibo's head tilted slightly to the side from the impact.
Silence swallowed the room whole.
No one moved.
No one dared breathe.
Zhan's hand lowered back to his side.
Calm.
Controlled.
Like he had just adjusted a sleeve.
His voice was flat.
"I told you not to touch things unnecessarily."
Yibo didn't react immediately.
Not because he wasn't affected.
Because his mind needed time.
Slowly—
he lifted a hand to his cheek.
Touched it.
Processing.
"…Warm," he whispered softly.
Not accusation.
Not complaint.
Just observation.
Zhan watched him carefully.
Waiting.
Most people cried.
Most people panicked.
Most people apologized desperately.
Yibo did none of those.
He simply sat there, touching his cheek, thinking very hard about what had just happened.
After a long pause, he looked at Zhan.
"…I break rule?"
"Yes."
"…Oh."
He nodded once.
Then lowered his hand.
"…Sorry."
No tears.
No anger.
Just acceptance.
Something strange flickered in Zhan's chest.
Not guilt.
No.
He didn't feel guilty.
He never regretted discipline.
But this reaction—
was not the one he expected.
He had punished him.
And yet it felt like he had struck… air.
No resistance. No fear. No hatred.
Just understanding.
Yibo looked down at the table.
Quietly.
Then he pushed the strawberry a little farther onto Zhan's plate so it wouldn't fall.
"…Still for you," he murmured.
One servant almost dropped a tray.
Another stared at the floor so hard her eyes watered.
Because they all knew—
No one had ever remained this calm after angering Xiao Zhan.
No one.
Zhan's gaze stayed on Yibo's face.
The faint pink mark forming on his cheek.
The soft expression.
The absence of resentment.
It was unnatural.
Unsettling.
Dangerous.
"…Eat," Zhan said finally.
Yibo nodded.
"…Okay."
He picked up the fork again.
Carefully this time.
Very carefully.
Like it was something important.
Breakfast continued.
Silent.
Orderly.
Perfect.
Except—
for the small red mark on Yibo's cheek.
And the strange unfamiliar feeling sitting quietly in Xiao Zhan's chest…
a feeling he did not recognize—
and did not like.
— It Hurts
The dining hall remained silent.
Not peaceful silence.
Tense silence.
The kind that pressed against skin and made breathing feel louder than it should.
Silverware touched plates softly. Coffee steamed. Curtains shifted slightly in the morning breeze.
Everything looked normal.
Everything looked controlled.
Everything—
except Wang Yibo.
He sat very still.
Fork in hand.
Back straight.
Eyes lowered to his plate just like Zhan's rules required.
Obedient.
Quiet.
Perfect.
For a while… nothing happened.
Then—
A drop fell.
Soft.
Almost soundless.
It landed on the white tablecloth beside his plate.
Another followed.
And another.
Small clear droplets forming a tiny dark circle in the fabric.
One servant noticed first.
Her fingers tightened around the tray she held.
Because she realized—
Those weren't water drops.
They were tears.
Yibo wasn't sobbing.
He wasn't shaking.
He wasn't making any noise.
He was just… crying.
Silently.
Tears sliding down his soft cheeks one after another, falling onto the table as if they didn't belong to him.
As if his eyes had decided something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.
Zhan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
His gaze shifted from his documents to Yibo's face.
The faint red mark still rested on his cheek.
Below it—
a clear tear slid slowly down.
Zhan's brows tightened slightly.
"…Why are you crying?"
His tone was calm.
Flat.
Not gentle.
Not harsh.
Just a question.
Yibo blinked slowly.
Another tear slipped free.
He looked at Zhan, eyes slightly glassy, expression puzzled rather than upset.
"…I don't know."
His voice was small.
Soft.
Honest.
Zhan's eyes sharpened.
"You don't know?"
Yibo shook his head faintly.
"…Eyes leaking."
A pause.
He touched his cheek again.
Very lightly.
"…Hurts," he whispered.
The word was quiet.
Barely louder than breath.
But it echoed louder than anything in the room.
One servant lowered her gaze quickly so Zhan wouldn't see her expression change.
Because that word didn't sound like complaint.
It sounded like discovery.
Like a child touching fire for the first time and softly saying—
Oh.
Zhan's fingers stilled on the table.
"…It hurts," he repeated.
Not mocking.
Not soft.
Just repeating.
Yibo nodded once.
"…Little hurt. Not big hurt."
Another tear dropped.
He didn't wipe it.
Didn't seem to realize he should.
They just kept falling slowly, quietly, like melting snow.
Zhan watched him carefully.
Studying.
Calculating.
He had seen people cry before.
Employees. Rivals. Even grown men twice his size.
They cried loudly. Dramatically. Desperately.
They cried to beg.
To plead.
To manipulate.
But this—
This was different.
Yibo wasn't asking for comfort.
Wasn't asking for apology.
Wasn't even asking for attention.
He was simply… stating a fact.
It hurts.
Yibo sniffed softly.
Not dramatic.
Just a small sound.
He looked down at the tablecloth where the wet spot had grown.
"…Dirty," he murmured guiltily. "…Sorry table."
He rubbed it lightly with his sleeve, trying to clean it.
It didn't work.
The stain spread.
"…Oh."
He frowned faintly, worried.
A strange tightness passed through Zhan's chest again.
Sharp.
Unwelcome.
He didn't like unfamiliar sensations.
He especially didn't like ones he couldn't categorize.
Anger he understood.
Fear he understood.
Respect he understood.
This—
he did not.
"Stop rubbing," Zhan said.
Yibo froze immediately.
"…Okay."
Hands back to lap.
Posture straight.
Obedient again.
Tears still slipping silently down his face.
The room felt heavier.
Even the servants felt it.
Not because Zhan was angry.
But because he wasn't.
His expression was unreadable.
Which was worse.
After a long silence, Yibo whispered—
"…I follow rule now."
Zhan didn't answer.
Yibo continued softly, as if reassuring him—
"…No touch. No make trouble. See? Good."
His lips curved slightly.
A tiny smile.
Not forced.
Not fake.
Just proud.
As if being obedient was an achievement he wanted praised for.
Another tear slid down at the same time.
Smile and tears together.
Something in Zhan's gaze shifted.
Not warmth.
Not kindness.
But something… heavier.
More complicated.
"…Eat," Zhan said again.
His voice was still deep.
Still calm.
Still controlled.
But this time—
it was quieter.
Yibo nodded.
"…Okay husband."
He picked up the fork carefully.
Very carefully.
And started eating with slow concentration, determined not to break another rule.
Tears still falling silently while he chewed.
Zhan looked away.
Back to his documents.
Back to his coffee.
Back to control.
Yet—
for the first time in years—
the taste of his morning coffee felt different.
Not bitter.
Not strong.
Just—
strange.
At the far end of the table, one servant thought silently:
The master didn't hit him again.
Another thought:
He noticed the tears.
A third thought:
And he didn't look away immediately.
At the head of the table, Xiao Zhan turned a page of his report.
But he hadn't read a single word.
— "Bobo Gets Hurt"
Morning had already moved on.
Breakfast dishes were cleared. Chairs returned to perfect alignment. Curtains tied at equal height. The mansion had gone back to its natural state—
Disciplined.
Silent.
Untouchable.
Xiao Zhan stood near the entrance hall mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. His reflection stared back at him: flawless suit, straight posture, expression carved from composure. Every detail correct. Every line sharp.
A servant held his coat behind him.
Another waited near the door with his briefcase.
This was the part of the day the entire household understood best—
When the master left.
No one spoke during this time.
No one approached.
No one interrupted.
Because disturbing Xiao Zhan before work was considered the worst kind of mistake.
Footsteps.
Soft ones.
Barely audible.
But Zhan heard them.
Of course he did.
He didn't turn.
"Didn't I tell you not to wander?"
Silence behind him.
Then—
"…I not wander."
The voice was gentle. Careful. Trying very hard to be correct.
Zhan's eyes shifted slightly in the mirror.
Wang Yibo stood a few steps behind him.
He had changed into new clothes—still slightly mismatched buttons, but neater than before. His hair was combed, though one stubborn strand curved upward like it refused discipline. His hands were clasped together nervously in front of him.
And his cheek—
The faint mark was still there.
Light pink now.
But visible.
Zhan turned.
"What do you want?"
His tone wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Yibo swallowed softly.
Not from fear.
From gathering courage.
"…Husband go work?"
"Yes."
"…Long time?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Yibo nodded slowly, absorbing the information.
Then he stepped a tiny bit closer.
Not enough to invade space.
Just enough that he didn't have to raise his voice.
"…Then I say thing."
Zhan didn't respond.
Which meant continue.
Yibo's fingers tightened together.
His voice became quieter.
"…Please… no hit again."
The hall froze.
Even the servants' breathing stopped.
Zhan's gaze sharpened.
"…What did you say?"
Yibo spoke slowly, carefully choosing words the way someone walks across stones in a river.
"…Please don't hit Bobo."
A small pause.
He added softly—
"…Bobo get hurt."
No accusation.
No anger.
No blame.
Just explanation.
Simple.
Honest.
Zhan's expression did not change.
But something in his eyes stilled.
"…Bobo?" he repeated.
Yibo nodded once.
"…Me."
Another pause.
"…Aunt call me Bobo when small. So I Bobo."
He seemed satisfied with that explanation.
Silence spread through the hall like thin ice.
Zhan looked down at him.
Really looked.
At the hopeful eyes.
At the faint cheek mark.
At the way Yibo stood straight even though his fingers were nervously twisting together.
Waiting.
Not demanding.
Just hoping.
"…You're telling me what to do?" Zhan asked quietly.
Yibo shook his head quickly.
"…No no. Not tell."
He searched for the right word.
Brows scrunching.
Thinking hard.
"…Ask."
A small nod.
"…I ask."
Zhan stared at him for a long moment.
Most people who feared him begged loudly.
Most people who wanted mercy cried.
Most people who were hurt blamed.
Yibo did none.
He simply asked.
Softly.
Like asking for rain to stop.
"…Why?" Zhan said.
Yibo blinked.
"…Why what?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
The question was calm.
Cold.
Testing.
Yibo thought.
Long.
Very long.
The servants didn't dare move.
Zhan didn't interrupt.
Finally—
"…Because hurt," Yibo said gently.
He lifted his hand and touched his cheek again.
Not dramatically.
Just lightly.
"…When husband hit… Bobo chest feel strange too."
He pressed his palm softly over his heart.
"…Here feel tight."
The words landed in the hall like feathers.
Light.
Quiet.
But impossible to ignore.
Zhan's eyes followed that small hand resting over Yibo's chest.
"…Tight," he repeated.
Yibo nodded.
"…Mm. Like… like when thunder loud."
He looked up again.
Green eyes clear.
Trusting.
"…So please don't hit. Okay?"
No one had ever spoken to Xiao Zhan like that.
Not in business.
Not in family.
Not in his entire life.
No fear.
No hatred.
Just gentle request.
The seconds stretched.
One.
Two.
Three.
Zhan stepped forward.
The servants' hearts jumped.
Yibo stayed still.
Watching him come closer.
Not backing away.
Not bracing.
Just waiting.
Zhan stopped right in front of him.
Close enough to see his reflection inside those green eyes.
Close enough to hear his quiet breathing.
"…If you don't want punishment," Zhan said, voice low, "then don't break rules."
Yibo nodded quickly.
"…I follow rule."
"Completely?"
"…Completely."
A pause.
"…Try completely."
Zhan studied his face one last time.
Then he spoke.
"Good."
That was all.
He turned.
Took his coat.
Walked past him.
Toward the door.
Servants immediately moved to open it.
Behind him—
a small relieved whisper floated through the air.
"…Okay."
Zhan stopped.
Just for half a second.
Not enough for anyone to be sure he had.
Because behind him, Wang Yibo was smiling softly to himself.
Not big.
Not bright.
Just small and peaceful.
Like someone who had successfully protected something important.
Zhan walked out.
The doors closed.
The car engine started outside.
Routine resumed.
Perfect.
Controlled.
But inside the moving car, Xiao Zhan sat silently.
Looking out the window.
Unmoving.
For reasons he did not explain—
He did not feel irritated.
He did not feel angry.
He did not feel satisfied.
He only heard one quiet voice repeating in his mind—
Please don't hit. Bobo get hurt.
And for the first time in years—
Xiao Zhan felt something unfamiliar pressing lightly inside his chest.
Not pain.
Not guilt.
Just—
tight.