Zhan didn't let go.
Even after the silence stretched…
Even after the moment should have ended…
Even after any reasonable person would have stepped back…
He still held him.
Yibo stayed in his arms the way a frightened bird stays in someone's hands—alert, unsure, ready to flee at the slightest wrong movement.
His fingers still lightly clutched Zhan's shirt.
Not gripping.
Just… holding enough to know he wouldn't fall.
His ear rested near Zhan's chest, and he kept listening to that steady heartbeat like it was something important he needed to memorize.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Not scary.
Just… there.
Time passed.
Long enough that Yibo's breathing slowly softened.
Long enough that the trembling in his shoulders faded.
Long enough that his body forgot—just for a moment—to stay afraid.
And then—
very quietly—
"…Husband?"
Zhan didn't move.
"…Hm."
Yibo's voice was small.
Careful.
Like he was asking something dangerous.
"…Husband no like wife."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
Soft.
Certain.
Zhan's arms stiffened slightly.
"…Who said that?"
Yibo's fingers tightened faintly in his shirt.
"…You."
The answer came without hesitation.
No anger.
No blame.
Just truth.
A pause.
Then—
very softly—
"…Why?"
That word was barely sound.
Barely breath.
But it carried something heavy inside it.
Not complaint.
Not accusation.
Just… confusion.
Yibo shifted a little in his arms, tilting his head so he could look up at Zhan's face.
His green eyes were wide.
Not crying.
Not scared.
Just searching.
Trying to understand something his mind couldn't solve.
"…Wife bad?" he asked quietly.
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"…No."
Yibo blinked slowly.
"…Wife ugly?"
"…No."
"…Wife stupid?"
Zhan's chest tightened.
"…No."
Yibo frowned slightly, clearly thinking hard.
"…Then why no like?"
Zhan didn't answer.
Because there wasn't an easy answer.
Because the real answer was ugly.
Because the real answer was him.
Yibo waited.
Patient.
Obedient.
Still looking up at him.
Then, after a few seconds, he spoke again in a soft whisper—
"…Uncle say… if people no like… they hit."
Zhan's arms stiffened.
Yibo continued, voice gentle, like he was explaining something simple.
"…Aunt say… if someone hit… mean you not good."
His lashes lowered slightly.
"…So Bobo try good."
A pause.
"…But husband still no like."
The words weren't dramatic.
They weren't emotional.
They weren't loud.
That's what made them hurt.
They were calm.
Accepted.
Like he had already made peace with that conclusion.
Zhan felt something twist sharply inside his chest.
"…Look at me," he said quietly.
Yibo obeyed instantly.
Eyes lifting again.
Trusting.
Waiting.
Zhan's hand slowly moved to Yibo's cheek.
Yibo flinched.
Just a little.
But he didn't pull away.
Didn't resist.
Just held still and let it happen.
His lips parted slightly, breath careful.
Waiting for the strike.
Instead—
Zhan's fingers only rested there.
Warm.
Still.
Gentle.
Yibo blinked.
Confused.
"…Not hit?" he whispered.
"…Not hit."
Another pause.
"…Why?"
His voice wasn't scared now.
Just puzzled.
Like he truly couldn't understand why a hand would touch softly instead of hurting.
Zhan stared at him.
At the faint marks still barely visible on his skin.
At the innocence.
At the damage.
At the boy who thought love had to hurt to be real.
And something inside him felt heavy.
Very heavy.
"…I don't hate you," Zhan said quietly.
Yibo's brows knit.
"…Not hate… but no like."
Zhan swallowed.
"…I don't dislike you either."
Yibo's lips parted slightly.
That answer…
…that answer meant everything to him.
His voice turned small again.
Hopeful in the most fragile way.
"…Little like?"
Zhan's chest tightened.
"…Yes," he said softly. "Little like."
Yibo's eyes lit up.
Not brightly.
Not wildly.
Just softly.
Like a candle being lit in a dark room.
"…Oh."
A tiny pause.
"…Then Bobo try more good. Then husband like more."
His fingers curled a little tighter in Zhan's shirt.
Determined.
Serious.
Innocently hopeful.
Zhan's throat suddenly felt tight.
Because Yibo said it like it was obvious.
Like love was something you earned by suffering enough.
Yibo rested his cheek lightly back against Zhan's chest again.
Comforted.
Satisfied.
Safe for now.
And in a tiny whisper, almost too soft to hear—
"…Bobo can wait."
The night was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
The hollow kind.
The kind that makes even small sounds feel loud.
Zhan woke slowly, his consciousness surfacing from sleep in fragments. Something felt… wrong.
He didn't know what at first.
The room was dark. The curtains barely moved. The air was still.
Then he noticed it.
The space beside him.
Empty.
His eyes opened fully.
The pillow next to his was cold.
Untouched.
Wrinkles in the bedsheet showed no sign of someone lying there recently.
Zhan frowned slightly.
"…Yibo?"
No answer.
He sat up.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
Not even the soft breathing he had gotten used to hearing at night.
A strange unease crept under his skin.
He stood, scanning the room.
Bathroom — empty.
Corner chair — empty.
Floor beside bed — empty.
His chest tightened faintly.
Where did he go?
Zhan stepped out into the hallway.
The mansion was dim, long corridors stretching into shadows. Night lamps glowed faintly against the walls.
"…Yibo," he called quietly.
No reply.
His jaw tightened.
He walked faster now, checking the living room, the study, the dining hall.
Nothing.
Each empty space made something in his chest grow heavier.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Something unfamiliar.
Something closer to worry.
Then—
a faint voice.
Soft.
Drifting.
Carried by the night air.
Zhan stopped.
It was coming from the balcony.
He walked toward the glass doors slowly.
And there—
he saw him.
Yibo sat on the cold marble floor of the balcony.
Barefoot.
Thin night clothes.
Knees pulled loosely to his chest.
His back leaned lightly against the railing.
His face tilted up toward the sky.
The moonlight painted his skin pale silver.
His green eyes reflected the stars.
And he was smiling.
Not his usual small, careful smile.
A real one.
Soft.
Warm.
Childlike.
Zhan didn't call him.
Didn't move.
He just stood there silently behind the curtain…
…and listened.
"…Mamma see?" Yibo whispered softly to the sky.
A pause.
He nodded faintly, like someone had answered.
"I good today."
Another pause.
"No cry. Only little cry."
His fingers played with the edge of his sleeve.
"I careful. Husband say I must careful."
Silence.
Then he giggled softly.
Not loudly.
Just a tiny, breathy sound.
"…Dadda, you see moon?" he whispered. "Big today. Same like when we eat cake outside."
His eyes sparkled slightly.
"I remember. I not forget."
A pause.
His smile softened.
"…I miss."
The words were quiet.
Simple.
But they trembled at the edges.
Zhan's chest felt tight.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't step forward.
He just stood there… watching a conversation that only one side could hear.
Yibo tilted his head slightly, listening to the silence like it was speaking back.
"…No, husband not bad," he murmured gently. "He just… loud hands."
He nodded slowly.
"But he hold Bobo today."
His voice dropped to a small whisper.
"…Warm."
A faint smile touched his lips again.
"Not like fire stick."
His fingers rubbed lightly at his arm without thinking.
Then he looked back up at the sky quickly, as if remembering something important.
"I trying be perfect," he said earnestly. "Then husband like more. Then no loud hands."
He listened again.
Longer this time.
Very serious.
Very focused.
"…Mm," he answered softly after a while. "I eat all food. I sit quiet. I not touch things. I not dirty."
Another pause.
Then, gently—
"I good boy, right?"
Silence answered him.
But Yibo smiled anyway.
Like he heard yes.
Zhan's throat tightened.
The moonlight showed every detail clearly—
the thinness of his wrists
the faint marks still healing
the way his shoulders curved inward slightly even when relaxed
the way he talked to the sky like it was home
"…Mamma," Yibo whispered again.
His voice was softer now.
Sleepier.
"…Can you tell husband… not hit Bobo?"
A pause.
His lashes lowered.
"…Bobo try very hard."
Another pause.
"…It still hurt."
Something inside Zhan's chest twisted sharply.
He hadn't realized his hands had clenched until his knuckles turned pale.
Yibo shifted slightly on the floor, hugging his knees loosely.
"…It okay," he added quickly, like he didn't want his invisible listeners to worry. "Bobo strong. See?"
He lifted one small arm and flexed it seriously.
"…Strong."
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied.
A breeze passed.
Cold.
Yibo shivered faintly.
But he didn't go inside.
He just looked up again, eyes soft, voice turning drowsy.
"…Mamma… Dadda…"
A tiny pause.
"…If husband like me more…"
His voice faded softer.
"…Can I stay longer?"
Zhan couldn't stand it anymore.
He stepped forward.
Quietly.
Carefully.
The balcony door slid open with a soft sound.
Yibo turned his head.
His eyes widened slightly.
"…Husband?"
Not scared.
Just surprised.
Like he didn't expect Zhan to appear in his night sky conversation.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Moonlight between them.
Silence around them.
Unsaid things everywhere.
Zhan looked at him sitting on the cold floor.
Barefoot.
Thin clothes.
Talking to ghosts like they were the only ones who listened.
His voice came out lower than usual.
"…You'll get sick sitting here."
Yibo blinked.
Looked at the floor.
Then at Zhan.
"…I talk to Mamma and Dadda," he explained softly, like it was important Zhan understood. "They busy in day. Night they free."
Zhan didn't answer.
Because something in his chest hurt too much to speak.
Yibo smiled gently up at him.
"…Husband want say hi?"
The night felt very, very quiet.
For a few seconds, Zhan didn't move.
He just stood there in the balcony doorway, looking at Yibo sitting on the cold marble floor like he belonged to the night more than to the house behind him.
Moonlight rested on Yibo's hair.
On his lashes.
On the thin fabric of his night clothes that were far too light for the chill.
His bare toes curled slightly from the cold… but he didn't seem to notice.
He was still looking up at Zhan, eyes open and soft, like he had simply been waiting for him to arrive.
Not worried.
Not guilty.
Just… there.
Zhan exhaled slowly.
"…Why didn't you wake me?" he asked quietly.
Yibo tilted his head.
"…Husband sleep."
A pause.
"…Sleep important."
His answer was gentle, certain, like it was obvious.
Zhan's gaze dropped to the floor beneath him.
Cold stone.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
"…You shouldn't sit here," he said.
Yibo looked down too, as if checking.
"…Floor okay."
Zhan didn't reply.
Because okay and right were not the same thing.
Without another word—
Zhan stepped forward.
Yibo's eyes followed him carefully, watching each movement like he always did when Zhan came close.
Not afraid.
Just alert.
Prepared.
Ready.
When Zhan bent down, Yibo blinked.
Once.
Slowly.
"…Husband?"
Zhan didn't answer.
One arm slid behind Yibo's back.
The other slipped under his knees.
Firm.
Careful.
Certain.
And then—
he lifted him.
Yibo's breath caught.
Not loudly.
Just a tiny sound of surprise.
His hands instinctively grabbed the front of Zhan's shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as his feet left the ground.
He didn't struggle.
Didn't panic.
But his body went very still.
Very light.
Like he was trying not to weigh anything.
Like he was afraid even gravity might be too much.
"…Carry?" he whispered.
Zhan straightened with him in his arms.
"…Yes."
Yibo blinked again.
Slowly.
Processing.
"…Not punishment?"
Zhan's jaw tightened faintly.
"…No."
Another pause.
"…Reward?"
Zhan hesitated.
"…No."
Yibo thought hard.
His brows pinched slightly.
"…Then why?"
Zhan adjusted his hold on him, one hand spreading gently across Yibo's back to steady him.
"…Because it's cold."
Simple.
Plain.
True.
Yibo considered that answer like it was something complicated.
Then softly—
"…Oh."
He seemed satisfied.
As Zhan turned toward the room, Yibo's head shifted slightly.
He looked back over Zhan's shoulder toward the sky.
The stars.
The moon.
The darkness that had been listening to him.
His fingers loosened from Zhan's shirt just enough for one hand to lift a little.
He gave a tiny wave.
"…Night night, Mamma," he whispered.
A small pause.
"…Night night, Dadda."
Another pause.
"…Bobo go sleep now."
His voice softened even more.
"…You sleep too."
Zhan's steps slowed.
Just slightly.
But he didn't stop.
Yibo lowered his hand again and rested it back against Zhan's chest.
Then, very cautiously—
like he was testing something fragile—
he leaned his head against Zhan's shoulder.
Not fully.
Just lightly.
Barely any weight.
Just enough to feel warmth.
Zhan felt it immediately.
That small, hesitant lean.
That careful trust.
That silent question.
His arm tightened instinctively around Yibo's back.
Not trapping.
Not forcing.
Just holding more securely so he wouldn't slip.
Yibo went still for a second.
Feeling it.
Registering it.
His lashes fluttered faintly.
"…Warm," he murmured.
Not to Zhan.
Just to himself.
Like he was noting an observation.
They crossed the room slowly.
Quiet.
The mansion silent around them.
Only the faint sound of Zhan's footsteps and Yibo's soft breathing filled the space.
Halfway to the bed, Yibo spoke again, voice drowsy now.
"…Husband?"
"…Hm."
A pause.
"…You not drop Bobo?"
Zhan's hold didn't loosen.
"…No."
"…Promise?"
"…Promise."
Yibo nodded faintly against his shoulder.
Satisfied.
Safe.
His fingers relaxed against Zhan's collar.
His breathing slowed.
Evened out.
By the time Zhan reached the bed…
Yibo was already half asleep.
Still in his arms.
Still leaning against him.
Still trusting him to hold on.
Zhan lowered him onto the bed as if he were placing something fragile on glass.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like even the mattress might hurt him if he wasn't gentle enough.
Yibo didn't wake.
Not fully.
Just stirred faintly when his back touched the sheets, his brows knitting for a second as if his body was confused about why the warmth was moving away.
His fingers tightened weakly in Zhan's shirt.
A sleepy reflex.
A silent don't go.
Zhan stilled.
Looked down.
"…I'm not leaving," he murmured quietly, voice low enough not to pull him from sleep.
Only then did Yibo's grip loosen.
His hand slipped from Zhan's shirt and fell softly onto the pillow beside him.
Zhan didn't stand up.
Didn't walk away.
Instead, he shifted and lay down beside him.
On his side.
Facing him.
Close enough to see every detail.
Yibo slept on his back at first, lashes resting lightly against his cheeks, lips parted just slightly as soft breaths passed through them. His hair fanned messily over the pillow, strands catching moonlight from the window.
He looked younger when he slept.
Not nineteen.
Younger.
Much younger.
Like someone time had forgotten to protect.
Zhan's gaze didn't move.
He watched the slow rise and fall of Yibo's chest.
Watched the tiny twitch of his lashes when he dreamed.
Watched the faint crease between his brows that never fully disappeared—even in sleep.
As if his body didn't know how to rest completely.
Something inside Zhan's chest felt tight again.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Just… heavy.
Slowly, his hand lifted.
Not in anger.
Not in habit.
Carefully.
Hesitantly.
His fingers hovered near Yibo's cheek for a second—
like he was asking permission from someone who couldn't answer.
Then gently…
he cupped his face.
Yibo stirred faintly.
A tiny breath catching.
But he didn't wake.
Instead, he leaned.
Instinctively.
Softly.
His cheek pressing deeper into Zhan's palm.
Seeking warmth even in sleep.
Trusting it.
Zhan's fingers stilled against his skin.
Warm.
Soft.
Real.
So small.
His thumb brushed lightly along Yibo's cheekbone without thinking.
The skin there was delicate.
Too delicate.
Like it had never learned how to defend itself.
Zhan's voice came out barely louder than air.
"…I'm sorry."
The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue.
Heavy.
But once they were out…
they didn't stop.
"…Why are you like this?" he whispered.
His gaze traced every feature slowly.
The curve of his lashes.
The softness of his lips.
The faint redness still lingering near his skin from old marks.
"So gentle…" he murmured.
His thumb brushed the edge of Yibo's cheek again.
"So small…"
His eyes softened slightly, something conflicted flickering in them.
"So messy…"
A faint exhale left him.
"…Adorable."
The word sounded strange coming from him.
Unfamiliar.
Like it belonged to someone else's voice.
His fingers shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from Yibo's forehead.
"…So beautiful."
Zhan froze.
The word hung in the air.
Beautiful.
His hand stopped moving.
His breathing slowed.
His eyes narrowed slightly like he was staring at something dangerous.
Beautiful?
He had said that.
About him.
His gaze dropped again to Yibo's sleeping face.
And suddenly—
he couldn't unsee it.
The soft curve of his features.
The delicate lines.
The peaceful expression.
The quiet innocence.
Not the loud kind of beauty people brag about.
Not the sharp kind that demands attention.
No.
This was the kind that existed quietly…
…and ruined you slowly once you noticed it.
Zhan's chest tightened.
"…Beautiful," he repeated under his breath, softer this time.
Like he was testing the word.
Like he didn't trust it.
Like he didn't trust himself for thinking it.
Yibo shifted slightly in his sleep.
A small sound escaped him.
Not a word.
Just a soft murmur.
His face turned instinctively toward Zhan's palm, cheek nuzzling faintly against it, seeking warmth the way a child seeks a blanket.
Zhan didn't pull away.
Didn't move.
His hand stayed there, cradling his face.
Watching him.
Studying him.
As if trying to understand something that had no logic.
"…Why," he whispered quietly, almost to himself, "do you look like this after everything?"
No answer came.
Only the quiet sound of Yibo breathing.
Steady.
Peaceful.
Trusting.
Zhan's thumb moved once more, barely brushing the corner of Yibo's eye.
"…You should hate me," he murmured.
But Yibo only breathed softly in his sleep.
Unaware.
Unhurt.
Still gentle.
Still soft.
Still… beautiful.
And for the first time—
that word didn't feel like admiration.
It felt like a problem.