— The Quiet That Wasn't There Before
Something had changed.
Not suddenly.
Not loudly.
But completely.
The next morning the mansion felt… different.
No humming in the hallways.
No soft footsteps following the servants.
No small voice asking simple questions.
Only silence.
Real silence.
The kind that settles after something fragile breaks.
Wang Yibo sat on the edge of the sofa, back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap.
Too neatly.
His posture wasn't natural. It looked practiced—like he had studied how people were supposed to sit and was trying very hard to copy it.
His eyes stayed lowered.
Not wandering.
Not curious.
Still.
When a servant passed, he didn't smile.
Didn't wave.
Didn't speak.
Just nodded once.
Slow.
Careful.
Polite.
Like a stranger.
The maid who used to be called mamma by him paused slightly, confusion flickering across her face.
"Sir… breakfast is ready," she said gently.
Yibo nodded again.
"…Okay."
One word.
Soft.
Controlled.
He stood and walked toward the dining room.
Each step measured.
Each movement cautious.
Like he was afraid the floor might punish him if he stepped wrong.
At the table, Xiao Zhan was already seated, scanning something on his tablet.
He noticed immediately.
Not consciously.
But instinctively.
The difference.
No cheerful you back.
No bright eyes.
No eager voice.
Just quiet.
Zhan didn't look up.
But he noticed.
Yibo pulled his chair out slowly.
Sat down.
Hands returned to his lap.
Back straight again.
He waited.
Didn't touch anything.
Didn't reach for food.
Didn't speak.
Zhan finally glanced at him.
"…Eat."
"Yes."
Yibo picked up his chopsticks.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
He lifted food like he was performing surgery. His hand moved slowly, eyes focused intensely, lips pressed tight in concentration.
Not a drop fell.
Not a sound.
Not a mistake.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Zhan's gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.
Then returned to his screen.
Halfway through the meal—
It happened.
A slip.
Small.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
Yibo saw a piece of carrot shaped like a flower.
His eyes lit up instinctively.
"Oh… pretty—"
The word escaped before he realized.
His hand froze mid-air.
His eyes widened.
Slowly—
slowly—
he lowered his gaze.
The light vanished from his face as fast as it had appeared.
"…Sorry," he whispered.
He placed the carrot back down.
Didn't eat it.
Didn't look at it again.
He straightened his posture even more, fingers tightening around the chopsticks like he was holding himself still.
He didn't know how to act like others.
Didn't know what was childish and what wasn't.
He only knew—
childish = wrong.
So he tried to hide it.
But he didn't know how.
And that made every movement stiff.
Every expression delayed.
Every reaction restrained a second too late.
Zhan watched without lifting his head.
Watched through lowered lashes.
Watched the way Yibo checked his own hands before moving them.
Watched the way he swallowed words before they came out.
Watched the way he stopped himself from looking curious.
Watched the way he erased himself.
The room felt strangely empty.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like someone had taken color out of it.
Yibo finished eating.
He placed his chopsticks down neatly.
Folded his hands again.
Waited.
"…May I go?" he asked quietly.
Formal.
Careful.
Not Can Bobo go?
Not Finished!
Just—
May I go.
Zhan didn't answer immediately.
Because something unfamiliar pressed faintly against his ribs.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Just…
awareness.
"…Go," he said finally.
"Yes."
Yibo stood.
Turned.
Walked away.
No skipping.
No looking back.
No smile.
Just soft footsteps fading down the hall.
And only after he disappeared—
did Zhan realize something.
The mansion used to feel noisy when Yibo was around.
Now it felt…
empty.
Not peaceful.
Empty.
He looked down at the table.
The flower-shaped carrot piece still sat untouched on Yibo's plate.
Somewhere down the corridor—
Yibo whispered to himself, practicing softly:
"Not pretty… not say pretty… quiet… quiet…"
He nodded once.
Encouraging himself.
Trying.
Trying very hard—
— Words Said Only in Sleep
Night settled over the mansion like a heavy curtain.
The lights were off.
The corridors silent.
Even the wind outside had stilled, as if the world itself didn't want to make noise.
Inside the bedroom, darkness lay soft across the walls.
Xiao Zhan wasn't asleep.
He lay on his back, eyes open, one arm resting beside him, staring at nothing.
He told himself he wasn't thinking about anything.
Not the dinner.
Not the silence.
Not the way the house had felt all day like something was missing.
Certainly not the boy sleeping beside him.
But sleep didn't come.
Minutes passed.
Maybe an hour.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
So soft it could have been mistaken for the rustle of sheets.
Zhan's eyes shifted slightly.
Another sound.
A whisper.
He turned his head.
Beside him, Wang Yibo lay curled slightly toward the edge of the bed, as far from Zhan as he could be without falling off. His hands were tucked close to his chest, fingers curled like he was holding something invisible.
His lashes trembled.
His lips moved.
"…no spill… hold tight…"
The whisper was faint. Slurred. Dream-heavy.
Zhan stilled.
Yibo wasn't awake.
He was talking in his sleep.
"…slow… careful… no mistake…"
His brows knit slightly, like he was concentrating very hard even inside his dream.
"…good boy… Bobo good…"
The words came out broken. Practiced. Repeated.
Not random dream talk.
Practice.
He was practicing.
Even in sleep.
Zhan's gaze sharpened.
Yibo shifted faintly, breathing uneven, voice barely audible—
"…don't drop… don't talk… don't smile too much… not loud… quiet… quiet…"
His fingers twitched against the blanket, gripping fabric like he was afraid it might be taken away.
"…perfect… must be perfect…"
The sentence was whispered with desperate effort, like a promise he was trying to keep.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't look away.
Because something about hearing those words—
spoken unconsciously—
felt different than hearing them while Yibo was awake.
When awake, Yibo tried.
In sleep—
there was no pretending.
No performing.
Only truth.
Yibo's breathing hitched slightly.
"…no ruin… no ruin…"
A pause.
Then softer.
"…don't send Bobo away…"
The words almost disappeared before they finished.
Silence returned for a few seconds.
Zhan thought it was over.
Then—
another whisper.
Smaller.
Fragile.
"…husband no hit Bobo…"
—
Something in Zhan's chest tightened.
Not sharply.
Not painfully.
Just enough to make him notice.
Yibo's lashes trembled again, tears gathering at the corners even though he was still asleep.
"…Bobo good… please…"
His fingers curled tighter in the blanket.
Waiting.
Even in dreams.
Waiting for permission.
Waiting for safety.
Waiting for kindness that might never come.
Zhan's jaw slowly clenched.
He hadn't touched him.
Hadn't spoken.
Hadn't moved.
But the room suddenly felt heavier.
The silence louder.
The darkness closer.
Yibo shifted again, voice fading weaker—
"…Bobo try… try… try…"
The last word trailed off into breath.
His face relaxed slightly after that, like whatever he had been afraid of inside the dream had finally passed.
His hand loosened on the blanket.
Still.
Quiet.
Sleeping again.
Zhan lay there watching him.
Long after the whispers stopped.
Long after the room returned to silence.
His expression didn't change.
Still cold.
Still controlled.
Still unreadable.
But his eyes—
his eyes didn't leave Yibo's face.
Not once.
Because for the first time—
he realized something he had never considered before.
Yibo wasn't trying to be good because he wanted praise.
He was trying…
because he was afraid of being thrown away.
Outside, the night remained silent.
Inside, one man finally understood what his words had done.
And the other—
slept, still whispering apologies to someone who wasn't speaking anymore.
— Careful Hands
The room was still.
The kind of stillness that makes every small movement sound louder than it should.
Moonlight slipped through the curtains, laying a pale silver line across the bed… across the sleeping boy curled at its edge.
Wang Yibo had drifted quiet again after his whispers, lashes resting softly against tear-damp cheeks, breathing slow, fragile, unaware.
For a long time, Xiao Zhan didn't move.
He simply watched.
Watched the faint rise and fall of Yibo's chest.
Watched the way his fingers twitched sometimes, like he was still practicing something even in dreams.
Watched the distance between them on the mattress—
A gap wide enough to say everything.
His gaze lingered on that space.
Then—
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Zhan shifted.
Not the way someone turns casually.
The way someone moves when they're afraid even a small motion might break something delicate.
His hand lifted.
Paused in the air.
For a second it stayed there, suspended above Yibo's shoulder, fingers slightly curled, like he wasn't sure what they were supposed to do.
He had grabbed people before.
Pulled.
Pushed.
Held wrists.
Gripped collars.
But this—
This required something he had never practiced.
Gentleness.
His hand lowered.
Carefully.
Carefully enough that the mattress barely dipped.
His fingers touched the fabric of Yibo's sleeve first… testing… like he expected the boy to flinch even in sleep.
Yibo didn't move.
Only breathed.
Zhan slid his hand a little farther… until his palm rested lightly against Yibo's arm.
Warm.
Small.
Too light.
He hesitated again.
Then, with slow, deliberate care—
he drew him closer.
Not pulling.
Guiding.
Like he was afraid sudden force might hurt him.
Yibo shifted slightly from the movement, body instinctively curling toward warmth. A soft sound left his lips, not fear, not protest—just a sleepy murmur.
Zhan stilled instantly.
Waited.
Watched.
Yibo settled again.
Still asleep.
Still trusting.
Only then did Zhan continue.
His arm slipped around Yibo's back, drawing him gently against his chest until the space between them disappeared.
The boy fit there too easily.
Too naturally.
Like he had always been meant to be held instead of pushed away.
Zhan's hold tightened just slightly—
Careful.
Measured.
Protective.
Not possessive.
Not harsh.
Just… careful.
He looked down.
Really looked.
Nineteen.
That number surfaced in his mind without effort.
Nineteen years old.
Old enough to be called an adult.
Young enough to still have round cheeks.
Young enough to whisper apologies in sleep.
Young enough to practice being perfect because—
he thought that was the only way to stay.
Zhan's gaze traced the faint shadows beneath Yibo's eyes.
The softness of his features.
The innocence still clinging stubbornly to his expression even after everything.
His eyes shifted lower—
to the place on Yibo's arm where he knew the marks were hidden beneath fabric.
Burn marks.
From someone else's hands.
His jaw tightened faintly.
This boy…
this nineteen-year-old boy…
was trying to become perfect—
because Zhan only slapped him.
Not burned him.
The realization sat heavy.
He looked back at Yibo's sleeping face.
At how peaceful he looked now that he was held.
At how naturally he had leaned closer without waking.
Like his body had been waiting for warmth even if his mind didn't expect it.
Zhan's fingers adjusted slightly against his back, making sure his grip wasn't too tight.
Didn't hurt.
Didn't scare.
Didn't wake.
His thumb brushed once against the fabric near Yibo's shoulder—
a motion so faint it almost didn't exist.
Not soothing.
Not affectionate.
Just…
checking.
That he was really there.
That he wasn't shaking.
That he wasn't afraid.
Yibo sighed softly in his sleep.
Relaxed deeper into him.
Trusted the arms holding him—
without knowing whose they were.
Zhan stared at him a long time.
Long enough for the silence to grow thick.
Long enough for the night to pass another quiet hour.
His expression didn't soften.
Didn't warm.
Didn't change.
But his hold—
never loosened.
For the first time since the marriage—
he wasn't holding Yibo to control him.
He was holding him…
like something fragile that shouldn't break again.
— Morning That Didn't Feel the Same
Dawn came quietly.
Soft gold light slipped through the curtains, touching the edges of the room, climbing slowly across the floor, up the bed, and finally resting against two figures lying close together.
The mansion was waking.
Birds outside.
Distant clatter in the kitchen.
Footsteps far down the hall.
But inside the bedroom—
nothing moved.
Not yet.
Wang Yibo stirred first.
Not fully awake.
Just drifting upward from sleep.
His lashes fluttered.
His brows twitched slightly.
He inhaled—
—and paused.
Warm.
His cheek was resting against something warm.
Not pillow.
Not blanket.
Warm… and steady.
His sleepy mind didn't understand immediately. He shifted faintly, face nuzzling instinctively closer to the warmth, seeking it like someone who had learned warmth disappears if you don't hold onto it.
A quiet breath left him.
Then slowly—
his eyes opened.
Half-lidded.
Foggy with sleep.
The first thing he saw—
fabric.
Dark fabric.
Very close.
His gaze moved upward slowly.
And froze.
Chest.
Neck.
Jawline.
Face.
Xiao Zhan.
Yibo's pupils widened.
Not fear.
Shock.
Because—
he was in Zhan's arms.
Not near.
Not beside.
In.
Zhan's arm lay around his back, hand resting securely against him, holding him close like that position had never changed all night.
Yibo didn't breathe.
Didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
His mind tried to understand.
Did I move here?
Did he pull me?
Is this allowed?
Carefully—
very carefully—
he lifted his eyes to Zhan's face.
Still asleep.
Expression calm.
Breathing slow.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Just… sleeping.
Yibo stared.
He had never seen him like this before.
Without the hard look.
Without the strict voice.
Without the distance.
Sleeping Zhan didn't look cruel.
Sleeping Zhan looked…
tired.
The realization made something soft flicker inside Yibo's chest.
His fingers twitched slightly where they rested between them.
He didn't dare move more.
Afraid if he did—
the arms around him would disappear.
So he stayed still.
Very still.
Watching.
Memorizing.
Like this moment was something rare that might never happen again.
Minutes passed.
Sunlight shifted higher.
Yibo's gaze slowly dropped to the hand resting against his back.
Big hand.
Warm hand.
The same hand that—
slapped him.
His eyes lingered there.
Not scared.
Just thoughtful.
Then quietly, barely audible—
"…gentle," he whispered.
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
His eyes widened instantly.
He clapped his lips shut.
Too late.
Because Zhan's breathing had changed.
Not fully awake.
But not fully asleep anymore either.
Yibo froze completely.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't move.
He waited.
Seconds ticked by.
Zhan's lashes shifted slightly.
His arm—
tightened just a little.
Not harsh.
Just instinctive.
Like his body reacted before his mind woke.
Yibo's heart skipped.
He stared up at him, eyes wide and silent.
Zhan's eyes opened slowly.
Dark.
Clear.
Aware.
The first thing he saw—
was Yibo.
Curled against him.
Looking up at him like he was watching the sunrise.
Silence.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
The morning light stretched across them both.
Yibo swallowed softly.
"…Morning," he whispered.
Careful.
Polite.
Like always now.
He didn't ask why he was being held.
Didn't ask if he could stay.
Didn't ask anything.
Just waited.
Because waiting was safer than hoping.
Zhan didn't answer immediately.
His gaze stayed on Yibo's face.
Then slowly—
he became aware of something.
His arm.
Still around him.
Still holding him.
Still unwilling to let go.
And for a moment—
just a brief, quiet moment—
he didn't move it.
Outside, the sun rose higher.
Inside, something unspoken shifted between them.
Not forgiveness.
Not softness.
Not yet.
But something had changed.
And neither of them knew what to call it.
— A Word That Shouldn't Exist
The moment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Morning light rested gently across the bed, across their faces, across the space that still hadn't broken between them.
Yibo hadn't moved.
He was still lying in Zhan's arms, small and careful, like he was afraid breathing too loudly might ruin something fragile.
Then—
His nose twitched.
Once.
Twice.
His brows scrunched.
He tried to hold it.
Tried very hard.
His lips pressed tight.
His eyes squeezed shut—
"hih…!"
He covered his mouth quickly.
But—
"—chh!"
A soft sneeze escaped anyway.
Small.
Barely louder than a whisper.
But in the stillness of the room—
it sounded loud.
Very loud.
Zhan's expression changed instantly.
The softness that had existed a moment ago vanished like it had never been there.
His brows snapped together.
Irritation flashed across his face.
Before Yibo could react—
Zhan's hand pushed him away.
Hard.
Not a gentle distance.
A shove.
Yibo's body lurched forward from the sudden force, balance lost, palms catching against the mattress to keep from falling off the bed.
"Disgusting."
The word was sharp.
Cold.
Immediate.
It cut deeper than the push.
Yibo froze.
His back still bent forward, hands pressed to the bed, hair falling into his eyes.
Slowly—
he turned his head.
"…dis…gusting?" he whispered.
His voice was small.
Confused.
Like he didn't understand the word but knew it hurt.
He pointed faintly to himself.
"…Me?"
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"Yes. You."
The confirmation landed heavy.
"You're disgusting and dirty," he continued harshly. "You don't even know basic hygiene. Sneezing without warning? Acting like that first thing in the morning?"
Yibo blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His hands curled slowly into the sheets.
Something unfamiliar moved across his face.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Something else.
"…Bobo clean," he said quietly.
The words were soft—
but they didn't tremble.
Zhan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What?"
Yibo swallowed.
His fingers twisted in the fabric, gathering courage he didn't understand he had.
"…I clean," he repeated, a little firmer. "Bath… soap… brush teeth… wash hands…"
He lifted his eyes carefully.
Not defiant.
Just certain.
"…Not dirty."
Silence.
It was the first time—
the first time—
he had ever corrected Zhan.
Not loudly.
Not rudely.
Just truthfully.
And that—
was enough.
Zhan's temper snapped.
His hand moved.
Slap.
Yibo's face turned with the force.
A sharp sound filled the room.
He didn't cry out.
Didn't even make a sound.
He just blinked slowly, stunned.
"I didn't ask you to argue," Zhan said coldly.
Yibo's lashes trembled.
"…Not argue," he whispered faintly. "Just say…"
Slap.
Harder.
His head snapped the other way.
"…truth."
Slap.
The third one echoed louder.
Not wild.
Not out of control.
Controlled.
Measured.
Which somehow made it worse.
"Don't talk back to me," Zhan said, voice low and cutting. "You don't get to decide what you are. I decide."
Yibo's breathing had gone uneven.
His hands pressed against the mattress to steady himself.
But still—
still—
he whispered hoarsely,
"…I clean…"
Another slap lifted his chin sideways.
Silence fell again.
His cheek was red now.
His lashes wet.
But no sobs came out.
Only small breaths.
Because crying loudly—
wasn't allowed.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then slowly…
Yibo straightened.
Not fully.
Just enough to sit upright again.
His head stayed lowered.
Voice tiny.
"…Sorry."
The word came automatically.
Like breathing.
Even though—
this time—
he hadn't believed he was wrong.
Zhan watched him.
Chest rising once.
Slowly.
His anger was still there.
But underneath it—
something else stirred faintly.
Not regret.
Not yet.
Just—
a thin crack of awareness.
Because this was the first time Yibo had ever said no to him.
And even after being struck—
he had still whispered the truth.
Yibo wiped the corner of his eye quickly with his sleeve.
Careful.
Quiet.
Erasing evidence.
Trying to fix the mistake of existing again.
The morning sunlight kept shining.
Unaffected.
As if it hadn't just watched something break.
— "Bobo Clean"
The bathroom door had been closed for a long time.
Too long.
Steam curled slowly out from the gap beneath it, thin white trails creeping across the marble floor like quiet ghosts. The sound of water had been running without pause—steady, constant, relentless.
Inside—
Wang Yibo stood under the shower, small hands gripping the bar of soap so tightly his fingers had turned pale.
Water streamed down his hair, his face, his shoulders.
Still he scrubbed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"Clean… clean… clean…"
His voice trembled with each whisper, like he was chanting a spell that might save him if he said it enough times.
Foam slid down his arms.
He rubbed harder.
Because maybe—
maybe he had missed something.
Maybe there was still "dirty" somewhere.
His hands moved faster, clumsier, sliding across his skin again and again as if he could erase the word that had been thrown at him.
Disgusting.
His chest hitched.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head under the water. "No… Bobo clean…"
He scrubbed his arm again.
And again.
Soap slipped.
He grabbed it quickly.
Didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
Didn't think.
Because if he stopped—
the word might come back.
Outside the bathroom, the mansion was quiet.
Servants passed the hallway once… twice…
Then paused.
Because through the door—
they could hear him.
At first it was only faint murmuring.
Then—
a sound.
Not quiet.
Not small.
A broken breath.
Then another.
Then—
crying.
Not the silent crying they were used to hearing from him.
Not the tiny sniffles he tried to hide.
This time—
it was loud.
Raw.
Uncontrolled.
Inside, Yibo's shoulders shook under the water.
"I clean! I clean! I clean!" he cried, voice cracking. "Not dirty! Bobo not dirty!"
His words echoed against the tile walls, louder because they had nowhere else to go.
He scrubbed his arm again desperately, like proof might appear if he tried hard enough.
"I wash! I wash every day!" he sobbed. "Soap… shampoo… brush teeth… wash hands… I do all… I do all…"
His voice broke into uneven gasps.
Water and tears mixed together on his face, impossible to separate.
"I clean… I clean…" he repeated helplessly. "Why still dirty…?"
His hand slid to his shoulder.
Rubbed.
Harder.
As if the answer might be hidden there.
Outside—
footsteps stopped completely.
Because now everyone in the hallway could hear him.
His crying wasn't soft anymore.
It was loud enough to reach the walls.
Loud enough to hurt to listen to.
Loud enough to sound like something inside him was tearing.
Down the corridor—
a door opened.
**Xiao Zhan stepped out.
At first his expression was annoyed, brows faintly drawn from the noise interrupting his morning.
But then—
he listened.
"I CLEAN—!"
The cry came muffled through distance and walls.
Zhan stilled.
Another sob echoed faintly.
"Bobo clean… please… clean…"
Not childish whining.
Not tantrum.
Not attention-seeking.
Desperation.
The kind that didn't know anyone was listening.
The kind that came from believing it.
His jaw tightened slightly.
The sound continued.
Water running.
Sobs breaking.
Soap slipping.
Frantic rubbing sounds against skin.
"I clean I clean I clean I clean—"
The words tumbled over each other now, panicked, breathless, like if he stopped saying them they would stop being true.
A servant nearby lowered her eyes, hands clasped tightly together.
No one dared move.
Because everyone knew—
who had put that word into his head.
Inside the bathroom—
Yibo's legs finally gave out.
He sank to the floor under the spray, knees pulled close, soap still clutched in his hand.
His voice cracked into a wail.
Not quiet.
Not hidden.
Not obedient.
"I NOT DIRTY!"
The cry echoed loudly off tile and glass.
His shoulders shook violently now.
Water kept falling.
But he didn't turn it off.
Didn't get up.
Didn't stop scrubbing weakly at his arm even as his strength faded.
"I clean…" he sobbed hoarsely. "I clean… I clean…"
The words grew softer.
More broken.
"…why say dirty…"
Outside—
the hallway had gone completely silent.
Because hearing someone cry like that…
was not something people forgot.
And standing at the far end of the corridor—
Zhan listened.
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't interrupt.
But the sound—
would not stop reaching him.