Chapter : 9 "Because No One Asked"

The doctor arrived an hour later.

He was an older man with square glasses and a thin leather bag that clacked open like a mouthful of bones. Shu Yao's mother barely looked up from the counter as she waved him toward the stairs. "He's in his room," she said flatly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Fever."

The doctor climbed the steps without small talk. Upstairs, Shu Yao lay with his back to the door, curled in on himself. His blanket was twisted around his legs, and his hair clung damply to his neck. He didn't stir when the door opened.

"Young man?" the doctor said gently, already setting his bag down.

Shu Yao blinked, then slowly turned. His eyes were hazed, and his lips cracked from dryness.

The doctor pressed cool fingers to his wrist, then his neck. He checked his breathing. He examined the bruise darkening Shu Yao's cheekbone. Then he leaned back with a sigh.

"This fever isn't from infection," he said over his shoulder as Shu Yao's mother finally entered the room. "It's exhaustion. The boy's been pushing himself too hard."

She scoffed. "Or maybe he just doesn't eat properly."

"That's part of it," the doctor said calmly. "But this is more than skipping meals. He's overworked. Emotionally, too. When the body holds in too much for too long, it burns."

Shu Yao's mother folded her arms. "Then give him something that'll cool it down."

The doctor hesitated. Then nodded, pulling out a bottle and scribbling notes on a pad. "He needs complete rest. Proper food. No school. No stress."

She took the prescription without looking at her son.

The doctor left. The door clicked shut behind him.

And Shu Yao—

—fell.

Not physically, but into sleep. Into a dream that wasn't kind.

He stood in the school hallway again. Only the lights were flickering like breathless stars, and everything smelled of chalk and something burning. He turned—and Bai Qi was there.

Smiling.

But not at him.

Qing Yue was beside him, laughing under her breath. Her arm looped through Bai Qi's. They looked perfect together. Clean. Bright. Like something from a memory he never had.

Shu Yao took a step back, heart hammering.

Then Bai Qi kissed her.

A soft press of lips, full of ease and familiarity. And in that moment, Shu Yao felt it again—that hollow, splitting ache where something in his chest used to live. Like a porcelain vase dropped in a silent room.

His fever spiked. The hallway spun. The walls folded in.

He jolted awake.

The dream shattered.

He was back in bed, his pillow damp with sweat, his blanket half-kicked to the floor. The bruise on his cheek throbbed like a second heartbeat. But he didn't care.

The dream hurt worse.

Shu Yao turned his face toward the wall and slowly pulled the blanket over his shoulder, shivering.

He wouldn't sleep again.

Not now.

Not if it meant seeing things like that.

Time passed like dripping water—slow, uneven. The clock on his desk ticked too loudly. Downstairs, muffled voices moved like ghosts.

Then, footsteps.

Light ones.

And the door creaked open.

"Gege?"

Qing Yue's voice was soft, worried. She stepped inside and hurried to his bed.

Shu Yao opened his eyes.

She pressed her hand gently to his forehead, frowning. "You're still burning up," she whispered. "Are you feeling dizzy?"

He blinked slowly.

And smiled.

Not because he felt better. Not because anything had changed. But because his sister was here.

"I'm okay," he rasped, voice cracked like broken glass.

"You're not," she said, brushing his hair back. "I'm going to make soup. Don't move."

She turned and hurried out, her schoolbag still slung over one shoulder.

Downstairs, Qing Yue stormed into the kitchen.

Her mother stood at the stove, stirring nothing.

"Why didn't you tell me he was sick like this?" she demanded.

"He's always dramatic," the woman said simply. "A little fever never killed anyone."

Qing Yue bit her tongue. Then grabbed a pot and filled it with water. She pulled vegetables from the fridge, her hands moving faster than usual. Beside her, Bai Qi stood silently, watching.

"Help me," she snapped, not unkindly. "I need this boiled, and the ginger peeled."

Bai Qi moved quickly. He didn't ask questions.

Qing Yue worked like a soldier. Chopping. Slicing. Stirring.

And when the soup was done, she ladled it into a small white bowl and placed it carefully on a tray.

Then she turned to Bai Qi.

"Take this to him," she said. "Carefully."

Bai Qi nodded.

He carried the tray with both hands, the hot bowl gently steaming, a spoon nestled beside it. His shoes made no sound on the stairs.

He didn't knock.

Just opened the door slowly.

Shu Yao lay curled on his side, a single tremor running through his body like a distant earthquake. His eyes were shut tightly, his face flushed with fever. His breathing was too fast.

Bai Qi moved quietly.

He set the tray on the bedside table.

Then crouched down.

Closer.

His gaze wandered—over Shu Yao's pale lips, over the bruise on his cheekbone, over the soft rise and fall of his chest. The blanket was clutched in both hands now, as if holding himself together.

Bai Qi didn't speak.

Didn't reach out.

He just looked.

And for the first time in his life, Bai Qi didn't know what to say. All the wit, the calmness, the confidence—gone. None of it mattered here. Not in this quiet battlefield of fever and silence.

He leaned forward slightly, until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bedframe.

And whispered, so soft it could've been imagined:

"You didn't deserve this."

Then he sat there.

Still.

Guarding.

Waiting.

Until Shu Yao stirred—barely—and his eyes fluttered open.

Their gazes met.

And Bai Qi smiled.

Not his usual smirk. Not a teasing grin. Just a quiet, steady smile.

"There's soup," he said.

Shu Yao blinked, confused.

Then looked toward the tray.

And for just a breath of a moment—

The fever didn't matter. The bruise didn't matter. The dreams didn't hurt.

Only this moment did.

Bai Qi, sitting there. Looking at him. Like he saw him.

Really saw him.

For the first time.

And in that fragile space between exhaustion and meaning, Shu Yao closed his eyes again.

Ten minutes passed.

The soup steamed quietly, untouched.

Bai Qi glanced at it. Then at Shu Yao.

He reached out and gently touched Shu Yao's shoulder.

"Shu Yao," he said softly.

No response.

He tried again, just a little louder. "Shu Yao. Wake up. I brought you soup."

Shu Yao stirred.

His lashes fluttered, and his fingers twitched beneath the blanket.

"Shu Yao," Bai Qi repeated, firmer now, his hand still resting gently against the boy's shoulder.

Slowly, slowly, Shu Yao's eyes opened.

The fever still clung to them—hazy and red-rimmed—but they found Bai Qi's face.

For a second, he looked confused. Then his gaze softened.

Bai Qi didn't smile.

Instead, he gestured toward the tray. "Can you sit up? The soup's still warm."

Shu Yao shifted slightly, his hand reaching toward the bowl—but the moment he tried to lift it, his hands trembled.

He didn't reach.

Bai Qi watched him for a moment, then asked, "Do you want some help?"

Shu Yao blinked and gave a small shake of his head—not in agreement, but quiet refusal.

Still, when he tried again, his hands were shaking worse than before.

Without another word, Bai Qi picked up the bowl, inserted the spoon, and stirred the soup gently.

Then he lifted a spoonful, holding it out.

Shu Yao's brow furrowed. "I can eat on my own," he murmured.

But Bai Qi wasn't ready to let him try again.

"Open your mouth," Bai Qi said quietly, the spoon steady in his hand.

But Bai Qi wasn't ready to let him try again.

"Open your mouth," Bai Qi said quietly, the spoon steady in his hand.

But Shu Yao didn't open his mouth.

He simply stared down, lips pressed together.

Bai Qi frowned.

He set the spoon back in the bowl.

"Why didn't you let me help in school?"

Shu Yao turned his head away, slow and silent.

Bai Qi's voice grew quieter. "Why did you come to school? Knowing you were like this?"

Shu Yao's head lowered, his voice even lower.

"No one asked."

The words barely made it past his lips.

Bai Qi leaned closer. "What?"

Shu Yao didn't repeat it.

Didn't say anything else.

Bai Qi studied him. The shadows under his eyes. The line of tension in his jaw. The way he refused to be seen, even now.

"Why is your mother so pissed at you for no reason?"

Still silence.

Not even a blink.

Just the quiet burn of fever.

Bai Qi exhaled.

Then placed the bowl back on the table.

He stood.

The chair scraped lightly.

And his voice, when it came, was flat. Tired.

"Then do as you please."

He walked to the door, opened it.

Didn't look back.

Closed it gently behind him.

Leaving Shu Yao with the soup.

And the silence.