Chapter : 10 "The Sound Upstairs"

The door shut behind Bai Qi—not with a slam, but a soft finality that echoed louder than thunder in Shu Yao's chest. He sat there for a moment, unmoving, the silence pressing in like fog, heavy and still and cruel. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up. The room tilted. His knees gave a little. He caught the edge of the wall and swayed like a paper doll in wind. With slow, dragging feet, he reached the door. His trembling fingers found the lock and twisted it—click. A small sound, but somehow it felt like a scream. He turned back, body heavy, like it carried more than fever. Like it carried every goodbye that never sounded like one.

He sat down again, legs folding, hands shaking. Reached for the bowl. His fingers were unsteady, but he didn't care. The soup was still warm. The scent of ginger clung to the steam. He lifted the spoon. Sipped. Swallowed. Again. And again. Not because he was hungry, not because his body needed it—but because someone had made it for him. Because his sister had stirred it with care and told Bai Qi to carry it like it mattered. And he had. Even if he left. Even if he didn't stay.

Tears slid down Shu Yao's cheeks, slow and soundless. They didn't burn. They cooled. Like little ghosts of something still soft inside him.

He looked down at the bowl when it was empty. Smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

He pressed his head against the pillow, his lashes wet, breath shallow. And closed his eyes—not to dream. He didn't want to dream. Dreams hurt more than fevers. Dreams showed him things he didn't want to see. So he curled beneath the blanket, as if he could fold small enough to disappear inside the quiet. The room stilled. And outside, the world kept spinning.

The table was small, square, and smelled of soy and steam and something warm. Qing Yue moved gracefully between the dishes, carrying bowls of rice and stir-fried greens, soy-glazed chicken, steamed buns, and a pot of egg drop soup that shimmered like golden silk. Her mother helped beside her, chopping with quick precision, ladling broth into small white bowls, brushing hair from her forehead with flour-dusted fingers. When everything was set, they sat together—just the three of them. The room filled with the quiet clatter of chopsticks and the soft rise of steam curling toward the ceiling light like incense.

They had only taken a few bites when Qing Yue looked up and asked, "How is he?"

Bai Qi didn't meet her eyes. He shrugged. "Still dramatic."

Qing Yue's eyes narrowed. Her foot shot under the table and stomped down hard on his.

He hissed quietly. "Ow—!"

Her mother blinked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," they both said at the same time.

Bai Qi cleared his throat, straightened. "I mean, he's still feverish. He refused to drink the soup."

Qing Yue's brows pulled together. "Refused?" Her voice lowered, confused. "But… he always drinks the soup I make."

Their mother stood, having finished her meal. "I'll clean up," she said casually, picking up her plate and disappearing into the kitchen. The sound of running water followed.

Bai Qi pushed a bit of rice around his plate. His voice dropped. "It was my fault."

Qing Yue's chopsticks paused midair.

"I tried to feed him. With the spoon."

She stared at him, blinking once. Twice. Then her expression twisted like storm clouds rolling in.

"Bai Qi," she whispered like a warning. "You what?"

"I thought—he was too tired—I just—"

She slapped her chopsticks on the table. "Do you know my brother?"

"I'm trying to," he muttered.

"Well, here's your first lesson," she said, voice sharp and low. "He's shy. I mean—painfully shy. He can't even ask the waiter to refill his drink when we eat out. He can't look a girl in the eye for more than five seconds. He turns red if someone compliments his handwriting. He is—so goddamn innocent he might spontaneously combust if you even hint at romance."

Bai Qi blinked. "Wait—he's never—?"

"No. Not even close," Qing Yue said. "And you—you just stuck a spoon in his face like he was some helpless kid."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Of course you didn't. But it hurt him."

Bai Qi looked down again. His chest felt tight. Heavy.

" maybe He drink the soup," he said softly. "After I left."

Qing Yue's eyes softened, just a little. "Yeah. Because I made it."

Bai Qi didn't touch his food again. The taste had vanished from his mouth the moment Qing Yue's words settled in. He sat there, fingers curled loosely around his chopsticks, eyes unfocused. Of course he just wanted to help. That's all it was

he wasn't trying to embarrass Shu Yao, wasn't trying to cross some delicate line. When he had been sick last winter, Shu Yao had crouched beside him, barely speaking, but offering water, keeping a towel cool, staying close like a silent shadow that warmed the room without ever needing light. Bai Qi had only wanted to return that care. But this side of Shu Yao—it wasn't just shy. It wasn't just silence. It was sad. Like someone who had trained himself to never need anyone, just so he wouldn't feel the sting of being left behind again.

When he'd closed the door earlier, he hadn't walked away right away. He'd stood there for a second, hand still resting on the knob, breath caught in his throat. Waiting. What if Shu Yao called out? What if he changed his mind and asked him to stay? But what he heard instead was the soft, final click of the lock from inside. That sound—small, unassuming—landed like a stone in his chest. Even now. Even like this. Even with fever clouding his mind and hands trembling and lips cracked from heat—he still locked the door.

Against him.

Bai Qi had stood there for a moment longer, heartbeat strange and slow. Then, with quiet steps, he descended the staircase. One at a time. The soup he failed to feed now burning in his thoughts more than it ever had in the bowl.

The meal ended in quiet. Qing Yue began stacking the bowls, her sleeves pushed up, eyes still a little sharp from earlier. Bai Qi didn't say anything—he just stood and started gathering the dishes beside her, one by one. He moved carefully, almost too gently, like the bowls were something breakable in more ways than one. He carried them into the kitchen, the warmth of the room still clinging to the air, and placed them by the sink.

Qing Yue glanced at him from the corner of her eye but didn't stop him. He was quiet, not his usual confident self. Just present. Just helpful.

Her mother peeked in from the hallway, her brows lifting when she saw him rinse a spoon. "Stop it, Bai Qi. You're not some home maid. Go sit while I make tea."

But Bai Qi shook his head, water droplets catching the edge of his shirt. "I like doing things myself," he said. "And I like helping Qing Yue."

Qing Yue froze, nearly dropping the dish in her hands.

Her mother chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. "Ah, I see." She gave them both a look—half amused, half knowing. "Still, go. Sit. Let me make tea for the two of you, alright?"

Bai Qi hesitated.

But Qing Yue's ears were already pink, and she nudged him gently out of the kitchen, mumbling something about sugar cubes and cups with little blue flowers. Her mother just smiled to herself as she turned back to the stove, the sound of boiling water rising in the background like the start of something warm.

The room was dark now, the curtains drawn tight, light slipping in like breath through cracked lips. Heat pressed against Shu Yao's skin, sticky and clinging, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. The fever hadn't loosened its grip—instead, it had burrowed deeper, burning in his chest, making the air feel sharp. His lashes trembled. Then his eyes opened, sudden and wide.

He tried to sit up.

His arms shook beneath him, elbows buckling. He dragged himself upright, slow and clumsy, bones screaming. He reached toward the edge of the bed—toward the table.

But his hand missed.

The tray wobbled.

And the empty bowl slipped.

It fell.

And the sound of it breaking—clean, sharp, hollow—split the quiet like a scream that didn't need a voice. Porcelain shards scattered across the floor, small white pieces against the dark wood. No soup. No mess. Just silence. Just the ghost of what had been.

Shu Yao froze, lips parted, chest rising hard. The broken bowl looked like something sacred in ruins. And for a second, he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Downstairs, the sound echoed faint but unmistakable—sharp, splintering, like bone or porcelain cracking in a too-quiet room.

Qing Yue's hand froze halfway to her teacup.

She looked at Bai Qi, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

He was already standing.

He didn't answer her—but he knew. That sound wasn't from the kitchen, not the front door, not the wind outside.

It came from upstairs.

It came from Shu Yao.