"Come on. Waiting room's this way."
The waiting area outside the critical care ward was silent but heavy. Too heavy.
Dong Yingming sat on one of the narrow, stiff-backed chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly they had gone white at the knuckles. The sterile overhead lights buzzed quietly. Footsteps echoed faintly from distant corridors. A vending machine whirred as if mocking the silence.
Time didn't feel real anymore. It felt warped. Every second dragged out like an eternity, like it had been pulled thin and stretched over jagged wire.
He had watched Yao Ziyang nearly die in his arms.
Even now, the image kept flashing behind his eyes—the boy's body drenched in oily black sweat, skin burning and breathing shallow like a candle snuffing out. The smell of it, the weight of his too-light body, the way his head had lolled...
Dong Yingming swallowed hard, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Beside him, Chang Xiao sat with uncharacteristic stillness, arms folded over his chest, casting quiet glances at the double doors that hadn't opened since Miao Ruiming and Zhang Wei had gone through them. He had offered a few words of comfort at first, but now even he was quiet—understanding instinctively that Dong Yingming was walking a tightrope of control.
Dong Yingming didn't speak. Couldn't. Not yet.
His fingers twitched against his knees.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He had promised himself—after that night, after the nosebleed, after he'd seen Yao Ziyang collapsed in his arms—he had vowed to never let it happen again. And yet here he was, sitting helpless while others fought to save the only person who made him feel like he still had a soul.
His smile still lingered faintly in his mind. That delicate, impossible warmth. It made his chest ache even more.
Chang Xiao glanced over, then leaned in slightly.
"He's in good hands. You did everything right."
He said gently.
Dong Yingming said nothing.
His eyes were locked on the door, unmoving, burning.
Waiting for someone—anyone—to open them and tell him Yao Ziyang would live.
At one point, a nurse walked by. Dong Yingming flinched, sitting up, ready to rise—
—but she passed without a glance, disappearing into another wing.
He slumped again, fists trembling.
"Boss Dong…"
Chang Xiao tried again, softer this time.
"He'll make it through this."
Dong Yingming still didn't answer.
But in his mind, he was replaying every moment he'd failed him. Every moment he'd walked away when Yao Ziyang needed him. Every time he'd told himself to stay away.
And now—now he was praying to gods he didn't believe in that it wasn't too late to change.
In those endless hours of waiting, Dong Yingming felt fear in its purest form—not of death, but of loss. Of the one thing he had never expected to care about slipping from his reach forever.
He didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He just waited.
And hoped.
And loved him in silence.
The walls were a dull beige, the kind of color meant to soothe but instead left a person feeling emptier than before. A muted television droned quietly in the corner, playing a cooking show no one watched. Dong Yingming sat slouched forward on the waiting chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His sleeves were wrinkled, his hair slightly damp from where he'd run his hands through it over and over.
Chang Xiao sat nearby, dozing lightly, arms still crossed.
Then, at last, a soft voice stirred the air:
"Excuse me… Mr. Dong?"
Both men looked up sharply.
A nurse stood in the doorway. Her tone was gentle, cautious.
"He's stable now. His vitals are strong. We're expecting a full recovery. There's… no sign of internal damage."
Dong Yingming shot to his feet.
"Can I see him?"
She nodded.
"He's still sleeping. But yes, you may. Please keep your voice low. He needs rest."
"Thank you."
He said, and meant it.
As he turned, Chang Xiao rose and stretched.
"Go on…"
He said.
"I'll grab us something to eat. You look like hell, Boss."
Dong Yingming paused, gave a single tight nod, then slipped through the door the nurse held open.
The private room was dim, serene, the sharp whiteness of the hospital softened by the filtered light from the curtains. Machines pulsed with steady beeps, a faint rhythmic reassurance that life was holding on.
There was a distant hush of sterilized air, but the stench of decay was gone. Replaced now with something almost... clean. Restorative. And very sweet.
When Dong Yingming stepped into the recovery room, it took him a moment to realize he'd stopped breathing.
Yao Ziyang lay beneath crisp, fresh sheets, his body washed clean of the black, foul sweat—and what was left was nothing short of otherworldly.
The boy who had looked deathly pale, fever-wrecked, and weak now seemed like he had stepped out of a dream. His skin was dewy and unblemished, like porcelain warmed by light. His cheeks had a soft flush, his lips were pink again, fuller, even youthful. His lashes, once long and dark were now longer and light, almost translucent, against his cheeks, and there was a glow to his features that no longer looked merely human—but ethereal.
Dong Yingming's breath caught in his throat.
He had always thought Yao Ziyang was beautiful—but this was something else entirely. He looked untouched by the world, like a painting, like something carved from purity itself. The kind of beauty one protected with their life, the kind that turned even devils into saints—if only for a moment.
Dong Yingming stepped closer slowly, reverently. He reached out and brushed a lock of soft, freshly washed, now, blonde hair from Yao Ziyang's brow. His fingers trembled.
"…You're glowing..."
He murmured, his voice barely audible.
"Did you know that?"
He didn't expect an answer, but speaking made it real. Grounded him in the moment. He didn't question the drastic change in appearance nor the odd sweet smell that stirred his heart. In this moment, only one thing mattered.
He was alive.
He was alive and so—sostunning it hurt to look at him for too long.
"You scared me…"
He whispered, barely audible.
"You scared the hell out of me."
He didn't cry. Didn't shout.
He just stood there, breathing in sync with the slow rise and fall of the boy's chest, his own heart finally beating again after hours of brutal stillness.
And for the first time since that awful night, he let himself believe:
Yao Ziyang was going to live.
Dong Yingming looked around the quiet room once, ensuring everything was in order, then dragged a heavy chair across the linoleum floor and placed it right at the bedside. Not one inch away.
He sat down, then leaned forward, elbows on the bed, never taking his eyes off Yao Ziyang's face. With slow, deliberate care, he reached out and curled his fingers around Yao Ziyang's warm, relaxed hand, cradling it in his palm like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
He didn't say anything else.
He just watched. Watched and guarded.
His entire frame leaned toward the boy protectively. There was no trace of the cold, calculating Underworld boss now—only a man who had nearly lost the one person that mattered and was determined never to let it happen again.
The weight of the night, the fear, the adrenaline—it all began to crash into him like a falling tide.
The moment his shoulders slumped, he realized just how hollowed out he'd become. How long it had been since his body had rested—really rested. But still, he refused to leave Yao Ziyang's side. Not even to shift back in the chair. Not even to stretch.
His hand stayed locked around the man's like a vow.
And eventually, lulled by the rhythmic beep of the monitors and the quiet exhale of Yao Ziyang's breathing, Dong Yingming's eyes drifted closed.
The chair creaked faintly as he slouched forward, resting his head against the side of the bed, still holding that delicate hand.
He didn't mean to sleep. But exhaustion claimed him anyway.
And there they remained—one sleeping peacefully, healing in a body no longer at war with itself.
And the other, slumped in devotion, keeping watch even in his dreams.
…
Dong Yingming stirred slowly, blinking blearily as the sterile white of the hospital room came into focus. The stiff hospital chair had done no favors to his spine, and his arm had gone numb from where it had remained wrapped protectively around the edge of the bed. His hand was open on the mattress where he'd last held Yao Ziyang's.
But the bed was empty.
The sheets had been disturbed, the bed where Yao Ziyang once lay was cold. Blankets twisted slightly—as if he had slipped out quietly, without wanting to wake him.
His heart lurched. Panic surged.
Dong Yingming jolted upright, alarm flooding his chest.
His eyes darted wildly across the room, chest already tightening in panic. Was he delirious again? Wandering? Did he collapse in the bathroom?
Then—his eyes caught on the figure standing at the open window, bathed in the first light of dawn.
And the world stopped.
The early morning sun had just begun its slow climb over the horizon, and its rays pierced through the wide glass like a divine spotlight—framing the man in a wash of golden fire.
A loose hospital robe hung gently off his shoulders, and the breeze stirred the curtains around him in slow, sweeping motions, like gossamer silk, adding to the surreal image. The rays of the rising sun lit his profile in gold, catching the soft pink of his lips, the delicate angle of his jaw, the silken strands of his hair.
He looked almost unreal.
Like a god who had descended to earth, shimmering in new morning light.
A living painting. A moment of holiness.
Yao Ziyang stood barefoot, wrapped loosely in a hospital robe, the morning sun gilding him in gold.
He looked like something out of a dream.
He looked divine.
A breeze stirred again—and carried something else that hit Dong Yingming. A scent.
It hit his lungs like heat.
So faint, it barely registered—It was clean and natural, like crushed blossoms warmed in sunlight, like the warmth of skin after a bath, like something alive and irresistible. It didn't belong in this world.
Dong Yingming felt his breath catch. He didn't know what it was. He didn't understand it. But every instinct in him reacted—an ache bloomed in his chest, an urge to protect, to pull Yao Ziyang close, to never let that scent drift too far from him.
His heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but with something deeper, primal. It made something deep in Dong Yingming's chest seize. A longing he didn't understand. It was irrational. It made no sense. His breath hitched. His fingers curled into fists on instinct.
He didn't understand what was happening—but he knew, with absolute certainty:
He wanted to be near him.
He wanted to hold him. Keep him close. Wrap his arms around that glowing figure and never let go.
It was maddening. Irresistible.
His scent is what drew him, enticing Dong Yingming but it was his appearance that stole Dong Yingming's breath entirely.
His hair, once dark and neat, was now a soft, shimmering platinum blond, the shoulder length strands catching the sunlight like fine silk. It looked almost ethereal, as if it didn't belong to someone entirely human. His skin was luminous, smooth and flushed with health, as though he had never known illness. And his eyes—those inky black eyes that held a secret—reflected the morning skyline in their endless depths, calm and watchful like still water.
He looked like a deity in disguise. A being carved from light and shadow, descended to earth for reasons no mortal could understand.
At the window, Yao Ziyang tilted his head, taking in the waking cityscape below.
He turned slightly, the softest smile on his lips as he looked out across the city skyline.
"It's beautiful…"
He murmured, mostly to himself. His voice is soft and musing.
"I should start waking up earlier...so I don't miss the sunrise."
When he turned fully, their eyes met and he saw Dong Yingming staring at him, wide-eyed and halfway to speechless. A gentle blush bloomed on his cheeks, they flushed a delicate pink, perhaps from embarrassment at being caught out of bed, but he smiled warmly. A warm, sleepy, radiant smile that chased away every shadow from the night before.
"Good morning."
He said sweetly.
Dong Yingming felt something thrum deep in his chest. Like a string pulled taut and plucked. His lips parted—but no sound came out. The moment felt like a dream. One he wasn't ready to end.
Dong Yingming sat stunned, still caught between awe and something dangerously close to arousal. Dong Yingming exhaled, finally shaken from his haze.
Then instinct kicked in.
Without a word, he stood up quickly, snatched the blanket from the bed, and crossed the room in a few swift strides.
"You… What are you doing up? You're supposed to be in bed."
He scolded gently, voice half-choked with exasperation.
Yao Ziyang laughed faintly, lifting his hands defensively as Dong Yingming wrapped the blanket around his shoulders like a shawl.
"I'm feeling better, really—"
"You're still recovering…"
Dong Yingming said.
"You're lucky I don't tie you to the mattress, next time I wake up and find you gone, disappeared from under my nose, I'm filing a report to restrict you to bed rest permanently."
Yao Ziyang replied lightly.
"I just wanted a bit of fresh air. I feel fine. Really—"
"You look fine, doesn't mean you are. Fresh air can be taken by an open window. While sitting down."
Dong Yingming interrupted, slipping an arm under Yao Ziyang's knees and another around his back.
"Now stop arguing."
Yao Ziyang gasped as he was suddenly scooped up, the hospital robe fluttering under the blanket, his body light in Dong Yingming's arms.
"Brother Dong—! You don't have to carry me, I can walk—!"
"Maybe you think you can. Doesn't mean you should…"
Dong Yingming muttered, carrying him back toward the bed.
"Don't make me tie you down."
Yao Ziyang laughed quietly.
"Is this your way of scolding me? You know, I'm not made of glass."
Yao Ziyang teased, voice airy as he nestled into Dong Yingming's chest just a little.
"Didn't the doctors say I'm stable now?"
"Stable doesn't mean you should be posing in front of a sunrise like some…"
Dong Yingming paused vaguely, struggling to articulate.
"...like some celestial being."
Yao Ziyang laughed, genuinely amused.
"So I'm glowing, am I? You're getting poetic, Brother Dong."
"Shut up…"
Dong Yingming muttered, he gave a firm but gentle pat on Yao Ziyang's bottom, earning him a cute squeak from the man.
"It's too early for you to be smug."
Yao Ziyang tilted his head, teasing.
"You're cranky in the mornings."
"I'm cranky when my barely-recovered Baby Bird tries to float out a window with nothing but his pretty smile to keep him alive."
"...Did you just call me pretty?"
Dong Yingming gave another pat then a soft squeeze, followed by fondling. How he missed its softness and bounce! Truly addictive!
Yao Ziyang squeaked.
"Hey! P-Put me down, I can walk—"
"You can pretend you can walk. That's cute…"
Dong Yingming growled, nudging the chair out of the way with his foot and carrying Yao Ziyang back to the bed like a prize.
"But I'll handle the heavy lifting, thanks."
"You're unbearable…"
Yao Ziyang said, but his arms came up to loop around Dong Yingming's neck anyway, unwilling to part.
"You know that?"
Dong Yingming's voice dropped, a bit lower, a bit rougher.
"Mm. Maybe."
He narrowed his eyes but tucked him into the bed like he was the most fragile thing in the world. Pillows fluffed. Edges of the blanket straightened. Not a single corner was left askew.
He lingered for a second, smoothing down the boy's hair with fingers far gentler than his reputation allowed—his fingers brushing over the boy's cheek a second longer than necessary.
"…Don't scare me like that again."
Yao Ziyang blinked in surprise then smiled softly.
"Mm, alright. But you know, you didn't have to carry me—"
"I wanted to…"
Dong Yingming said simply.
"And it's safer this way."
"You're going to spoil me at this rate."
Yao Ziyang said, his voice soft but amused.
Dong Yingming gave a low huff as he adjusted the pillows again and smoothed out the blanket some more with deliberate care.
"Then be spoiled. Just don't wander off again."
Yao Ziyang leaned back against the pillows, watching him with a smile.
"You're not nearly as strict as you try to sound, you know."
Dong Yingming's hands paused, then resumed tucking the blanket around him, tighter this time.
"I'm plenty strict. You just don't listen."
"I listen…most times."
Yao Ziyang said, a light blush paints his cheeks as he avoids eye contact.
"I just…"
Dong Yingming hesitated, then exhaled.
"I don't want to risk it. Not again. Not after that night."
Yao Ziyang's teasing softened.
"Okay. I get it."
A small smile tugged at Dong Yingming's lips despite himself. He reached to stroke Yao Ziyang's pink tinted cheek. The boy leaned into the touch without thinking.
Dong Yingming gave him one last long look, then straightened and pulled out his phone.
"I'm calling Dr. Miao. He should check you before you decide to watch another sunrise."
Yao Ziyang chuckled under the blanket.
"Alright."
Dong Yingming's lips curled faintly, but his heart still beat too fast.
He didn't know what that scent on the breeze was.
He didn't know why it made him want to curl around Yao Ziyang and never let go or why it stirred something so fierce inside of him.
But he knew one thing for certain:
Whatever it was, it tied him to Yao Ziyang with invisible threads he couldn't break.
And he didn't want to.
He was falling deeper every minute—and there was no turning back.
Dong Yingming stepped back, pulled out his phone, and with a quiet sigh, dialed Miao Ruiming's private number.
"Get up…"
He said as soon as the line connected.
"He's awake. Come check on him. Now."