The quiet that followed that night felt almost sacred, as if even the walls of the room understood that something delicate had unfolded within it and now refused to disturb the lingering warmth. Dong Yingming had not slept—not even for a moment—and instead remained beside Yao Ziyang, his presence unwavering, his attention fixed entirely on the figure resting beside him. The rise and fall of Yao Ziyang's breathing became the only rhythm he cared about, a quiet reassurance that the boy was still there, still safe, still his to watch over.
Every so often, Dong Yingming would lean forward just slightly, his large hand hovering near Yao Ziyang's forehead before finally giving in to the need to touch, brushing gently against his skin to check for heat. Each time, the result was the same—cool, stable, normal—and yet he repeated the motion anyway, as if repetition alone could guarantee that nothing would change. It was an familiar kind of vigilance, not driven by strategy or suspicion, but by something far more personal, something that made even a man like him feel strangely unsteady.
By the time the first rays of morning light filtered in through the reinforced windows of the luxurious cell, painting the room in soft gold, Dong Yingming finally allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Yao Ziyang remained asleep, curled slightly into the sheets, his pale hair scattered across the pillow in disarray, his lips parted just enough to make him look completely defenseless. He placed a large, calloused hand gently on Yao Ziyang's forehead once more. The skin was cool and normal—no fever.
A heavy sigh of relief escaped Dong Yingming's lips, his broad shoulders sagging just slightly.
'Thank fuck. You're okay, baby. For now.'
He kept his hand there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly over the smooth skin, blue eyes filled with a complicated mix of lingering guilt, fierce protectiveness, and that same helpless worship.
Yao Ziyang slept on peacefully, safe in the arms of the man who both craved and feared breaking him. The room was quiet—heavy with heat and the weight of something unspoken.
The time was nearing 6 am, Dong Yingming watched him for a long moment longer than necessary, committing the image to memory in a way he couldn't quite explain, before he finally moved to get up from the bed and begin his morning routine.
The shower ran hot, steam curling thickly against the tiled walls as Dong Yingming stepped beneath it, letting the water cascade over his shoulders in an attempt to clear his mind. It didn't work—not entirely—because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same image:
Yao Ziyang looking up at him, trusting, open, entirely unaware of the weight that kind of trust carried. Still, routine was something he understood, and so he followed it, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm of preparation.
When he emerged, he was once again dressed in the version of himself the prison recognized—a tailored black uniform fitted sharply to his frame, every line clean, every detail precise, exuding quiet authority without needing to announce it. The transformation was immediate and complete, yet something softer lingered beneath it, something that hadn't quite settled back into place.
He returned to the bedside, drawn there without conscious thought, and crouched slightly so he could look at Yao Ziyang more closely. Carefully, almost reverently, he reached out to brush away a few loose strands of hair that had fallen across the boy's face, his fingers lingering just a second longer before he leaned in. The kiss he pressed to Yao Ziyang's lips was brief, gentle, and far softer than anything Dong Yingming was known for—a quiet farewell meant only for someone who wouldn't even remember it.
"I'll be back, Baby Bird."
He murmured under his breath, though whether it was a promise or a reassurance, even he didn't know.
Leaving was harder than he expected, but it was necessary. There were things to arrange, meetings to attend, and most importantly, Wang Cong to deal with—an obligation he had no interest in fulfilling, yet one he couldn't ignore. And so, with one final glance he allowed himself only in silence, Dong Yingming turned and left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
***
Hours later, the stillness of the room shifted.
Yao Ziyang stirred slowly, the kind of waking that came from deep, uninterrupted rest, his body stretching instinctively beneath the sheets as awareness returned to him in soft waves. When his eyes finally opened, the light was no longer gentle—it was bright, full, almost startling in its clarity—and for a brief moment, he simply lay there, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of being completely refreshed.
Then he noticed.
The space beside him was empty.
"…Brother Dong?"
He called softly, his voice still rough with sleep, the name slipping out before he even fully processed it.
There was no response.
A faint unease settled in his chest, subtle at first but growing quickly as he pushed himself upright, the sheets sliding down and revealing the oversized black shirt draped loosely over his frame. It was unmistakably Dong Yingming's—far too large, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, the scent still clinging faintly to it in a way that made the absence feel even more pronounced.
Yao Ziyang swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the floor as he stood, his movements slow but increasingly restless. His gaze moved around the room, checking instinctively, as if Dong Yingming might simply be standing somewhere just out of sight, waiting.
But he wasn't.
And the quiet that had once felt comforting now felt… wrong.
Yao Ziyang's fingers curled slightly into the hem of the shirt as he took a few steps forward, the fabric brushing against his thighs, his expression shifting from confusion to something sharper, a mix of worry and panic.
"…Where did you go?"
He murmured to himself, more quietly this time.
The unease didn't fade as Yao Ziyang moved, it only deepened, settling somewhere behind his ribs like a quiet, persistent pressure he couldn't shake. He crossed the room quickly, bare feet silent against the floor, and pushed open the bathroom door with a soft urgency, half-expecting to find steam lingering or the faint sound of running water. Instead, he was met with stillness—cool tiles, a dry sink, no trace that anyone had been there recently beyond what had already passed hours ago. He lingered in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, scanning the space as if Dong Yingming might materialize if he looked hard enough, before slowly stepping back.
By the time he returned to the main room, the silence felt heavier, almost oppressive in its completeness. Yao Ziyang's fingers curled unconsciously into the oversized black shirt hanging from his frame, the fabric slipping further off one shoulder as he paced once, then twice, his thoughts beginning to spiral in directions he couldn't quite control. He told himself there had to be a reason, something practical, something inevitable—but the absence still pressed at him, sharp and unfamiliar, making him feel strangely unmoored.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he turned toward the door.
The large metal handle felt cold beneath his fingers as he pulled it open, the hinges giving a low, familiar groan of metal that echoed faintly into the corridor beyond. He barely had time to step forward before he nearly walked straight into someone standing just outside, his movement halting abruptly as he blinked up in surprise.
Wei Jiang stood there, one hand holding a tray of food balanced carefully despite his injuries, the other lifted mid-motion in a loose fist as if he had been seconds away from knocking. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke, but Wei Jiang's expression shifted almost immediately the second he took in Yao Ziyang's appearance—the oversized shirt, the bare legs, the sleep-soft hair, and most of all, the unmistakable worry written plainly across his face.
"Ziyang? What's wrong?"
Wei Jiang asked, his voice losing its usual steadiness, edged instead with something sharper, more urgent. His gaze moved quickly over Yao Ziyang as if searching for injuries, for signs of distress, for anything that might explain why he looked like that—unguarded and unsettled in a way Wei Jiang had never seen before.
Yao Ziyang only blinked at him.
For a second, he didn't answer at all, as though his mind had stalled between the relief of seeing someone familiar and the lingering absence of the one person he had been searching for. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out, and that silence stretched just long enough for something fragile inside him to shift.
The thought came quietly at first, almost hesitant—but once it formed, it refused to leave.
'What if… he wasn't satisfied?'
Yao Ziyang's breath caught.
It was irrational, he knew that somewhere in the back of his mind, but it didn't matter—because the feeling came anyway, sudden and overwhelming, slipping past logic and settling straight into his chest. The memory of the night before, of closeness and vulnerability, twisted against that doubt in a way that made his throat tighten painfully.
His eyes stung before he could stop it.
Wei Jiang saw it happen in real time—the moment confusion gave way to something softer, more fragile, the way Yao Ziyang's lashes fluttered rapidly as tears welled despite his effort to hold them back. It caught Wei Jiang completely off guard, that shift from quiet unease to something so openly vulnerable, and for once, he didn't know what to do.
"Hey—"
Wei Jiang started, setting the tray aside without thinking, his good hand lifting instinctively as he stepped closer.
"Ziyang, what happened? Did someone—did he—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because Yao Ziyang's composure broke before he could.
The first tear slipped down his cheek, and once it did, the rest followed too easily, his shoulders trembling slightly as he looked down, as if embarrassed by the reaction but unable to stop it. He didn't even fully understand why it hurt this much—only that it did, sharp and confusing and far too real for something that might not even be true.
Wei Jiang's chest tightened painfully at the sight.
He had seen Yao Ziyang cry before—but this was different. This wasn't fear or pain or anger. This was something quieter, something that came from a place deeper than any of those, and it made Wei feel an unfamiliar kind of panic.
"Talk to me…"
He said, softer now, stepping closer, his voice losing its edge entirely.
"What's wrong?"
But Yao Ziyang only shook his head slightly, tears still falling, his fingers gripping the hem of the too-large shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him in place.
Standing there in the doorway, caught between the empty room behind him and Wei's worried presence in front of him, he felt smaller than he had in a long time—unsure, exposed, and suddenly afraid that something he had thought was certain… might not be at all.
Yao Ziyang tried to steady his breathing, but it came out uneven, catching in his throat in a way that made every word feel heavier than it should have. He wiped at his eyes quickly, as if embarrassed by the tears, though they kept coming anyway, clinging stubbornly to his lashes before slipping down his cheeks. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, stripped of its teasing edge, carrying a vulnerability he didn't often let show.
"When-when I—hic, woke up—hic, he was gone, hic—"
Yao Ziyang said, the words tumbling out slowly at first, then faster as if they had been building pressure inside him. His fingers tightened in the hem of the oversized shirt, twisting the fabric unconsciously.
"He didn't say anything, didn't wake me up, didn't, hic… didn't leave a message or anything. I thought maybe…"
He hesitated, biting his lip, the uncertainty flickering clearly across his face.
"Maybe I did something wrong. Or maybe… I wasn't good enough last night, sniff, sniff."
Wei Jiang's chest tightened painfully at the confession.
There it was—the fragile, aching logic of someone trying to make sense of absence by turning it inward, blaming himself for something he couldn't possibly control. And seeing Yao Ziyang like this, standing there in Dong Yingming's shirt, looking smaller somehow despite how striking he still was, made something protective and raw twist deep inside Wei Jiang's chest.
He stepped inside without another word, gently nudging the door closed behind him with his shoulder as he carried the tray further into the room. The quiet clink of dishes sounded louder than usual as he set it down carefully on the side table, the simple meal arranged neatly—light porridge, a few sliced fruits, something easy on the stomach.
"It's okay…"
Wei Jiang said as he turned back, his voice softer now, stripped of its usual edge. He moved closer again, slower this time, as if approaching something delicate that might break if handled too roughly.
"Hey… don't do that to yourself."
Yao Ziyang looked up at him, eyes still glossy, still uncertain.
"I'm serious…"
Wei Jiang continued, his tone firming just slightly, enough to ground the words without overwhelming them.
"You didn't mess anything up. And you definitely couldn't disappoint anyone."
He paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully, even as something bitter flickered beneath them—something he kept buried.
"The boss… he starts his day early…"
Wei Jiang went on, gesturing vaguely toward the door as if the explanation were simple, obvious.
"Earlier than most people in this place. Meetings, arrangements, things he has to deal with before the rest of the prison even wakes up. If he's gone, it's because of that. Not because of you."
Yao Ziyang's brows knit together slightly, as if trying to weigh the explanation against the feeling still lingering in his chest.
Wei Jiang let out a quiet breath and softened further, his expression easing as he met Yao Ziyang's gaze.
"If anything…"
He added, quieter now, as if the urge to soothe Yao Ziyang clashed with the words he knew would work but tasted like vile acid in his throat.
"He probably didn't wake you because… you're finally recovering… and he didn't want to ruin that."
The words settled between them, gentler this time, less like a correction and more like reassurance.
Yao Ziyang's grip on the shirt loosened just a little.
He sniffled, wiping his cheek again, his shoulders relaxing by the smallest degree as the tightness in his chest began to ease, even if it didn't disappear completely.
"You really think so?"
He asked, voice tentative, almost hopeful despite himself.
Wei Jiang nodded once, without hesitation.
"I know so."
For a moment, neither of them moved, the quiet returning—but this time it felt different, less suffocating, softened by the steady presence of someone who refused to let him spiral alone.
Then Wei Jiang glanced toward the tray he had brought in, shifting the moment gently.
"You should eat something…"
He said, gesturing toward the table.
"You've been out of it for days. Even if you feel fine, your body's probably still catching up."
Yao Ziyang followed his gaze, then looked back at Wei Jiang, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite the lingering redness in his eyes.
"…You're surprisingly good at this."
He murmured. Wei Jiang blinked.
"At what?"
"Making me feel better."
Yao Ziyang said softly.
Wei looked away for a second, clearing his throat as something unreadable passed through his expression before he masked it again.
"Good, but don't get used to it. I want you to smile, always."
He muttered, though there was no way Yao Ziyang could hear him.
But even as he said it, he stayed exactly where he was—close enough to catch him if he fell, steady enough to keep him grounded—quietly holding that fragile space together in a way he hadn't even realized he could.
Yao Ziyang stood there for a moment, still sniffling faintly, the tension in his shoulders not fully gone but softened enough to let something warmer take its place. Then, almost as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he stepped forward. It wasn't hesitant, not really—just careful. He slipped his arms around Wei Jiang's torso in a gentle hug, mindful of the sling, of the bruises, of everything that might still hurt.
"Thank you for being my friend."
He murmured quietly against him, the words simple but sincere in a way that carried more weight than anything elaborate could have. It wasn't dramatic or calculated, just a small, honest expression of gratitude from someone who had needed comfort and found it. His hands rested lightly against Wei Jiang's back, barely applying pressure, as if even this much might be too much.
For Wei Jiang, the moment landed all at once.
There was warmth first—the immediate, instinctive kind that spread through his chest at the feel of Yao Ziyang so close, the softness of him, the faint lingering scent that had already begun to feel familiar in a way that was dangerous. It was followed by something quieter, deeper—hope, or something that looked too much like it if he didn't examine it too closely.
And then, just as quickly, the ache.
It settled in just beneath everything else, sharp and unavoidable, because even as he stood there with Yao Ziyang in his arms, he knew what this was to him… and what it was not to Yao Ziyang. To Yao Ziyang, it was gratitude. Friendship. Trust. To Wei Jiang, it was all of that—and something more he couldn't afford to name out loud.
He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself, and then, with his good arm, he returned the hug.
Carefully.
His hand came up to rest against Yao Ziyang's back, fingers spreading slightly as if trying to memorize the shape of him without holding too tightly. He didn't pull him closer, didn't overstep—just enough to answer the gesture, to acknowledge it, to let himself have this small moment without breaking it.
"It's nothing…"
Wei Jiang said quietly, though his voice had softened in a way that betrayed him just a little.
"You don't have to thank me for that."
But he didn't let go right away.
Not immediately.
Because for all the restraint he forced on himself, for all the boundaries he knew he couldn't cross, this—this simple, fleeting closeness—was something he wasn't ready to give up just yet.