The crying stopped so suddenly that the silence felt louder than the sobs had been.
For a long moment, only the faint drip… drip… drip of water falling from Yibo's fingers onto the tiled floor could be heard.
He stood there under the shower, motionless.
Not trembling.
Not hiccuping.
Not whispering.
Just… still.
Water kept pouring over his head, sliding down his lashes, his cheeks, his lips. It looked like he was still crying, but he wasn't. His face had gone strangely calm, like a child who had cried so much that even tears refused to come anymore.
Slowly, his fingers curled.
"Husband… don't want wife…" he murmured to himself, voice hoarse and small, like he was repeating something he had finally understood after a very long time. "Then… wife go."
The words were simple. Broken. Childlike.
But the meaning was not.
He lowered his head and stared at his own hands. Red. Scrubbed raw. Tiny lines scratched across his skin from rubbing too hard. He rubbed his thumb over his wrist again, softer this time, as if testing whether the skin would still hurt.
"…Clean," he whispered faintly. "Bobo clean now."
No one answered.
Of course no one answered.
His lips trembled once—but he bit them, hard, stopping it. He had learned. Crying made people angry. Crying made people slap. Crying made people say disgusting.
So he swallowed it.
Quietly.
Very quietly.
Outside the bathroom, Zhan was standing near the door.
He hadn't meant to come back.
He had stormed away earlier, anger still buzzing in his veins, jaw tight, hands clenched. But the crying… it hadn't stopped. It had echoed through the hallway, thin at first, then louder, then louder, until it sounded less like crying and more like something breaking.
He told himself to ignore it.
He told himself he deserved it.
He told himself he's just being dramatic.
But his feet had still carried him back.
And then—
Silence.
That silence was worse than the crying.
Zhan's brows slowly knit together.
"…Yibo?" he called, not loudly. Just enough.
No answer.
His chest tightened slightly.
He stepped closer. "Yibo."
Still nothing.
Something cold slipped into his stomach.
He pushed the bathroom door open.
Inside, steam clouded the air.
Yibo stood under the shower like a statue carved from pale glass. Water ran over him endlessly, soaking his hair flat against his forehead, dripping from his chin, sliding down his shoulders. His arms hung at his sides, limp, fingers slightly curled.
He didn't even look up when the door opened.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't move.
That scared Zhan more than the crying had.
"…What are you doing?" Zhan asked, voice lower now, confusion mixing with irritation.
Yibo blinked slowly, like someone waking from far away.
Then he turned his head.
His eyes were red.
Not the swollen red from crying.
But dull red. Empty red. The kind that looked like the light inside had dimmed.
"…Going," Yibo said softly.
Zhan frowned. "Going where?"
A small pause.
Yibo tilted his head slightly, thinking carefully, as if he needed to choose the correct answer.
"…Away."
The word was gentle.
Simple.
Certain.
Zhan's chest tightened again, sharper this time. "What nonsense are you saying? Get out of the shower."
Yibo shook his head faintly.
"Husband don't want wife," he whispered, not accusing—just stating it like a fact he had finally memorized. "Wife shouldn't stay."
His lashes lowered.
"So… Bobo go."
Something in Zhan's throat suddenly felt dry.
"…Who said I don't want you?"
Yibo looked at him.
Not hopeful.
Not hurt.
Not scared.
Just… calm.
"You said," he replied quietly. "You said ruin life."
Each word was careful, like fragile glass pieces being set down one by one.
Zhan froze.
The sentence echoed in his own mind—the one he had thrown out in anger, careless, sharp, thoughtless.
Why did I marry you? You ruin my life.
He had said it.
He remembered.
He just hadn't realized it would stay.
Yibo lowered his gaze again and reached out to turn off the shower. The water stopped. Droplets slid down his skin in slow trails.
"I be good now," he murmured. "Very good. Quiet. Clean. Perfect."
His fingers twisted slightly in the hem of his wet shirt.
"But still ruin."
A tiny pause.
"So better go."
Zhan didn't realize he had stepped forward until he was already right in front of him.
"…You're not going anywhere," he said.
But his voice didn't sound as firm as before.
Because for the first time—
Yibo didn't nod.
Didn't obey immediately.
Didn't say yes husband.
He just stood there, looking small and soaked and unbearably calm.
And somehow…
That calmness felt far more frightening than any tears.
Even though Yibo didn't leave the mansion… in his heart, he already had.
Not physically.
But something inside him had quietly packed its bags and stepped away.
After that day, Yibo became very careful.
Not the old careful—the nervous, clumsy kind where he tried too hard and still made mistakes.
No.
This time his carefulness was different.
Silent.
Measured.
Distant.
He started watching his own hands like they didn't belong to him. If he touched something, he wiped it. If he sat somewhere, he checked the spot after standing, just in case he had left something "dirty" behind.
Because Zhan didn't like dirty things.
And Yibo…
Yibo was dirty.
At least, that's what he believed now.
When he walked past Zhan, he kept space between them.
Not obvious space.
Not rude space.
Just enough that their sleeves wouldn't brush.
If Zhan reached for something on the table, Yibo would quietly move his hand away first. If they had to pass each other in a doorway, Yibo would press himself flat against the wall, holding his breath like even his breathing might contaminate the air.
He stopped tugging Zhan's sleeve.
Stopped leaning close.
Stopped resting his head on Zhan's shoulder when sleepy.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he wanted to too much.
And wanting things he wasn't allowed to have… always ended badly.
One evening, a servant brought tea.
Yibo took the tray before she could hand it to Zhan.
"I give," he said softly.
She smiled politely and let go.
Yibo held the tray carefully, fingers steady, eyes focused like he was carrying something sacred. He walked to Zhan and stopped at a safe distance.
"…Tea," he said.
Zhan looked up from his papers.
Yibo didn't step closer.
Instead, he gently set the tray down on the table beside Zhan's arm—careful not to brush him, careful not to let their skin touch even accidentally.
Then he stepped back.
One step.
Two.
Like he had completed a task and was dismissing himself.
Zhan's brows slowly drew together.
"…Why are you standing so far?"
Yibo blinked once, surprised he'd been spoken to.
"…So husband clean," he answered simply.
Zhan stilled.
Yibo lowered his gaze, voice soft and matter-of-fact, not sad, not dramatic—just honest.
"Bobo dirty. If close… husband dirty too."
The room went quiet.
The servant froze near the door.
Zhan didn't move.
Yibo seemed unaware anything was wrong. He just clasped his hands in front of him politely, posture straight, expression calm—the way a well-trained person stands after finishing their duty.
"I careful now," he added gently, almost like he was reassuring him. "Don't touch."
Something twisted slowly in Zhan's chest.
He stared at the boy in front of him.
Nineteen.
Standing like a stranger.
Speaking like someone who had memorized rules instead of feelings.
"…Who told you that?" Zhan asked quietly.
Yibo tilted his head.
"You," he replied.
Not accusing.
Not hurt.
Just certain.
After that, Yibo became even more cautious.
If Zhan entered a room, Yibo found a corner.
If Zhan sat on the couch, Yibo chose the floor.
If Zhan walked toward him, Yibo stepped aside before he got close.
At night, he slept on the very edge of the bed, body curled tight, blanket wrapped around himself like a barrier. Even in sleep, he stayed carefully still, as if afraid that rolling over might accidentally touch Zhan and ruin something.
Sometimes, half-asleep, he would murmur reminders to himself.
"…Don't touch… dirty…"
"…Careful…"
"…Be good…"
Soft whispers.
Training himself.
Even in dreams.
And the worst part?
He looked proud of it.
Like he thought he was finally doing something right.
Zhan didn't notice when it started.
At first, it was only small things.
A shift.
A pause.
A step back.
So small that any other person would've missed it.
But slowly… those small things became a pattern.
And patterns, once seen, could not be unseen.
That evening, Zhan returned from work later than usual.
The mansion was quiet, lights soft, air still.
He loosened his tie as he walked into the living room—already expecting silence, already expecting distance, already expecting that careful, practiced politeness Yibo had begun wearing like a uniform.
And there he was.
Yibo sat on the carpet near the sofa, knees folded, back straight, hands resting neatly in his lap.
Not playing.
Not humming.
Not talking to himself.
Just… sitting.
Waiting.
Like furniture that had learned how to breathe.
Zhan stopped walking.
For a moment, he simply watched.
Yibo noticed him and immediately stood up.
Not excited.
Not smiling.
Just obedient.
"Husband back," he said softly.
His voice was gentle, calm, perfectly controlled.
Not a trace of the bubbly, childish tone he used to have.
Zhan's jaw tightened slightly.
"…Why are you sitting on the floor?" he asked.
Yibo blinked once, as if the question surprised him.
"…Floor okay," he answered. "Sofa clean."
Zhan's fingers twitched.
That word again.
Clean.
Zhan stepped closer.
Yibo stepped back.
Not dramatically.
Not fearfully.
Just automatically.
Like it was instinct now.
That tiny movement—
—that tiny, careful retreat—
hit harder than any accusation ever could.
Zhan's brows drew together.
"…Come here."
Yibo froze.
Not scared.
Not resisting.
Just… still.
Then, slowly, obediently, he walked forward.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He stopped at a distance that was polite.
Safe.
Measured.
Zhan watched him for a long second.
"…Closer."
Yibo hesitated.
It was barely visible—but it was there.
Then he obeyed again.
One more step.
He kept his arms glued to his sides, fingers curled slightly inward, shoulders stiff, like he was trying to make his body as small and harmless as possible.
Zhan could see it.
Every bit of it.
And something heavy started pressing inside his chest.
Without thinking—
Zhan reached out.
His hand moved toward Yibo's wrist.
He didn't plan it.
Didn't decide it.
It was just instinct.
Just a simple, human motion.
Just touch.
Yibo flinched.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
But unmistakably.
His whole body jerked back half a step before Zhan's fingers could reach him.
Like his skin already knew what hands were for.
Like his nerves remembered before his mind could think.
The space between them widened again.
Silence fell.
Zhan's hand stayed suspended in the air.
Mid-reach.
Frozen.
His eyes slowly lifted to Yibo's face.
Yibo looked confused.
Not guilty.
Not defensive.
Just… confused.
Like he didn't understand why he'd moved.
"…Sorry," Yibo whispered quickly.
He lowered his head.
"Bobo fast. Not careful."
He rubbed his own wrist lightly, like he was correcting himself.
"I stand still now."
He planted his feet.
Straightened his posture.
And held completely still.
Waiting.
Offering.
Like he was giving permission.
Zhan's hand slowly lowered.
Not because he wanted to.
But because something inside his chest twisted too tightly to breathe.
"…I didn't tell you to freeze," he said quietly.
Yibo blinked.
"…Oh."
He relaxed a little.
But only a little.
Still careful.
Still watching.
Still measuring.
Zhan stared at him.
This was not the same boy who used to cling to his sleeve.
Not the same boy who used to look up with wide green eyes and ask random questions that made no sense.
Not the same boy who whispered "husband look pretty" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That boy…
…had been slowly erased.
Not by time.
Not by illness.
By him.
"…Why did you move?" Zhan asked suddenly.
Yibo tilted his head.
"You hand come," he answered simply.
"So?"
Yibo thought for a moment, searching for the correct answer.
"…Hand hit," he said gently. "So Bobo move. But now I not move. I remember rule."
Rule.
The word landed like a stone.
Zhan's voice dropped lower.
"…What rule?"
Yibo's expression brightened slightly, like he was proud he knew it.
"When husband hand come… Bobo be good or Bobo be still. No wrong. Then no angry."
He nodded once, satisfied with his explanation.
"I learning."
Something inside Zhan snapped.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But deeply.
A quiet, internal fracture.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
"…And if my hand doesn't hit?" he asked.
Yibo blinked.
Processing.
Thinking.
Trying.
"…Hand always hit," he said softly, like it was obvious. "That what hands do."
Silence.
Heavy.
Breathing felt louder than sound.
Zhan stared at him.
At the calm face.
At the innocent certainty.
At the boy who had accepted pain so completely that he had rewritten reality to make it make sense.
And for the first time—
for the very first time—
Zhan didn't feel angry.
He didn't feel annoyed.
He didn't feel irritated.
He felt…
something much worse.
His voice came out quieter than he intended.
"…What if my hand doesn't hit you?"
Yibo looked at him.
Really looked.
Longer than usual.
Searching his face.
Reading it carefully.
Like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Then, very softly—
"…Then husband sick?"
Zhan stopped breathing.
Zhan didn't realize when he stepped forward.
Didn't realize when his hand lifted again.
Didn't realize when the distance between them disappeared.
All he knew was that something inside his chest wouldn't stay still anymore.
That answer—
Then husband sick?
—it kept echoing in his head.
Like a quiet accusation.
Like a mirror he didn't want to look into.
Before he could stop himself…
Zhan reached out and grabbed Yibo's wrist.
Not harsh.
Not tight.
Just fast.
Yibo's reaction was instant.
His shoulders jerked.
His eyes widened.
And his other hand shot up between them, pushing against Zhan's chest.
Not strong.
Not violent.
Just desperate.
Like a small animal trying to stop something bigger from hurting it.
"…No—no—no—" Yibo whispered quickly, breath uneven. "I good, I good, I good—!"
His voice trembled, words tripping over each other.
"I stand still, see? See? No wrong. No wrong."
He tried to pull his wrist back.
But Zhan's grip didn't let go.
Not tighter.
Just… steady.
Yibo's breathing got faster.
His fingers pressed harder against Zhan's chest, trying to create space, trying to push him away before the hit came.
Because hits always came after grabbing.
That was the rule his body remembered.
His eyes darted to Zhan's raised arm.
Waiting.
Bracing.
Counting.
But the strike didn't come.
Instead—
Zhan pulled.
Not violently.
Not roughly.
Just firmly enough that Yibo lost balance for half a step—
—and stumbled forward straight into him.
Yibo froze.
His palms flattened against Zhan's chest.
His forehead nearly bumped Zhan's collarbone.
His body went stiff.
Completely stiff.
Like wood.
Like stone.
Like something that didn't know how to be alive anymore.
Slowly…
Zhan's other arm came around him.
Wrapped around his back.
Held him.
Yibo stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
His lungs forgot how to work.
His eyes stayed wide.
His arms stayed trapped awkwardly between them.
His fingers curled slightly like they didn't know where they were allowed to exist.
He didn't hug back.
Didn't relax.
Didn't melt.
Didn't respond.
Because his body had no memory for this.
No training for this.
No rule for this.
His voice came out small.
Confused.
"…Hit… later?"
Zhan's chest tightened.
"…No."
A pause.
Yibo whispered again—
"…After hold?"
"…No."
Another pause.
"…After count three?"
"…No."
Silence.
Yibo's mind kept searching.
Searching.
Searching.
Trying to understand the pattern.
Trying to find the rule.
Because nothing made sense without a rule.
"…Why hold?" he finally asked quietly.
Not resisting.
Not struggling.
Just… asking.
Zhan didn't answer immediately.
Because he didn't know how to.
How do you explain comfort…
…to someone who only understands pain?
His hand slowly moved up Yibo's back.
Not striking.
Not pushing.
Just resting there.
Warm.
Still.
Careful.
Yibo flinched anyway.
A tiny shiver ran through him when that hand moved.
His fingers pressed faintly into Zhan's shirt again, instinct screaming danger, even though nothing hurt.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…Husband… forget hit?"
Zhan closed his eyes for a brief second.
"…No."
Yibo swallowed.
"…Then why gentle?"
That question…
That small, broken question…
felt heavier than any accusation.
Zhan's arms tightened slightly around him.
Not trapping.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
Carefully.
Like he was afraid Yibo might shatter if he used even a little strength.
"…Because I want to hold you," he said quietly.
Yibo went still again.
Not stiff this time.
Just… still.
Processing.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His cheek hovered near Zhan's chest.
He could hear the heartbeat.
Strong.
Steady.
Not angry.
Not fast.
Just there.
His lashes fluttered faintly.
"…No hit?" he asked again, softer this time.
"…No hit."
"…Promise?"
Zhan's throat tightened.
"…Promise."
Very slowly…
Very, very slowly…
Yibo's hands moved.
Not much.
Just a little.
His fingers lightly caught the fabric at Zhan's sides.
Not hugging.
Not clinging.
Just holding on in the smallest way possible—
like he was testing whether this moment was real…
or just another trick that would end in pain.
And for the first time since their marriage—
Yibo leaned.
Just a little.
Not fully.
Not trustingly.
Just enough that a tiny bit of his weight rested against Zhan.
A silent question.
A fragile trial.
A trembling maybe.