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Mu Qing slides the tray from the oven with the kind of quiet grace that comes from long practice. The air fills with the warm, sweet scent of cocoa, and he sets the cake aside to cool while he arranges a small plate, an assortment of things that would tempt but not overwhelm. Light crackers, slices of fresh fruit, a little dish of nuts he candied himself just last week.

Once the cake has settled, he pours a smooth layer of chocolate over its surface, watching it shine under the kitchen light. He waits only a moment before cutting into it, careful and precise, so that the slice sits neat and perfect among the other offerings. A small folded note—handwritten, a little flourish in the corner—reads: must finish with homework. He tucks it onto the side of the plate like a secret message before lifting the tray into his hands.

The living room glows softly under the lamps, and Mu Qing pauses at the threshold. At the dining table, Shi Wudu sits in his usual place, books and papers scattered around him like soldiers on a battlefield. His long hair, perfectly combed, gleams against his crisp designer shirt; his brows are knit in focus, his blue eyes sharp and intense as they track lines of text. His slender fingers, nails trimmed with near perfection, tap against the page as though impatient with themselves.

Mu Qing lingers for a moment, simply watching. There is something endlessly endearing in the way Shi Wudu throws his whole self into his studies, as though the world depends on every note he makes. That fierce, youthful determination—it softens Mu Qing’s heart every time.

When he steps forward and sets the plate down among the papers, Shi Wudu looks up in surprise. He had expected maybe a slice of cake, not this careful little feast.

“You’re spoiling me,” Shi Wudu says, the words caught between suspicion and gratitude.

Mu Qing smiles, his silvery-gray eyes glinting. “Not spoiling. Fueling.” He leans down slightly, his tone teasing but warm. “It isn’t a bribe, and it isn’t an attempt to make you fat. Everything here is healthy, homemade. It will give you energy.”

Shi Wudu’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. Mu Qing straightens and adds, almost casually, “I’ve packed a box for you to take home as well. So you don’t need to save any for your brother.”

At that, Shi Wudu glances away, his brows tugging together in a different way—something small, almost shy. “I just didn’t want to eat more than once,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of his pen against the paper.

Mu Qing watches him for a beat longer, his heart tightening with affection. He doesn’t press the subject. Instead, he slides the plate a little closer, fingertips brushing the table in a quiet invitation.

“Then at least,” he says softly, “eat this once with me.”

Shi Wudu plucks a few candied nuts from the plate, turning them between his fingers before he eats them absently, already back in his world of numbers and symbols. His pen scratches lightly against the page, notes crisp, confident.

Mu Qing stands behind him, hands folded neatly at the small of his back, curious but silent. The patterns on the paper—columns, ratios, equations—look like a different language to him. Business, yes, but not the kind he knows. His field is strategy, not finance, and while he has learned to navigate reports and theories, this intricate precision is Shi Wudu’s territory. Shi Wudu doesn’t just understand it—he masters it.

It amazes Mu Qing still, how their lives crossed. Three months ago, Shi Wudu had walked through Mu Qing’s door with nothing but a request and a notebook in his hand. He had needed material for a report at Xian Jing University, a study on small businesses that had successfully turned mainstream. He had chosen Mu Qing’s boutique almost at random, thinking it would be another case of messy records and long hours untangling figures. Instead, he found perfection: ledgers neat as calligraphy, accounts balanced with breathtaking clarity. Mu Qing had looked at his astonishment with the faintest smirk, as though to say of course. He used a tool for his finances that he had had designed himself. It had taken him the longest time to perfect, but it was the most useful thing to him. Shi Wudu was wideeyed to see it, flipping through the legers and scrolling through the archives. 

They bonded after that, Shi Wudu confessing what the university was like now, Mu Qing recalling his own time in those halls with sharp wit and a little nostalgia. But whenever conversation drifted too close to Shi Wudu’s personal life, he grew quiet, evasive, hiding behind vague words like family matters.

Until the day the truth walked through the door. A high schooler, hair tied back in the same dark ponytail, green eyes bright with youth, had darted in after Shi Wudu.The resemblance had been undeniable. Mu Qing had only needed one look to understand. This boy, Shi Qingxuan, was the reason Shi Wudu rushed from class to class, the reason he bent over his studies with such intensity. They were all each other had, and Shi Wudu was determined to build a future strong enough to carry them both.

Mu Qing hadn’t hesitated after that. He knew what it meant to shoulder responsibility too young, to juggle school and survival. He had lived it with his own mother, and it carved a place of understanding in him. So he opened his home, his dining table became Shi Wudu’s desk, his living room a quiet refuge, his own evenings willingly given to tutoring the younger brother.

Now, tonight, it is just the two of them. Mu Qing leans a little closer, his gaze softened by pride he doesn’t voice. Without thinking, his hand lifts, brushing a stray strand of dark hair from Shi Wudu’s forehead. The gesture is gentle, almost reverent.

Shi Wudu glances up at him, silvery eyes catching the light for a fleeting second, and then, just as quickly, he returns to his notes, head bent once more, pen steady.

So resolute. So hardworking.

Mu Qing lets his hand linger for a moment in the air before lowering it, his lips curving faintly. The boy doesn’t need to say anything. Mu Qing already knows.

Mu Qing lets Shi Wudu be, stepping away quietly so the boy can sink deeper into his numbers. The kitchen greets him with its steady warmth, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint sweet scent of the cake still cooling on the counter. A glance at the microwave clock tells him what he already half knew; Shi Qingxuan will be back soon.

Shi Qingxuan, unlike his elder brother, is all sunshine and laughter, a gust of spring breeze that sweeps through the apartment the moment he enters. Where Shi Wudu broods, Shi Qingxuan shines; where Shi Wudu is measured and careful, Shi Qingxuan is reckless in the most youthful way. He spends his days darting from one outdoor activity to another, and he always comes back flushed and hungry, an appetite as boundless as his energy. Mu Qing had learned quickly—if there wasn’t enough food, Shi Qingxuan would simply eat everything in reach and grin about it after.

So Mu Qing sets to work. Rice is set in the cooker while he chops bright vegetables into neat slices, quick and precise. He tosses them in a pan, the sizzle rising like a promise of comfort. Chicken rests in a bowl, soaking up the marinade he whisked together without thought, his hands moving from long habit. He has always been good in the kitchen, and meals come together with an ease that feels like second nature.

He is halfway through slicing a bell pepper when he senses Shi Wudu at the doorway. The boy holds his empty water bottle, his expression unreadable, almost hesitant. Mu Qing takes it without a word, fills it from the thermos, then presses it back into his hand with a light pat to his head, as though Shi Wudu were younger than he is. Shi Wudu doesn’t flinch at the touch; he simply stands there, bottle clutched to his chest, as if deciding whether to speak.

Then, softly, he does. “The cake was good.”

Mu Qing glances over, a small smile curving his mouth. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, tone gentle but carrying something warmer beneath it. He nods toward the counter, where a neat white box sits with ribbon loosely tied. “There’s more in the box, if you want it. Don’t hold back.”

Shi Wudu’s gaze flicks toward the box, then back to Mu Qing. For a moment he just stands there, lips pressed as though holding in words that never quite make it out.

Mu Qing shakes his head before Shi Wudu can even begin. “Don’t make me tap the sign; There’s no need to pay me for anything,” he says firmly, his tone calm but unyielding. “You’re a guest in my home. Everything here is for you to use however you please. No hesitation.”

Shi Wudu presses his lips together, stubbornly silent. He places his water bottle on the counter, the sound soft but deliberate, and then draws in a breath that makes Mu Qing pause. That breath is heavy with words, with things unsaid.

“Is something the matter?” Mu Qing asks, eyes narrowing with quiet concern.

Shi Wudu shakes his head, though his gaze does not leave him. “It’s just that…” He hesitates, as though the confession costs him something. “I’m not used to being treated the way you treat me. I’ve been trying to get used to it, but I… I can’t seem to.”

Mu Qing exhales softly, understanding settling deep in his chest. He’s known this all along. Shi Wudu may look collected, may carry himself with quiet strength, but beneath it is a boy who once had everything and lost it all. A boy who was born into wealth and expectations, who once bore the title of young master. And when his parents died, when all of it was torn away, he learned quickly that kindness almost always came with a price. Few people treated him as human, fewer still without hidden intentions. Two friends, only two, had stood with him through that ruin.

Mu Qing had vowed, the moment he learned all this, that Shi Wudu would never mistake his care for greed. He wanted only to show him that the world still held people who were genuine, people who would look at him and not see a coin purse.

He turns the gas off and wipes his hands on a cloth, before walking back over to Shi Wudu. He doesn’t crowd him, not yet. He stands at a respectful distance, offering a smile that is gentle, grounding.

“I’m not going to call you young master to make you feel better about it,” Mu Qing says dryly, just enough sarcasm to slip beneath Shi Wudu’s guard.

Shi Wudu rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, tugging upward. For a fleeting moment, his face shifts, lighter, freer. Mu Qing drinks in that glimpse as though it’s rare treasure—because it is. The way Shi Wudu relaxes when he smiles, the way his gaze softens, the way he bows his head slightly as if shaking off the weight of the world, these moments are what Mu Qing lives for.

“You’re so stubborn,” Shi Wudu mutters at last.

Mu Qing tilts his head, savoring the words like a victory. “Hmm. And I’m also your senior,” he reminds him gently, his voice dipping lower. “So you shouldn’t complain. Otherwise, I might just force you to take things you don’t want.”

“Force me?” Shi Wudu huffs, incredulous, his silvery eyes flashing. “You couldn’t force a fly—”

Mu Qing doesn’t let him finish. In one swift, deliberate movement, he catches Shi Wudu’s forearm and pulls him forward, turning their bodies until Shi Wudu is pressed flush against the counter. Mu Qing braces one hand on the counter behind him, leaning in close, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between.

Shi Wudu freezes, caught, eyes widening just a fraction.

“I can,” Mu Qing murmurs, his voice low, husky, roughened with meaning.

The tension thrums electric, the kind that tightens the air, sharpens every sound. Shi Wudu’s pulse beats quick beneath Mu Qing’s hand, his chest rising and falling faster than before. His lips part, as though to speak, but no words come out.

Mu Qing doesn’t push further. He hovers in that space between restraint and indulgence, close enough for Shi Wudu to feel the heat of him, but not close enough to cross a line Shi Wudu isn’t ready to.

The challenge is there, unspoken. The choice, as always, is Shi Wudu’s.

Shi Wudu’s eyes stay wide, unblinking, his breath held as though he’s still trying to understand what just happened. He’s cornered, Mu Qing’s arm braced behind him, proof carved into the closeness between them. Mu Qing could do anything if he wanted to—that is the message—but he doesn’t. He has no need for repayment, no demand for favors. The point is made in the silence, in the restraint.

Mu Qing can smell Shi Wudu’s cologne—sharp, expensive, the kind of fragrance that lingers after its wearer has gone. Even with his finances tangled under the control of his uncles, Shi Wudu does not surrender his sense of self. He will sacrifice himself before letting anyone see a single crack of strain. He carries himself with quiet dignity, every detail chosen carefully, as though it were armor.

Shi Wudu’s gaze searched Mu Qing’s, as if testing whether Mu Qing will move closer. But Mu Qing doesn’t. He has already proven what he needed to.

If Shi Wudu had been like the other rich boys Mu Qing once encountered, this would have been different. He would have named his price. He would have turned every kindness into a transaction. He had done so in the past, taken every opportunity as if his survival depended on it. because, in truth, it had. 

A young master at his door, eating his food, sitting at his table? Once, Mu Qing might have considered that a chance too tempting to let slip.

But Shi Wudu isn’t them. He is different. He is a reflection, a reminder of Mu Qing’s younger self; driven, desperate, carrying the weight of someone else’s future in his arms. Mu Qing doesn’t want to use him. He wants to give him back something he’s long been denied: the chance to feel normal, to feel wanted without a price attached.

And then something in Shi Wudu’s gaze shifts. The tension eases, softens. Slowly, he lifts a hand, lays it on Mu Qing’s shoulder like he’s testing his own courage. And then—hesitant, but sure—he leans forward, resting his head in the crook of Mu Qing’s neck. His arms come up, wrapping around him, fragile yet firm.

Mu Qing reacts without thought. His arms fold around Shi Wudu’s frame, steady and warm, pulling him close. One hand pats his back, the other presses against him as if to anchor him there. Shi Wudu breathes in deeply, then exhales, each breath slower than the last, as though grounding himself in Mu Qing’s presence.

“You’re so stubborn,” Shi Wudu murmurs, voice muffled against Mu Qing’s shoulder. “Stop being nice to me.”

That, he cannot do. So he doesn’t answer.

He closes his eyes, holding him tighter. 

Mu Qing holds Shi Wudu, feeling the gradual shift in him. The rigid lines softening, the sharp edges easing away bit by bit. He realizes, with something warm and heavy in his chest, that though they’ve teased each other before, though he’s played at being the elder brother to coax a smile or lighten the mood, this is the first time Shi Wudu has ever let himself be held like this. It isn’t victory, not exactly, but it is proof. Proof that the walls are lowering, proof that his efforts are working.

They stay like that for fifteen minutes, though it feels like an hour suspended outside of time. Shi Wudu’s breathing evens against him, steady, quiet, as though he’s drawing strength from the circle of Mu Qing’s arms. The food on the stove cools, forgotten. Only the hum of the rice cooker keeps its rhythm, but Mu Qing doesn’t care. He doesn’t move. Shi Wudu doesn’t move. Neither of them wants to break the spell.

And yet Mu Qing thinks about the boy in his arms, about the endless nights spent bent over textbooks, the exhaustion in his posture, the way he fights to carry burdens no one his age should. He knows that standing here, as much as it comforts them both, must be tiring for Shi Wudu. He deserves to rest.

So Mu Qing lowers his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hmm… Shi Wudu? You’ll get tired, like this.”

Shi Wudu stirs, his head lifting slowly. But he doesn’t let go. Their eyes meet, and Mu Qing notices with a start how drowsy those silvery-blue eyes look, heavy-lidded, softened with a vulnerability he has never seen so openly before. Has he truly relaxed so much that he nearly drifted off?

“You can finish your work later,” Mu Qing tells him softly, careful not to break the fragile quiet between them. “I can clear up the guest room for you. Take a nap while I check on Shi Qingxuan’s assignments—he has things piling up, so it may take a while. You don’t have to wait around to—”

He doesn’t finish. Shi Wudu cuts him off—not with words, but with the sudden press of lips against his.

For a heartbeat Mu Qing freezes, the world narrowing to the warmth of Shi Wudu’s mouth against his own, the breath he inhales, the faint taste of sweetness from the cake they shared earlier. Shi Wudu doesn’t pull away, doesn’t apologize. He simply stays there, clinging to Mu Qing as though afraid to let go.

Mu Qing’s heart pounds once, hard enough to echo through him. Then his arms tighten around Shi Wudu’s waist, his hand sliding to cradle the back of his head, and he kisses him back. Not to claim, not to demand, but to answer. To tell him, without words, that there is nothing Shi Wudu needs to pay for here. Nothing owed. 

It feels like a spur-of-the-moment kiss, but Mu Qing knows Shi Wudu isn’t someone who acts on random whims. There’s thought behind it, a quiet certainty. Mu Qing feels the warmth lingering on Shi Wudu’s lips, and before he can stop himself, he chases it, deepening the contact with his own.

But then reality cuts through, sharp as glass. At the back of his mind, the doubt gnaws: Does this look like I’m only kind to him for intimacy? The idea is unbearable, so Mu Qing breaks away, breathless.

“If you think you can pay me like this—” he begins, but Shi Wudu is already frowning, already shaking his head. Without a word, Shi Wudu turns them both, sudden strength pushing Mu Qing back until the counter bites into his spine. The marble is cold and unyielding against him, and then Shi Wudu’s mouth is on his again—firm, deliberate, silencing him in a way no argument ever could.

Mu Qing surrenders. He shuts up, lets go, and answers with equal hunger.

They make out against the counter, hands roaming as though memorizing the shape of each other, lips moving with a hunger sharpened by restraint. It tastes like something they’ve been holding back since the first moment their paths crossed—like waiting too long, and finally giving in.

It’s only when their lungs finally give out that they break apart, though even then their hands don’t loosen. Mu Qing opens his eyes slowly, finding Shi Wudu’s blue ones fixed on him with unwavering intensity. For a moment, neither speaks. The world seems narrowed to the heat of their touch and the faint sound of the stove still humming behind them. Then Shi Wudu smiles, faint but sure, and Mu Qing knows exactly what he’s about to say.

“I told you not to be nice to me,” Shi Wudu murmurs.

Mu Qing almost laughs. He couldn’t help it. 

“Oh wow, I’m so scared,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes for effect. His hand lifts without thought, brushing at Shi Wudu’s bangs where they fall across his forehead—slightly uneven, freshly trimmed, too stubborn to stay put. It’s such a small, domestic gesture that it almost surprises Mu Qing himself. “You don’t scare me, Shi Wudu. And I’m not doing this because I have to.”

He would sign the words in ink if it meant proving the truth of them. He’d stake his reputation on it, even. Opportunism might have carried him this far in life—every open door, every loose coin, every careless offer from men with more than he’d ever had—but this was something else entirely.

Shi Wudu is something else entirely.

In just over a semester, Shi Wudu would walk away with his degree, walk into the empire his family had withheld, and take it back piece by piece until he owned it completely. Mu Qing could already see it: Shi Wudu’s name stamped on contracts, his presence demanded in boardrooms, his face on magazine covers. Untouchable. Invincible.

And Mu Qing would be a shadow tucked in the corner of Shi Wudu’s memory, just “that guy” who let him study late in his apartment and stole his kitchen for midnight dinners. At best, a hazy anecdote. At worst, forgotten altogether.

So what could Mu Qing give him now, in this slim sliver of borrowed time? Comfort, maybe. A little peace. The memory of someone who asked nothing in return. Proof that goodness didn’t always come with a price. It wasn’t much, but it was something Shi Wudu could carry out into that wider, colder world. 

Odd logic. Maybe even foolish. But Mu Qing is used to people telling him he thinks differently. It is sixth sense.

The sharp chime of the doorbell cuts through the quiet, jerking both their gazes toward the hallway. The sound feels too loud, too abrupt, like the spell has cracked. Mu Qing doesn’t have to guess—Shi Qingxuan is here.

Still, Shi Wudu doesn’t let go. His arms linger, his body pressing into Mu Qing’s as though one more second might change everything. His grip says what his lips don’t: Don’t end this yet.

“Open the door,” Mu Qing says at last, his voice gentling. “I’ll finish dinner. You can rest after we eat.”

Shi Wudu tilts his head, his expression caught between defiance and reluctance. He doesn’t want to let the words be the end of it.

“I’ll set the bed for Qingxuan,” Mu Qing adds, softening further. “And we can talk once he’s asleep.”

That eases him. The tension in Shi Wudu’s shoulders loosens slightly, though the movement he makes to pull away is still hesitant, like it costs him something. Mu Qing’s chest tightens at the sight, and before Shi Wudu can step back fully, Mu Qing reaches out. Hooking two fingers in the collar of his shirt, he tugs him back in and presses a quick kiss to his lips—brief but certain. A wordless reassurance. I feel it too. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll continue later.

Shi Wudu smiles at that, the curve of it softer this time. He picks up his water bottle from the counter, holding it like a prop to steady himself, then turns toward the hallway.

 “Qingxuan would like the cake,” he says simply, as though nothing monumental has just passed between them, and goes to open the door.

Of course he thinks of his brother even now.

Mu Qing stays leaning against the counter for a moment longer, his chest rising unevenly. That’s when it hits him, sharp and sure, sliding past all the defenses he’s built around his heart: he might be falling in love with Shi Wudu.

Just a little bit.