Blackness filled his vision—then it flashed bright again.
Shan Yu barely had a second to register the dull, suffocating ache before he caught the faint warmth of Chen Jian’s palm hovering over his eyes. It wasn’t fully covering him; the hand was poised just so, a fraction away.
Breathe out, and he could feel the palm.
Breathe in, and he couldn’t.
The control over that distance—even in such a tense moment—impressed Shan Yu.
Still, he could smell the faint woody fragrance on Chen Jian’s hand. Not the inn’s liquid soap. More like… hand cream.
Hand cream, huh? No wonder he’s called Yuluoyan.
Then the pain stabbed again. Ah—acidic, aching—hurts, hurts hurts hurts…
He clenched his fist hard, gripping Chen Jian’s right hand while tilting his head down, squinting through Chen Jian’s fingers, trying to sneak a look at the doctor’s work.
“You really have to peek even when I block you?!” Chen Jian pressed down, following his movements.
Even the doctor chuckled. “I had a kid in here this morning, same thing—terrified, but still couldn’t stop looking.”
“He’s twenty-six!” Chen Jian said.
“Not strange. He’s twenty-six and still needs someone to hold his hand,” the doctor teased. “Call it childlike curiosity.”
“It hurts worse if I don’t look,” Shan Yu muttered.
The moment he said it, he regretted it.
Chen Jian immediately pulled his hand away. “Really?”
…Truth is, yes. If you saw it coming, you braced for it. Without that, it hit worse.
But now, he could just as well lie.
So Shan Yu fell silent, watching the doctor twist out the third pin. His grip eased a little, getting used to the pain.
The second Chen Jian felt the slack, he withdrew his hand.
Shan Yu glanced sideways. Chen Jian was shaking his hand behind his back—and when their eyes met, he quickly showed him his reddened hand, marked by Shan Yu’s grip.
Shan Yu didn’t comment. Instead, he caught Chen Jian’s fingertips, bowed theatrically, and whispered: “Dance?”
…What the hell?
Chen Jian couldn’t categorize this man’s mental state. Shock, yes, but underneath was a dangerous urge to laugh.
“Don’t move,” the doctor reminded firmly, still focused.
“Alright.” Shan Yu obediently sat straight again.
“If it hurts, there’s a stress ball,” the doctor suggested. “Pass it to him.”
Chen Jian grabbed the black rubber ball from the desk and handed it over.
“Better than your palm,” the doctor added dryly.
“Damn,” Shan Yu laughed softly, squeezing it.
Chen Jian, already biting back laughter from that “dance” comment, burst out laughing for real this time. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He had to leave the room before he disrupted the operation.
Patients lined the corridor outside. Chen Jian ducked his head, shoulders shaking as he laughed his way off to the side.
“What’s wrong?” the chaperone woman asked in alarm, hurrying over. “It’s just a brace removal—was it bad news?”
“No,” Chen Jian managed through his grin.
She saw his face and laughed too. “God, I thought it was serious. How could you laugh this hard just from your brother getting a brace off?”
“It’s… kind of funny,” Chen Jian admitted.
But he didn’t linger; he knew it was painful in there, and Shan Yu was genuinely afraid of it. He went back quickly.
Inside, Shan Yu gripped the stress ball so tightly his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the doctor twisting the pins free.
“Last one,” the doctor announced.
“Will he be able to walk?” Chen Jian asked.
“He could walk before,” the doctor replied. “But no heavy exertion. No weight on that leg. There are still open channels in the bone. Three months before they close. Push too early, and he risks another break.”
“Got it.” Shan Yu nodded quickly.
“The holes left behind…” Chen Jian frowned as he saw the tiny punctures on the leg. “Need stitches?”
“No need. They’ll close on their own within a week. Just keep them clean and disinfected. If swelling, pain, or bleeding occurs, return immediately.”
“Okay,” Chen Jian replied.
The doctor rattled off more instructions. Chen Jian stayed near the desk, carefully memorizing each one, while Shan Yu casually paced the room, clearly not listening.
Outside the hospital, Shan Yu’s mood was soaring. He bounced down the steps two at a time, using only his good leg. Chen Jian clutched his arm: “Do you want to break it again? Go back and get a splint before you ruin the doctor’s work.”
Shan Yu flashed him a grin. “Next month, no more nursing fee.”
“Watch your step,” Chen Jian scolded.
“Want to see your dad? How’s his arm healing?”
“…I didn’t ask,” Chen Jian admitted.
“Funny thing about people,” Shan Yu said. “Sometimes it’s easier to give care to strangers than to family.”
Chen Jian was silent. Awkward, yes—but true.
Shan Yu didn’t press, just led them to the parking lot.
Inside the car, Chen Jian hesitated. Then bit his lip. “He usually rests at a delivery riders’ station… around noon.”
Immediately, Shan Yu pulled up the GPS: “Put it in.”
Chen Jian flipped open his chat log with his father. A selfie—lunchbox at the station, splinted arm visible—captioned with bravado: hand’s fine, still on duty. The station’s name clear behind him.
Chen Jian entered it into the GPS. “Six, seven kilometers away.”
“Close.” Shan Yu drove off. “Honestly, you trace clues like a detective. I thought he had told you straight.”
“He basically did.”
“No gifts this time,” Shan Yu said. “He still has deliveries to run—don’t burden him with stuff.”
“Yeah.” Chen Jian nodded. Then nervously added, “When we arrive… maybe stop short.”
“Eight hundred meters away,” Shan Yu agreed calmly. “Don’t let him know your boss chauffeured you here.”
Chen Jian smirked faintly.
Memories he didn’t want resurfaced. He turned to the window quickly. Don’t think about it… just don’t.
Traffic was heavy. Glancing at the pedestrians, Chen Jian felt a little dizzy—so different from his quiet hometown roads.
At a red light, Shan Yu reached out calmly: “Hand cream.”
“…What?”
“Don’t play dumb. I smelled it.”
Chen Jian sighed, handing it over.
“Smells good.” Shan Yu worked it into his palms. “Where’d you buy it?”
“Small shop on Second Street.”
“You’d actually use this?” Shan Yu glanced over at the countdown clock.
“When I was a kid, my hands cracked every winter. My mom made me use it.”
“…I see.” Shan Yu said no more.
The rider station was near a supermarket where Chen Jian once worked. He knew the streets well.
Shan Yu parked a block away across from a bubble tea shop. “I’ll wait there.”
“Okay.” Chen Jian stepped out.
“Go on—hurry,” Shan Yu said.
Smiling faintly, Chen Jian walked off toward the station.
He worried his dad might’ve already eaten and left. But turning the corner, relief flooded him: his father sat on a low chair outside, eating from a plastic lunchbox. Splinted arm awkward, head bent over, hurriedly shoveling food.
“Old Chen,” Chen Jian called softly.
“Eh?” His father looked up, froze at the sight, then scrambled to stand. “What are you doing here?”
“Had some errands nearby. Thought I’d see you,” Chen Jian said.
“…You eaten yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then eat here.” His father waved at the vendor next door. “Boss! Another boxed meal!”
Chen Jian didn’t refuse. Quietly, he flicked out his phone and messaged Shan Yu.
In the bubble tea shop, Shan Yu sat by the window, students all around with fried skewers and hot pancakes. His stomach, empty after the brace removal ordeal, cramped with hunger.
Phone screen lit: a message.
—My dad bought me a meal.
“Shit,” Shan Yu muttered, hungrier.
He eyed the restaurants outside. Just as he considered leaving, a boy sat across from him, with takoyaki, milk tea, and a paper bag fragrant with spiced pancake.
“Kid,” Shan Yu asked, “where’d you get the pancake?”
“Behind our school.”
“How much?”
“Eight yuan.”
“Ten. Sell me.”
The boy blinked at him.
“You’ll eat dinner at home too. Eat all this, and your mom will yell.”
The boy hesitated.
“Twelve.”
The bag slid across the table.
“Untouched?” Shan Yu asked, paying up.
“Didn’t even open it yet.”
“Pleasure doing business.” Shan Yu handed him the bills.
The boy bolted off with his takoyaki, shouting to friends: “Some idiot bought my pancake! I made four extra yuan!”
Shan Yu snorted, tore open the bag. Still warm. Smelled wonderful.
First bite—phone rang. Yue Lang.
He ignored it. Then saw a message he’d missed—Chen Jian’s text.
His stomach grumbled louder.
He bit harder into the pancake, then called Yue Lang back.
“What?”
“Fang Xu got out, did you know?”
Shan Yu froze, jaw clenched. “…Didn’t.”
“Good behavior. Sentence reduced.”
Shan Yu said nothing. He bit his lip hard, took the milk tea in hand, squeezed it too tight—foam burst from the lid.
“Fuck.” He stood.
The waiter rushed over with a cloth. “Don’t worry!”
“Sorry,” Shan Yu muttered.
He grabbed the pancake, left the shop.
The boxed meal was decent—oily, salty, but filling. Chen Jian chatted with his father. Arm healing, still delivering, plate to come off soon.
After, his father hurried back to work. Watching him pedal away, Chen Jian turned back.
No text response from Shan Yu—typical.
Nearing the parked car, Chen Jian spotted him leaning on the door, bag in hand, face dark. On the phone—furious.
It was the first time Chen Jian had ever seen such raw anger in him.
He edged closer.
“…He dares come to my house again, I’ll cripple him,” Shan Yu said flatly into the phone. He ended the call, then flung the pancake bag downward—
Instinctively, Chen Jian darted forward and caught it before it splattered.
“You’re quick,” Shan Yu muttered when he noticed. “Back already?”
“Yeah. Finished.”
Shan Yu’s voice was still cold, though his expression had steadied.
“I thought you were smashing your phone,” Chen Jian admitted.
“Am I crazy? This phone cost over ten grand,” Shan Yu scoffed, reclaiming the pancake. His tone calmed, though anger still flickered in his eyes.
He bit into it, got into the car.
“Eat first. Then drive,” Chen Jian said quietly, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Mm.” Shan Yu nodded, chewing, gaze distant.
Chen Jian waited until he finished the last bite—and then finally took a deep breath.
Ask.
It’s like this, it would be unreasonable not to ask.
He turned to him. “What happened?”
