Morning crept in quietly.
Soft light filtered through half-drawn curtains, spilling over tangled sheets and pale skin.
Lian Song stirred faintly beneath Shen Zhihao's loose embrace.
That familiar weight around his waist… steady, firm, quietly possessive — even in sleep.
It was rare for Shen Zhihao to stay the night.
Rarer still for him to sleep this deeply beside him.
Almost like — here, in this quiet space — Shen Zhihao lowered his guard. Just a little.
Just enough to let Lian Song fool himself.
Stay.
Belong.
Be loved.
Even if it was only in borrowed moments.
Even if there were still places in Shen Zhihao's world where Lian Song's hands were never meant to reach.
A low buzz broke the fragile stillness.
Shen Zhihao's phone.
Lian Song instinctively tensed when the man beside him stirred — sharp, precise, awake in seconds.
The softness of moments before vanished like mist.
Without a word, Shen Zhihao reached over, checking the message.
Jaw tight. Eyes dark.
Trouble.
Lian Song sat up slightly, voice low, careful.
"…Work again?"
A pause.
Then Shen Zhihao's gaze cut over to him — sharp at first… before it softened.
He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Lian Song's cheek.
"Mn. Something to handle."
As always.
Vague. Opaque. Just out of reach.
Lian Song smiled faintly. "You'll be gone long?"
Shen Zhihao's thumb traced slowly across his lower lip — almost absentminded, almost intimate.
"I'll come back."
That was all he said.
But to Lian Song, it sounded like a promise.
Later, after Shen Zhihao disappeared into the shower, Lian Song wandered out of bed, padding barefoot across the cold floor.
The kitchen still held traces of last night — untouched soup on the stove, neat chopsticks by the sink.
Their little world. Quiet. Domestic.
Ordinary.
But his gaze drifted again — unbidden — toward that door at the end of the hallway.
Unmoving.
Unchanged.
Forbidden.
He told himself not to go near it.
But his feet moved anyway.
When had it started? This curiosity that wouldn't leave him alone?
This ache of wanting to know all of Shen Zhihao — even the parts that didn't want to be known.
Fingertips brushed against the doorframe.
Smooth. Cold.
Almost… untouched.
Until —
"What are you doing?"
Lian Song flinched.
He hadn't even heard him approach.
Shen Zhihao stood behind him — hair still damp, towel slung loosely over his shoulder, a dangerous quiet in his eyes.
Lian Song's heart pounded.
"I… wasn't doing anything," he whispered.
A beat of silence.
Then —
"Lian Song." Shen Zhihao's voice dropped — low, unreadable. "Didn't I tell you before?"
His hand reached out — fingers brushing Lian Song's cheek. Not harsh. Not cold.
Gentle.
Terrifyingly so.
"…Never touch that door."
Lian Song swallowed.
"…Why?"
The corner of Shen Zhihao's lips curled — but it wasn't a smile.
"You won't like what's behind it."
A pause.
Then, even softer:
"Some things are locked away for a reason."
He leaned in — the scent of cedar and cold cologne wrapping around Lian Song like chains.
"And I don't want you getting hurt."
That night, long after Shen Zhihao left with his usual quiet kiss to Lian Song's temple…
Lian Song stood in the hallway alone.
Staring at the closed door.
And that was when he noticed.
Something so small he almost missed it.
The edge of the doorframe…
Scratche
Like once — a long time ago — someone or something had fought to force it shut.
Or worse.
Had fought to get out.
To be continued