It was another day off at nine.
Bai Ying packed up the things on his desk, his gaze unconsciously drawn to the view outside the window. The Twin Towers were the tallest buildings on Jingming East Road, and the fifteenth floor was considered low, but from there, he could still see the rooftops of quite a few structures.
Neon lights flashed across the city, vehicles streamed endlessly down the streets, their headlights merging into a dazzling river of light. Most of the office buildings’ windows were still lit, and Jingming East Road never truly quieted down—no matter the hour, someone was always grinding away at their workstation.
Lost in thought, Bai Ying nearly stuffed his cactus into his briefcase too, but he got pricked the moment he touched it. He hissed and yanked his hand back.
“Bai Ying, are you really okay?” The art colleague heard the sound and turned to look at him.
He had felt all day that something was off with Bai Ying. Normally, Bai Ying was like a handful of cool yet soft snow, or a cloud drifting wherever the wind took it. Today, though, he was like a hazy mist, indistinct and hard to read.
But Bai Ying insisted he was fine.
Bai Ying shook his head at that moment and still said, “I’m fine, thanks.”
It must be from too much overtime.
The art colleague thought. That excuse was universal for them.
He and Bai Ying took the elevator to the first floor, and before parting at the entrance, the art colleague couldn’t help but remind him, “Watch out for traffic on the way home.”
“You too.” Bai Ying waved at him.
Leaving the company, he followed his usual route, merged into the after-work crowd, boarded the subway home—his daily routine was fixed.
Bai Ying gripped the handrail in the swaying subway car, staring at his reflection in the glass. His eyes felt a bit sore, everything blurring.
The young man in the glass—neatly dressed in a suit, trench coat draped over his arm—lifted a hand to rub his eyes.
Things sharpened a little, but his eyes still felt dry. Maybe from staring at screens too long, Bai Ying pondered whether he should stop at a pharmacy for eye drops.
But like so many subway thoughts, he forgot it the moment he stepped off.
As night deepened, the temperature dropped further, cold winds blowing relentlessly. Bai Ying, who hadn’t put on his trench coat, still felt oddly hot. Entering his complex, he shrugged off his suit jacket too, left in just a thin white dress shirt.
He always buttoned it to the top, but now he felt so uncomfortable that he tugged at the collar, freeing his neck entirely and even exposing a bit of his slender collarbone. He sensed something was really wrong, but couldn’t pinpoint why.
Bai Ying stood in the elevator, watching the numbers climb on the display.
When it reached the seventh floor, he paused for a moment before stepping out of the open doors.
Bai Ying’s rented complex had only two units per floor, their doors facing each other with a row of warm yellow lights between to guide late-night returnees. He reached his door, leaned against the cold surface, and bent to enter the code—but he fumbled it several times.
The electronic lock emitted a sharp beep on wrong entries.
Bai Ying lightly bumped his forehead against the door; the lit numbers blurred in his vision.
After three failures, it locked for five minutes. Bai Ying stood there dazedly, gaze unfocused. Just then, the door across the hall opened.
It took his sluggish brain a while to register the sound. Seconds later, Bai Ying instinctively glanced back.
Tan Ming, clutching an outer jacket and about to head out for late-night snacks, froze in place.
In the dim light stood a thin, slender shadow. Tan Ming didn’t see his face at first—he was slightly turned, forehead against the door, soft black hair falling to obscure it, everything shrouded in shadow.
But in a blink, he turned and looked over.
Tan Ming saw eyes misty with haze, like a clear lake veiled in fog, the flush at the corners like peach blossoms by the water’s edge.
…This person was his neighbor?
As Tan Ming thought that, the idea sluggishly surfaced in Bai Ying’s mind too. He’d lived alone on this floor for a long time; the opposite door’s occupant had moved in just last week, but their schedules never overlapped. This was the first time Bai Ying had seen his new neighbor.
Suddenly, Tan Ming lost his appetite for snacks. His neighbor seemed to be in trouble.
“Is the door lock broken?” Tan Ming asked with concern.
Bai Ying shook his head. “Wrong code.”
Tan Ming sensed something odd about his state. Bai Ying looked normal otherwise—pale skin without unhealthy color. The only anomalies were those watery eyes and the faint red at their corners.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Tan Ming finally asked.
Bai Ying’s expression was dazed and confused.
He watched, puzzled, as his neighbor approached, stopping so close their shoes nearly touched. Bai Ying wasn’t short, but the neighbor was half a head taller, broader too—up close, he seemed able to envelop him entirely.
Bai Ying uncomfortably tried to step back, but his head hit the door.
No retreat. The neighbor easily touched his forehead.
“You…” The warmth of the hand confirmed Tan Ming’s suspicion. “You’re burning up.”
It took Bai Ying a moment to process the words.
But he still doubted he’d heard right. “Huh?”
Seeing the incredulous look, Tan Ming chuckled despite himself. “You didn’t even realize you were sick? How do you take such poor care of yourself?”
Tan Ming figured his fever-addled neighbor wouldn’t get the door open for another half hour. After a thought, he decisively brought him back to his own place first.
***
How could he get sick?
Curled up in Tan Ming’s fluffy single armchair, Bai Ying was still fixated on that.
His constitution… Bai Ying wouldn’t claim it was great, but it was definitely better than average—perhaps one of the few advantages of being a demon. Even without exercise, he had a nice layer of lean muscle. Getting sick was distant from him; Duan Yunjin had even teased that he was heaven’s chosen workhorse.
This was bad—human capitalists’ exploitation had demons catching colds!
Bai Ying hugged the cup of hot water his neighbor had poured, miserably curling into an even smaller ball.
Worried bright lights would hurt a sick person’s eyes, Tan Ming had only turned on the dimmest ring in the living room. Tying an apron as he emerged from the kitchen, he asked Bai Ying, “Do you prefer sweet or savory porridge?”
Bai Ying didn’t understand why his neighbor suddenly asked that.
But his brain was mush now; he answered whatever was asked. “Sweet.”
That matched his guess. Tan Ming recalled where the brown sugar was while saying, “I’m Tan Ming. Moved in last week.”
“I know.” Bai Ying nodded, then slowly realized Tan Ming wanted names exchanged. “…I’m Bai Ying.”
Tan Ming knew the characters—he’d seen them in the owners’ group.
The sick man’s voice was sticky at the ends, like aggrieved coquetry, simple words lingering in the listener’s heart, impossible not to replay.
Tan Ming’s tone softened too, almost like coaxing. He couldn’t believe that voice came from him. He coaxed Bai Ying to clamp the thermometer under his tongue before returning to the kitchen to cook.
He’d planned barbecue tonight—heavy oil, heavy spice—but now he scratched that, opting for stomach-soothing sweet porridge.
Tan Ming quickly prepped and started the pot, then returned. Time to check the thermometer. In the faint light, aligning the scale, it wasn’t good: “39 degrees. Better go to the hospital.”
Bai Ying said weakly, “I don’t want to…”
He wasn’t human, after all. School and company checkups had never flagged anything odd before, but hospitals terrified him innately—afraid one day it’d expose he was actually a snake.
Fearing being dragged there, Bai Ying instinctively shrank further into the chair.
Tan Ming looked at him helplessly.
The chair was from his mom, clashing with his minimalist decor. A warm yellow eggshell on four wooden legs, soft shell, fluffy inside—Bai Ying was stuffing himself in like a fledgling avoiding the world.
“Fine, no hospital then. Drink some porridge to line your stomach, then fever meds,” Tan Ming stressed. “But if the temperature doesn’t drop tonight, we go!”
Bai Ying nodded vigorously.
It’d drop by tomorrow—he had work.
Tan Ming couldn’t fathom him still thinking of work. He fetched a hot towel from the bathroom for Bai Ying’s forehead.
Though no meds yet, after the routine, Bai Ying felt better—clearer-headed, able to think somewhat.
“Thanks,” Bai Ying said softly. “Sorry for the trouble.”
Troubling a neighbor he’d just met—Bai Ying felt grateful yet guilty.
Unsure how to repay…
“No problem.” For some reason, Tan Ming avoided those watery eyes, shifting his gaze. “…It’s nothing.”
Seeing him vulnerable and dazed at the door, even a heart of stone couldn’t ignore it.
Tan Ming grew glad he’d gone out then. Bai Ying’s fever was bad—if missed, he might’ve collapsed outside.
If he’d spent the night in the cold hallway…
Tan Ming didn’t dare think.
Fever brought chills and heat waves; Bai Ying suspected he’d started burning long ago but, unused to illness, chalked it up to overtime.
Earlier hot enough to strip to his shirt, now cold seeped from his bones.
Bai Ying couldn’t recall where he’d ditched his jacket when Tan Ming brought him over, so he hugged his shoulders miserably.
Tan Ming, ever attentive, noticed immediately. “Uncomfortable?”
“Cold…” Bai Ying lifted his lashes pitifully.
Tan Ming fetched a small blanket from the bedroom. Bai Ying obediently raised his arms to let him drape it.
So obedient.
Tan Ming wondered if he was always like this or just feverish—drank water holding the cup properly, answered questions earnestly, let himself be blanketed like a doll.
Like a pet overly dependent on its owner.
The thought startled Tan Ming; he chided himself for the disrespectful notion, growing restless. Recalling the porridge, he said, “I’ll check it,” and hurried off.
Bai Ying watched his broad back, feeling the debt grow.
Once busy stretch ended, buy a thank-you gift… Right.
Bai Ying’s heart stirred; his gaze drifted to the kitchen, to those reliable shoulders.
His neighbor felt very dependable.
The plan to find an owner quietly resurfaced.
Tan Ming soon returned with steaming sweet porridge but didn’t hand it over yet. Too hot—he stirred it repeatedly with the spoon until it was just right for eating.
Watching him, Bai Ying increasingly thought Tan Ming would make a patient, gentle owner.
The idea embarrassed him; Bai Ying drew his knees up, shrinking small, fingers unconsciously clutching the blanket. Softly, he called, “…Tan Ming.”
“What?” Tan Ming looked over, gaze gentle.
“You…” Bai Ying boldly asked, “Do you like snakes?”
“Why ask that?” Tan Ming puzzled, but feverish people rambled, so he answered honestly. “I’m actually scared of them… Probably from a poisonous bite as a kid. Sorry, hope that doesn’t make you laugh.”
The fingers gripping the blanket slowly loosened.
“No,” Bai Ying said. “That snake was just bad.”
For some reason, Tan Ming felt Bai Ying’s attitude shift; he wondered if he’d answered the odd question wrong.
Bai Ying had simply crossed him off the potential owner list.
