Chapter Text
The alarm rang shrilly through the small bedroom, its sound bouncing off the lavender-colored walls. Jiang Cheng lay sprawled beneath the covers, his brow furrowing as the noise drilled into his ears. With a muffled groan, he reached out blindly, eyes still closed, and swatted at his nightstand. His hand found the phone, knocking it to the floor with a dull thud. Blessed silence followed.
He exhaled, tension easing, and forced himself upright. His neck ached from the way he’d slept, so he rolled it with a quiet crack before rubbing at his eyes. Beside him, Jin Ling was still buried beneath the thick blanket, his small arms draped possessively across Jiang Cheng’s stomach.
Carefully, Jiang Cheng slid free, replacing himself with a body pillow so the boy wouldn’t notice the loss. He hovered for a moment, debating whether to wake him now or later. But the thought of wrestling with a cranky child while rushing through chores made the decision for him. Better to let the little terror sleep a bit longer.
In the kitchen, the air soon filled with the buttery scent of pancakes and the sharp sizzle of bacon. He sliced bananas into the batter — the only way Jin Ling would touch fruit without a fight — and set a small pan aside for the boy’s portion. While the pancakes rose, Jiang Cheng ran the vacuum over the living room, then laid out a freshly pressed uniform on the couch.
The daycare was only a fifteen-minute walk away, conveniently close to their apartment. Still, the thought of it pulled a faint line between his brows. He’d managed to land a part-time position there, something temporary to keep them afloat until he could secure a corporate job with the kind of salary that matched their needs. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what they had.
When everything was set, he returned to the bedroom and braced himself for battle. It took nearly ten minutes of coaxing, shaking, and muttering threats to finally stir Jin Ling from the nest of blankets. Predictably, the boy burst into tears, clutching at Jiang Cheng’s shirt as if dragged from the depths of despair. Jiang Cheng sat with him on the edge of the bed, rubbing his back and murmuring gruff comforts until the sobs subsided.
“Come on,” he said at last, hoisting him up. “Breakfast.”
Jin Ling stumbled to the table, hair sticking up in every direction, and clambered onto the tall chair with all the grace of a baby duck. He attacked his pancakes with grim determination, dropping syrupy chunks onto the tiled floor every other bite. Jiang Cheng bit back a sigh. At least the kid was trying.
Watching him now, back straight and lips pressed thin in concentration, Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but remember—
A smaller Jin Ling, pudgy cheeks puffed out, refusing to open his mouth. Jiang Cheng, exasperated, holding a fork up to him. “Just one bite,” he pleaded. The boy had crossed his arms and glared, declaring, “I’m old enough already!” before swatting the fork away.
The memory pulled a reluctant smirk to Jiang Cheng’s lips. Since that day, Jin Ling had insisted on doing things himself — tying his shoelaces, brushing his teeth, eating without help. Most of it ended in spills and frustration, but the determination never wavered.
Jiang Cheng shook his head, leaning against the counter with his coffee. ‘Big boy, huh? If Jin Ling said so.’
Jiang Cheng didn’t waste a minute finishing his coffee, draining the last bitter mouthful in one swallow before setting the mug in the sink. He grabbed a towel over his shoulder and headed for the bathroom. A quick shower, fast enough that the steam hadn’t even begun to cloud the mirror, and he was already back in his room pulling on a clean shirt.
He buttoned it halfway as he checked the contents of his worn leather bag: lesson plans, pens, spare worksheets, Jin Ling’s emergency snacks tucked into a side pocket. Everything in order. He snapped the bag shut with a curt nod.
When he stepped out, he nearly tripped over a small figure planted in the hallway.
Jin Ling stood there swaddled in a bright yellow duck-patterned towel, damp hair plastered to his forehead, shivering as the early morning air bit at his skin.
“Honestly,” Jiang Cheng muttered, frowning. He steered the boy back into the room with a firm hand between his shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold standing around like that.”
Jin Ling huffed but didn’t resist as Jiang Cheng sat him down on the edge of the bed and grabbed the hair dryer. With practiced movements, he ruffled the towel through Jin Ling’s hair first, then switched on the dryer. Warm air filled the room, the hum loud but oddly comforting.
The boy tilted his head reluctantly, eyes half-lidded, his pout still firmly in place. Jiang Cheng smirked despite himself and tugged gently at his chin to get him to sit still.
“Stop squirming,” he said, guiding the dryer in slow circles.
“I’m not squirming,” Jin Ling mumbled, though his little legs kicked restlessly against the bedframe.
“Mm.” Jiang Cheng arched a brow, unconvinced, but didn’t press the point.
Minutes passed like that — the steady hum of the dryer, Jin Ling’s soft grumbles, Jiang Cheng’s fingers combing through damp strands until they were fluffy and warm.
When he finally clicked the dryer off, Jin Ling’s hair stuck out in uneven tufts. Jiang Cheng chuckled under his breath. “There. Not bad.”
“You made me look stupid,” Jin Ling muttered, glaring.
“You already looked stupid,” Jiang Cheng shot back easily, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smile.
The walk to the daycare only took fifteen minutes, but by the time they reached the gates, Jin Ling was dragging his feet like they’d crossed an entire desert.
“Stop sulking,” Jiang Cheng muttered, adjusting the strap of his leather bag.
“I’m not sulking,” Jin Ling said automatically, lips turned down, small hand clutching his uncle’s sleeve anyway.
The daycare sat on a quiet street corner, its front gate painted a cheerful sky-blue, bright flowers blooming in pots along the entrance. Parents were already arriving in a steady trickle, little backpacks bobbing as children clung to their hands. Jiang Cheng felt the tension tighten between his shoulders. This wasn’t just Jin Ling’s first day here. It was his.
Inside, the classroom smelled faintly of paper and crayons, sunlight streaming across low shelves filled with toys and books. The small tables were arranged in circles, colorful name tags taped to each seat.
Jin Ling wrinkled his nose. “It’s too… kiddy.”
“You are a kid,” Jiang Cheng said dryly, steering him toward the cubbies.
One by one, the other children arrived — loud, chattering, filling the room with shrieks and laughter. Jin Ling eyed them with thinly veiled disdain before wandering to a corner table, pulling out a pencil like he already had homework to do.
Then the door opened again, and a boy walked in with hesitant steps.
He was small, dark-haired, and clung tightly to the hand of a young woman—the nanny, judging by the frazzled smile on her face and the way she balanced a work phone on the other hand. Spotting Jiang Cheng, she immediately tugged the boy forward, not even noticing the slight wince he gave. But Jiang Cheng did, and the disapproving look he shot her made his feelings plain.
“You’re probably the new teacher?” the nanny said briskly. “I’m Jingyi’s guardian for the day. I was told to let you know—just let him do what he wants. He can be… challenging. Self-isolating. His father says as long as he isn’t making a ruckus, it’s fine to leave him be.” She nudged the boy’s shoulder, trying to dislodge him from behind her leg.
Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t great with kids—even his nephew could wear his patience thin on a daily basis. Now he was expected to handle twenty of them, one of whom came with a warning label on the first day. The weariness hit him like a wave. Still, he gave the woman a curt nod.
Satisfied, the nanny swept out of the room, phone already pressed to her ear. She didn’t even glance back at Jingyi.
The boy was left standing in front of him, shoulders hunched, gaze pinned to the floor. His fingers twisted into the straps of his backpack, fidgeting as though he wished he could disappear entirely.
“Jingyi?” Jiang Cheng crouched down, trying to catch his eye. The boy immediately looked away.
“You can sit wherever you want,” Jiang Cheng said, forcing his voice into something gentler, though it came out rougher than he intended. “You don’t have to just stand there.”
Jingyi hesitated, then turned, scanning the classroom. His small frame moved stiffly as he walked toward the farthest corner table—straight to where Jin Ling had already claimed his seat.
Jin Ling raised an eyebrow at him, sharp and assessing. It wasn’t a welcome. It was a challenge.
Jingyi shrank under the look, shoulders curling in on themselves as he slid into the chair. A soft whimper slipped from his throat, so quiet most wouldn’t have noticed.
“Alright,” Jiang Cheng said, straightening at the front of the classroom. “We’ll start with introductions. Say your name, and maybe one thing you like. Nothing complicated.”
The children murmured nervously, some giggling, some immediately blurting out practice versions to themselves. One by one, the kids introduced themselves—likes ranging from puppies to cartoons to ice cream.
When it came to Jin Ling’s turn, he sat taller in his chair, expression cool and practiced.
“I’m Jin Ling,” he said clearly. “I like dogs. And my uncle.”
A ripple of “awws” ran through the classroom. Jiang Cheng nearly choked on his own breath. He masked it quickly with a cough, turning back to the blackboard before anyone could notice the heat creeping up his neck.
Jin Ling, smug, folded his arms and leaned back in his chair like he’d already won something.
The next few children spoke, and then all eyes turned to the small boy hunched in the corner.
Lan Jingyi.
He had his hands folded on his lap, knuckles white. His lips moved soundlessly before he swallowed hard, eyes darting around the room.
“Your turn,” Jiang Cheng said. His voice softened despite himself.
Jingyi hesitated. Then, in a whisper, “...I’m Jingyi.”
“Louder,” one of the boys at the back snickered.
Jingyi flinched, shrinking even smaller. His voice trembled. “I-I like… I like cats.”
Silence stretched a beat too long. A few kids giggled. Someone whispered, “Cats are boring.”
Before Jiang Cheng could intervene, Jin Ling spoke up, nose wrinkled in disdain.
“Of course you do,” he said. “Figures.”
Jingyi froze, eyes wide and wounded, the faintest quiver at the corner of his mouth.
“Jin Ling,” Jiang Cheng snapped before the boy could pile on more. “That’s enough.”
Jin Ling pressed his lips together, mutinous but silent. He stared at his desk, tapping the end of his crayon like it was a weapon.
Jiang Cheng rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was exactly what he’d feared—his bratty nephew lording over the shyer kids. But when his gaze slid back to Jingyi, still hunched in his seat like a scolded cat, something in his chest tightened.
“Thank you, Jingyi,” Jiang Cheng said more gently this time. “Cats are good.”
The boy peeked up, just for a second, before ducking his head again.
Once the introductions were done, Jiang Cheng set his hands on the desk at the front. “Alright. Since you’ve all told me who you are, we’re going to do something simple. Take out a sheet of paper and draw something you like. It can be a toy, an animal, whatever. Just make sure you try.”
There was a clatter of chairs and chatter as the kids scrambled for crayons and pencils. Soon the classroom filled with the steady scratch of drawing and the occasional burst of giggles.
Most of the children bent eagerly over their papers. Bright houses, crooked stick families, and rainbow-colored animals bloomed across the desks. Jin Ling attacked his sheet with fierce focus, already halfway through sketching what looked like a golden retriever with a crown.
But at the corner table, Jingyi sat frozen. His paper was still blank, his crayon rolling back and forth between restless fingers. Every so often, he glanced at the others’ pages, then ducked his head lower.
Jiang Cheng noticed immediately. He sighed, setting down the stack of worksheets he was pretending to organize, and walked over.
“Jingyi,” he said, crouching beside the desk. “What’s the problem?”
The boy flinched, nearly dropping the crayon. “…Don’t know what to draw,” he muttered, voice barely audible.
“You like cats, right?” Jiang Cheng prompted. “Draw one.”
“I—I can’t.” His knuckles tightened around the crayon, eyes still glued to the blank paper.
Jiang Cheng pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not built for this. But the boy’s hunched shoulders, the way his mouth trembled like he was bracing for scolding—he couldn’t just leave him like that.
He picked up a pencil from the desk and placed it gently into Jingyi’s hand, curling the small fingers around it. “Listen. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just start with something simple.” He guided the hand toward the page, drawing a rough circle. “See? Head. Ears next. Easy.”
Jingyi blinked at the shape forming under his hand. Slowly, he began adding his own lines: triangles for ears, whiskers sticking out lopsidedly. It wasn’t neat, but the stiffness in his posture eased, a tiny crease of concentration forming between his brows.
“That’s fine,” Jiang Cheng said gruffly, straightening up. “Keep going.”
For the first time, Jingyi looked up at him—not fully, just a quick flick of his wide eyes. But there was no fear in it. Only surprise. Maybe even a little hope.
From across the table, Jin Ling scowled, pressing harder on his crayon until it nearly snapped.
When Jiang Cheng moved on to check the next group, Jingyi’s small, shaky lines continued to fill the page. A crooked cat with enormous ears slowly came to life. It wasn’t much, but when Jiang Cheng passed by again, the boy actually lifted the drawing an inch off the table, like he wanted him to see.
Jiang Cheng gave a short nod. “Not bad.”
The tiniest smile ghosted across Jingyi’s lips before he ducked his head again.
The rest of the day passed like a dream Jingyi didn’t quite feel part of. The other children laughed loudly, chasing each other around the room, crayons rolling under desks and paper flying like kites. Their voices tangled in the air, noisy and full.
Jingyi sat at his table, his drawing pressed flat against the wood, watching from the corner of his eye. He wanted to join—he always wanted to—but his feet stayed tucked beneath his chair. Even when Jin Ling darted past him, voice sharp with a bossy “Don’t run there!” to another child, Jingyi didn’t move. He just hugged his backpack tighter.
But it wasn’t all bad. His cat drawing still sat on the desk. It was a little lopsided, the whiskers crooked, but Teacher Jiang had nodded at it. Not fake-nodded, the way some adults did when they didn’t really care. A real nod, sharp and short. “Not bad,” he’d said. Jingyi thought about those words all through story time, mouthing them silently while the others laughed at the silly voices in the book.
When the last bell chimed, the classroom turned into a flurry of excitement. Chairs scraped, small shoes pattered across the floor, and backpacks zipped shut. Parents appeared at the door, one by one, and the air filled with the happy squeals of reunions.
“Bye, Teacher!” shouted a girl with pigtails, darting into her mother’s arms.
“See you tomorrow!” called another, his father lifting him onto his shoulders.
Jingyi sat still at his desk, legs swinging slowly, eyes fixed on the doorway. Every time it opened, he held his breath, but each name called belonged to someone else. His fingers worried the edge of his paper until it bent.
“Jingyi,” Teacher Jiang’s voice came, gruff but not unkind. He was collecting stray crayons off the floor, his brows furrowed the way they always seemed to be. “Your driver will be here soon. Go wait by the door so you don’t miss him.”
Jingyi nodded quickly, clutching his backpack straps as he slid off his chair. He shuffled to the front, small sneakers squeaking against the tile. The noise of the other kids faded as more and more left, until the classroom grew quiet.
Finally, a man in a dark suit appeared, phone pressed to his ear. “Young Master Jingyi,” he said briskly, not even glancing at the teacher. Jingyi rose to his feet immediately, bowing his head slightly the way he’d been taught, and followed without a word.
The car ride home was silent. Jingyi stared out the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the blur of buildings and trees pass by. His fingers traced small invisible cats on the fog his breath left behind.
By the time they reached the house, the sky was soft with evening light. The nanny met him at the door, ushering him inside with a distracted smile, already tapping at her phone. Dinner was waiting on the table, neat and warm, but the seat across from him stayed empty.
It wasn’t until later, when the sound of keys turning in the front lock echoed through the hall, that Jingyi’s head shot up. He scrambled off his chair, socks slipping against the polished floor as he hurried toward the entryway.
“Papa!” he called, the word tumbling out before he could stop it.
Lan Xichen stepped through the door, the calm presence Jingyi always waited for. His hair was a little mussed from the day, suit jacket folded over his arm. When he saw Jingyi barreling toward him, a soft smile bloomed on his face. He set his things aside just in time to catch the boy in his arms.
“You’re still awake,” Xichen murmured, lifting him easily. “Were you waiting for me?”
Jingyi buried his face in his father’s shoulder, nodding. His small fists curled into the fabric of Xichen’s shirt. The steady beat of his papa’s heart under his ear melted away the tightness in his chest that had been there since the classroom emptied.
Xichen carried him to the sofa, settling down with Jingyi still clinging to him. “So,” he said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from his son’s forehead, “how was your first day?”
Jingyi hesitated. The words tangled on his tongue. Talking about school always felt hard—too many sounds, too many faces, too many things he didn’t know how to explain. But tonight, he wanted to.
“My teacher…” He stopped, fidgeting with the buttons on Xichen’s shirt. “His name’s Jiang.”
“Teacher Jiang?”
Jingyi nodded. “He… helped me draw a cat.” The words came out in a rush, soft but insistent.
Xichen’s smile warmed, though his brows lifted slightly in surprise. “He helped you?”
“…Mm.” Jingyi’s cheeks grew hot. “He didn’t get mad. He said… not bad.”
The memory of that rough voice, not angry but certain, filled him again. It had felt safe in a way Jingyi wasn’t used to.
Xichen tilted his head, thoughtful. “That’s good, then. Did you thank him?”
Jingyi shook his head quickly, embarrassed.
“Tomorrow,” Xichen said, smoothing his son’s hair, “you can try.”
Jingyi hummed, curling closer into the safe space of his father’s arms. His eyes felt heavy now, but his heart was lighter than it had been in weeks.
Before sleep tugged him under, he whispered, almost too quietly to hear: “I… like him.”
Xichen’s chest rose and fell with a soft breath, his hand stroking gently down his back. “I’m glad, Jingyi.”
The alarm shrieked again, just as merciless as the day before. Jiang Cheng smacked the phone off the nightstand, rubbing at his temple as he rolled upright. His head was pounding faintly—too much tossing and turning in the night, too many unfinished thoughts circling back to one image: a small boy in the corner of the classroom, shrinking beneath his nephew’s sharp stare.
He exhaled through his nose, heavy, and dragged himself out of bed. Jin Ling was still curled under the blanket, hair a mess, mouth parted in the slack of deep sleep. For a moment, Jiang Cheng considered letting him rest a little longer. But then yesterday’s memory returned—Jin Ling’s narrowed eyes, the way Jingyi had recoiled—and his patience thinned.
“Up,” he said flatly, tugging the blanket. “Come on. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
A muffled whine rose from the bundle of sheets. “Five more minutes.”
“No.” Jiang Cheng yanked the covers away entirely. “You’ve got school, and I’ve got twenty kids to wrangle. Don’t start the day testing me.”
Jin Ling sat up reluctantly, scowling, hair sticking out in every direction. He looked like a ruffled duck, stubborn and sulky. Jiang Cheng almost snorted—almost—but instead fixed him with the stern look that usually kept the boy in line.
By the time they shuffled to the bathroom, Jin Ling had quieted, rubbing at his eyes. He climbed onto the stool, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, when Jiang Cheng decided to say it.
“What was that yesterday?”
The boy blinked at him in the mirror. “What was what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Jiang Cheng crossed his arms. “The way you looked at that boy—Jingyi. You think I didn’t notice?”
The toothbrush paused mid-scrub. Jin Ling’s cheeks puffed up as he chewed the bristles. Finally, he spat into the sink and muttered, “He’s weird. Doesn’t even talk.”
Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. “And that gives you the right to glare at him? To make him feel worse than he already does?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His voice sharpened. “You’re not stupid, Jin Ling. You knew exactly what you were doing. Don’t act like it was nothing.”
The boy’s mouth snapped shut. His small hands gripped the porcelain edge of the sink, knuckles pale. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort.
Jiang Cheng sighed, softer this time. “He’s just a kid. Like you. Maybe he’s quiet, maybe he’s shy—but that doesn’t make him your enemy.”
The boy’s eyes flickered up, wide and conflicted. “Then why did you sit with him so much? You didn’t even come to me.”
There it was—the crack of honesty beneath the sulk. Possessiveness. Jealousy.
Jiang Cheng crouched a little, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Because he needed me. And because you’re strong enough to handle yourself. You don’t need me hovering every second.”
Jin Ling’s lips pressed into a thin line. He dropped the toothbrush into its cup with a clatter and stomped toward the kitchen without answering.
Breakfast was quiet, tension thick as steam from the coffee maker. Jin Ling poked at his eggs, shoulders slouched, refusing to meet Jiang Cheng’s gaze. When the toast slipped off his plate, he didn’t complain, just shoved it back carelessly, crumbs scattering across the table.
Jiang Cheng’s instinct was to scold again—but he forced himself to breathe, sip his coffee, and let it slide. The boy was sulking. He always sulked after discipline. Pushing harder would only make him dig in deeper.
“Eat,” was all he said.
By the time they left the apartment, Jin Ling’s pout hadn’t budged. He trudged a step behind, dragging his little backpack along the ground until Jiang Cheng snapped at him to pick it up before he ruined the straps. The boy obeyed wordlessly, eyes on the pavement.
The daycare gates loomed after their short walk. Children were already trickling in, parents dropping them off with hurried kisses and reminders. Jin Ling hesitated just inside the doorway, staring at the familiar classroom, then stalked toward his usual seat with all the dignity of a wounded prince.
Jiang Cheng rubbed his temple. This is going to be a long day.
“Good morning,” a voice chirped behind him. He turned to see Jingyi’s nanny, one hand guiding the boy forward, the other already clutching a phone. Her smile was rushed, distracted. “Same as yesterday, Teacher Jiang. Please just… let him be. You know how it is.”
Jiang Cheng nodded stiffly. “I’ll take it from here.”
She was already halfway out the door before he finished. Jingyi stood there, clutching his bag straps, eyes lowered to the floor.
“Morning,” Jiang Cheng said, softening his voice. He crouched down, meeting the boy’s line of sight. “Come on in. Sit wherever you like.”
Jingyi peeked up briefly, then scurried to the corner seat—next to Jin Ling again.
Of course.
Jin Ling shot him another look, sharp and dismissive. But this time, Jingyi only shrank a little, not as much as yesterday. He sat carefully, hands folded on the desk, trying to take up as little space as possible.
Jiang Cheng’s gaze lingered on the pair of them. Oil and water. One too loud, the other too quiet. But for some reason, both tethered to him in ways that made his chest tighten.
The morning routine smoothed into its usual rhythm of noise and chatter once all the children were seated. Bright crayons clattered on the desks, notebooks were opened, and someone in the back had already started humming the theme song of a cartoon. Jiang Cheng let the chaos bubble for a minute before clapping his hands together.
“Alright, settle down.” His voice cut clean through the noise. Twenty pairs of eyes darted forward. Jin Ling, of course, slouched in his seat with exaggerated boredom, while Jingyi sat stiff as stone, his gaze fixed firmly on the corner of his desk.
Jiang Cheng tapped the board. “Today’s assignment is simple. You’re going to write a letter. Nothing long, just a few sentences. To each other.”
A wave of murmurs rolled through the classroom. Someone raised a hand. “To anyone?”
“Yes. To anyone here,” Jiang Cheng said. “Think of it as practice—a way to tell someone something you usually don’t say out loud. It could be a thank you, something nice, or even just, ‘Hello, I like sitting next to you.’ Got it?”
The kids nodded, excitement sparking at the thought of secret messages. Jiang Cheng distributed the stationery—stacks of lined paper and stubby pencils. The room soon filled with the rustle of writing, the occasional laugh, and the squeak of erasers against paper.
Jin Ling hunched over his desk, pencil scratching furiously. Every few seconds, he’d frown, erase half of what he’d written, then rewrite with even more stubborn energy. Jiang Cheng watched from across the room, lips twitching. That pout hadn’t left his nephew’s face all morning.
Meanwhile, Jingyi sat frozen, pencil limp in his hand. His paper was perfectly blank. His little brows were furrowed, mouth tugged downward in defeat. Jiang Cheng moved closer, crouching by his side.
“Stuck?” he asked quietly.
Jingyi looked up at him, then back at his paper. “I don’t know what to say…” he mumbled, hanging his head low.
Jiang Cheng raised a brow. “Anything. You don’t need to say a lot. Even just, ‘Hi, I’d like to be your friend’ would do—as long as you’re being honest.”
He guided the boy’s hand to the paper, helped him steady the pencil. “Here. Start with ‘Dear…’ Whoever you want.”
Jingyi’s breath hitched, but slowly, hesitantly, he began to move the pencil. The letters were crooked, uneven, but they formed words—shaky and small. Jiang Cheng stayed until he saw the boy’s shoulders relax, the tiniest spark of concentration replacing the earlier fear. Then he rose and let him be.
By the time the clock ticked toward the end of the lesson, most of the kids were done. Papers folded in little squares, clutched tight in small fists, whispers of excitement rippling through the classroom.
“Alright,” Jiang Cheng called. “Time’s up. Now, find the person you wrote to and give them your letter. No arguing, no trading. You hand it directly, and you say ‘thank you.’ Understood?”
Chairs scraped against the floor as children scrambled up, giggling, darting across aisles to hand notes to their friends.
Jin Ling stood with deliberate slowness, his paper crumpled from too much folding and unfolding. He marched straight to Jiang Cheng’s desk, expression still set in that stubborn pout. Without a word, he shoved the letter at his uncle.
“For me?” Jiang Cheng asked, brows lifting.
Jin Ling crossed his arms, refusing to look him in the eye. His ears were red. “Don’t make it weird.”
Despite himself, Jiang Cheng felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He unfolded the note quickly before Jin Ling could snatch it back. The handwriting was uneven, letters pressed so hard they nearly tore the paper.
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘥, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘜𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘥. 𝘚𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰.
Jiang Cheng’s throat went tight. He folded the paper carefully—too carefully—and slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said, voice lower than usual.
Jin Ling muttered something unintelligible and stomped back toward his seat.
But before he could sit, movement caught his eye.
Jingyi was standing, tiny shoulders drawn up like he was about to be scolded. His paper was clutched in both hands, folded into a neat square. Slowly, nervously, he walked across the aisle—toward Jin Ling.
The classroom seemed to still, or maybe it was just Jiang Cheng’s attention sharpening to a point.
Jingyi stopped in front of Jin Ling, head bowed, arms outstretched with the note. His voice trembled as he spoke, just loud enough for them to hear.
“Here. For you.”
Jin Ling froze, caught off guard. His pout faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. Slowly, he reached out and took the paper.
Jiang Cheng’s chest tightened again—for an entirely different reason.
Jin Ling stared at the note for a long time after he sat down, the crumpled square pinched between his fingers. His brows drew together, but his lips weren’t pressed in the usual scowl. It was something more complicated—like he wanted to frown but didn’t quite know how.
Across the room, Jingyi sat perfectly still, gaze lowered, pretending to be interested in the corner of his desk. His ears were bright red.
Jin Ling opened the paper.
𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘑𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘪𝘯𝘨,
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘑𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘺𝘪.
The handwriting was shaky, letters uneven and smudged, but Jin Ling read it twice. His pout loosened, just a fraction. He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
When the bell for break finally rang, the children burst into chatter, chairs scraping and shoes squeaking as they raced toward the playground. Jin Ling lingered by the door, eyes flicking toward Jingyi, who was still at his desk, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt like he hadn’t decided whether to follow the others.
“Hey,” Jin Ling said, sharp enough to sound like a challenge but not enough to be cruel. “You coming or what?”
Jingyi blinked at him, startled. “Me?”
“Yeah, you. Break time. Unless you wanna sit here and stare at the wall.” Jin Ling huffed and turned, not waiting for an answer. But his steps slowed just enough for Jingyi to scramble up and follow.
The playground was alive with noise—kids chasing each other, climbing jungle gyms, shouting rules to games that changed every two minutes. Jin Ling made a beeline for the swings, his usual territory. Jingyi hovered a step behind, watching as Jin Ling hopped onto the seat.
“You can’t just stand there,” Jin Ling muttered, pumping his legs to get the swing going. “It’s weird.”
Jingyi’s mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he slid onto the empty swing next to him, pushing off with small kicks. His movements were awkward, hesitant, the chains rattling unevenly.
For a minute, it was fine. The wind tugged at their hair, their feet kicked forward in a clumsy rhythm. Jingyi’s face softened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into the faintest of smiles.
But then Jin Ling tried to go higher, leaning back with reckless confidence. His shoe clipped the ground mid-swing, jerking him forward, and his swing veered dangerously close to Jingyi’s.
“Watch it!” Jingyi yelped, scrambling to hold tight to the chains.
“You’re the one too close!” Jin Ling shot back, cheeks flushed.
“I was here first!”
“No, I was!”
Their swings clashed with a loud clang, the chains rattling violently. Both boys lost balance, tumbling off in a messy tangle of limbs. The sharp scrape of skin against gravel filled the air, followed by two simultaneous gasps of pain.
“Dad!!” Jin Ling shrieked, clutching his bleeding knee. Beside him, Jingyi let out a muffled cry, curling in on himself with his hands wrapped tightly around his legs.
Jiang Cheng rushed over, his chest tightening at the sight of blood. He bent quickly, assessing the boys. Relief washed through him when he saw that the injuries were only scrapes, nothing serious. Without hesitation, he scooped them both up—one in each arm. They weren’t heavy; his grip was steady and sure as he carried them swiftly toward the clinic.
The small room filled with the soft whimpers of the two boys. Jin Ling sat with the nurse, sulking as she disinfected his knee. Jiang Cheng, however, insisted on tending to Jingyi himself.
“You can squeeze my hand if it hurts,” he said, crouched low as he dabbed gently at the scrape on Jingyi’s skin.
The boy’s lips trembled in a pout, his gaze stubbornly averted. “Are you… mad at me?” he asked, voice small, almost afraid.
Jiang Cheng paused, caught off guard by the question. Then, with a low chuckle, he secured the bandage in place. “It’s normal for kids to get hurt sometimes. Scrapes like this will only make you stronger. But…” His tone softened, more teacher than disciplinarian now. “I hope this is the last time you two fight. Jin Ling can be reckless, and I know you didn’t mean for things to end like this. I’m not mad.”
“I’m sorry…” Jingyi whimpered, the apology muffled as he ducked his head.
Jiang Cheng’s expression eased. He reached out and gave the boy’s shoulder a firm, reassuring pat. “It’s fine. Can you stand? Or do you want me to carry you back to class?”
Jingyi’s eyes widened at the offer. He shook his head quickly, determination flashing across his small face.
“Alright,” Jiang Cheng said, faint amusement tugging at his lips. “Let’s go, then.”
Jin Ling stomped out of the nurse’s corner, his freshly bandaged knee sticking out like a badge of war. His pout was deep, lips pressed tight as he caught sight of Jiang Cheng crouched next to Jingyi, still fussing over the boy’s scrape as if it were something far worse.
“Dad,” Jin Ling snapped, voice sharp. “Why are you helping him first? I got hurt too!”
Jiang Cheng straightened, already bracing himself. “You had the nurse. You’re fine,” he said evenly.
“But you should’ve helped me,” Jin Ling argued, his small hands balling into fists. His ears flushed red. “I’m your kid, not him!”
The words struck harder than the boy probably intended. Jingyi flinched as if they’d been aimed at him, shrinking into himself, his shoulders curling tight.
Jiang Cheng sighed. He reached out, steadying Jin Ling with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t start,” he said firmly. “I didn’t choose one of you over the other. You both got hurt, you both got taken care of.”
“It’s not the same!” Jin Ling shouted, stomping his good foot against the tiled floor. His pout deepened into something close to tears, though he refused to let them fall. “He’s always clinging to you! Always—”
“Jin Ling.” Jiang Cheng’s tone cut sharp, and the boy bit back the rest of his words. His lower lip trembled, but his glare stayed fixed on Jingyi.
The other boy ducked his head lower, eyes glossy, hands wringing in his lap. “I didn’t mean to…” Jingyi mumbled, voice cracking. “I just—”
“You just what?!” Jin Ling shot back, his jealousy bubbling hot. “You just keep trying to steal my dad?”
Silence followed, heavy and tense.
Jiang Cheng closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was the last thing he needed—another reminder of how much his nephew still carried, how fiercely he clung to the fragile title of dad.
He crouched down again, leveling his gaze with both boys. His voice was gentler now, though still firm enough to hold authority. “Listen. No one is stealing anyone away. Jingyi is your classmate, Jin Ling. My student. He looks up to me the way kids look up to their teacher. That doesn’t take anything away from you.”
Jin Ling’s glare faltered, confusion warring with pride.
“And you,” Jiang Cheng turned his attention to Jingyi, who looked close to tears, “don’t take it personally. Jin Ling… he doesn’t like sharing. He’ll learn. Both of you will learn.”
“But—” Jin Ling started.
“No buts,” Jiang Cheng interrupted, standing again. “Both of you are important. That’s the end of it.”
The boys didn’t answer. Jin Ling sulked, crossing his arms so tightly it looked like he’d fuse into himself, while Jingyi sniffled quietly, staring down at the bandage on his knee.
Jiang Cheng raked a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like why me. Still, he placed a hand on each of their shoulders, guiding them out of the clinic and back toward the classroom.
As they walked, Jin Ling lagged a step behind, shooting dagger-like looks at Jingyi, who shuffled nervously but stayed close to Jiang Cheng’s side.
The ride home had been unusually quiet. Jingyi pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching buildings blur into dusky shadows as the sun dipped behind the skyline. Normally, he’d chatter at his driver about everything that happened during the day—how Jin Ling glared at him again, or how he learned a new song in class—but today he kept it all tucked inside. His knee throbbed dully under the band-aid, and his mind kept circling back to the way Teacher Jiang had crouched beside him, voice steady, hands gentle.
It wasn’t scary at all, he realized. He’d thought being hurt at school might mean a scolding or a phone call home, but instead it just felt… safe. Safe in a way that left him strangely warm, even now as the car rolled up the long, neat driveway of the Lan estate.
He slipped out of the car, thanking the driver in a small voice, and padded through the echoing halls of the house. The air smelled faintly of tea and polished wood, as pristine as always. Sometimes, Jingyi thought the house was too big. Too clean. Like it didn’t know how to hold noise the way classrooms did.
He tossed his backpack onto the sofa and climbed up after it, curling his legs beneath him. The band-aid caught his eye again, a small square of beige against the pale skin of his knee. The edges were starting to peel, and he couldn’t resist picking at it, though each tug made the scrape sting. He winced and quickly stopped, hugging his knees close to his chest instead.
He wasn’t worried about the wound. What he was worried about was how his papa might react if he saw it.
The door creaked open just as that thought hit him. Jingyi’s head shot up, heart fluttering in a mix of relief and panic. Lan Xichen entered, tall and composed, his expression softening the instant he spotted his son.
“A-Yi,” he said warmly, setting down his briefcase with a quiet click. “You’re still awake. I thought you might have gone to bed already.”
“I wanted to tell you about school today,” Jingyi blurted out, maybe a little too fast. He scrambled upright on the couch, clutching his backpack like a shield. “We did something fun! Teacher told us to write letters, and I—”
But Xichen’s eyes had already drifted downward, sharp and unyielding despite the softness of his face. His gaze landed squarely on the band-aid.
The pause stretched just long enough to make Jingyi squirm.
“...What is this?” Xichen asked, voice calm but edged with concern. He approached, lowering himself to one knee in front of the sofa. His hand hovered near the bandage but didn’t touch it yet, as though even the faintest brush might hurt.
Jingyi’s throat went dry. “It’s nothing. Just… just a scrape.”
“A scrape,” Xichen repeated slowly. His brow furrowed, deep lines forming as he studied his son. “How did this happen?”
Jingyi tried to sound casual. “I, um… I fell. At school.”
“You fell?”
“With Jin Ling. We were playing. It wasn’t anything serious!” Jingyi rushed to explain. “We just, um… kind of crashed into each other. On the swings. But Teacher helped. He cleaned it up and everything, see? It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.”
But the words didn’t seem to ease the tension in Xichen’s face. If anything, the crease between his brows deepened. He brushed a gentle hand over Jingyi’s hair, but his voice was steady in that quiet, serious way that made Jingyi’s stomach twist.
“And no one thought to inform me of this?”
Jingyi’s mouth opened, then shut again. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “It… it wasn’t that bad,” he muttered, puffing his cheeks. “Papa, please don’t be mad. I’m fine now.”
Xichen exhaled through his nose, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. He paced a few steps, then turned back, composure already settling around him like polished armor.
“Tomorrow,” he said evenly, “I will speak with your teacher.”
The words landed like a stone in Jingyi’s chest. His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Papa! No, you don’t have to! Really! He didn’t do anything wrong!”
“That is not the point.” Xichen’s tone was final, though not unkind. “You came home injured. However small, it is my responsibility to ensure you are cared for properly.”
“But he did care for me!” Jingyi protested, voice rising with desperation. “He helped me. He wasn’t mad. He—he even said it was normal for kids to get hurt sometimes.”
Xichen’s eyes softened at the emotion in his son’s voice, but his resolve did not waver. “Perhaps. But it is not for a teacher to decide whether to inform a parent. I should have known the moment it happened.”
Jingyi groaned loudly, flopping back onto the sofa with all the exaggerated drama only a child could muster. He dragged his hands down his face, muffling his next words. “He’s going to think I’m a baby if you show up tomorrow…”
Lan Xichen chuckled quietly, though the sound was tinged with weariness. He sat beside Jingyi and pulled him into an embrace, brushing his thumb over his temple. “No. He will think you are loved.”
Jingyi peeked up at him from behind his hands, lower lip jutting in a pout. “Same thing.”
“No,” Xichen said softly, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Not the same thing at all.”