Chapter 27 A Startled Bird

Chapter 27: The Bird Startled by the Mere Twang of a Bowstring

Tan Youming had somewhat regained his composure. After a day of suppressed anxiety, constant speculation, and self-questioning, he finally found a measure of peace through Shen Zongnian's gentle reassurance.

Shen Zongnian opened the door, offered him cotton slippers, then laid out his pajamas and drew a bath. He guided Tan Youming into the bathroom, saying, "Take a shower, then come out for dinner."

Tan Youming was in a daze. By the time he emerged, Shen Zongnian had already reheated the porridge. Noticing Tan Youming's hair was still half-damp, Shen Zongnian didn't scold him but simply took the hairdryer and began to dry it for him.

Tan Youming rubbed his face, leaning against Shen Zongnian's waist, allowing himself to be tended to. His mind was still adrift, yet his eyes instinctively caught sight of the wound on Shen Zongnian's hand. Startled like a bird by a bowstring, he snapped awake: "How did this happen? When?"

Tan Youming was exasperated—why was it so impossibly difficult for everyone around him to simply be well? Couldn't injuries and illnesses just vanish from his world?

The broken incense stick, like an ominous prophecy, relentlessly gnawed at Shen Zongnian. He preferred not to elaborate: "I wasn't paying attention."

Seeing Shen Zongnian's nonchalant attitude, Tan Youming instantly flared up: "Then can't you *fucking* pay attention?!" Since childhood, if a breeze blew, Tan Youming worried he'd be cold; if it rained, he feared Shen Zongnian would get wet; even when Shen Zongnian returned to the Shen family, Tan Youming worried he'd be hurt. Yet, this man treated himself with such disregard.

Shen Zongnian noticed his heightened reaction, frowned, and said, "It doesn't hurt."

Tan Youming didn't care whether it hurt or not. He carefully held Shen Zongnian's hand in both of his, examining it closely. The wound was of moderate size, likely a burn, and looked rather grim stretched across the veins on the back of his hand. Had it gotten wet while cooking? That would only make things worse.

Tan Youming was heartbroken and snapped, "Where's the first aid kit?"

"Go eat. I'll take care of it myself." Shen Zongnian tried to pull his hand back, but Tan Youming held it tightly, repeating in a cold voice, "Where's the first aid kit?"

Their eyes met for a moment, then Shen Zongnian relented: "The second drawer of the right-hand cabinet."

Tan Youming skipped dinner, retrieved the kit, and knelt before Shen Zongnian. He laid Shen Zongnian's hand flat, disinfected the wound, applied ointment, and covered it with a waterproof bandage.

Tan Youming felt terrible, his expression cold but his movements gentle. Little did he know, what was truly festering in Shen Zongnian was not his hand, but his heart.

He was so protective, so careful, gripping the other's fingertips tightly. He wanted to shout, to demand that Shen Zongnian take better care of himself, to explain that his anger wasn't intentional, to confess that he was actually scared, to say... so many things. But after turning it over in his mind, all that came out was a helpless: "Shen Zongnian, don't get hurt."

Shen Zongnian's heart tightened. "Mm," he replied.

Tan Youming finally looked up at him, his gaze burning with intensity, sincere and direct: "Don't get sick."

Shen Zongnian agreed again.

As if his promise alone could make it so.

After the wound was dressed, they ate. Tan Youming didn't sit across from him but beside him, their knees touching throughout a tasteless dinner.

Since Shen Zongnian's hand couldn't get wet, Tan Youming took care of cleaning up the kitchen. He was inexperienced, fumbling through the task. Shen Zongnian leaned against the doorway, watching his absent-minded back, his brows gradually furrowing.

Once everything was finally done, Shen Zongnian returned to his room to shower. When he opened the door, he was startled—Tan Youming was leaning against the wall waiting for him, the lights off, faint shadows casting across his profile, revealing a trace of melancholy.

Shen Zongnian looked at him for a moment, then said deliberately, "Here to scare me?"

"Learning from you." Shen Zongnian was always appearing out of nowhere, and Tan Youming had suffered plenty from it. He took Shen Zongnian's hand without asking, removed the disposable glove, and carefully checked if it had gotten wet.

Shen Zongnian hadn't dressed yet, only wrapped in a towel. Water droplets trailed from his shoulders to his waist. His throat moved as he withdrew his hand, saying, "Enough."

Tan Youming's hands now empty, he fetched a sleep robe, unfolded it, and said, "Hurry up and put it on." As if Shen Zongnian were already incapacitated.

Shen Zongnian watched him for a moment, sighed inwardly, and raised his arms.

Shen Zongnian, physically robust by nature, would see his hand improve by the next day. But the one who had fiercely insisted others not fall ill was the one who came down sick.

After a restless night and an unexpected cold snap the next day, Tan Youming’s temperature rose without him realizing. He spent the entire day in Pinghai attending meetings, reviewing approvals, and listening to reports. When Shen Zongnian picked him up after work, Tan Youming reached for his phone but had his wrist grabbed instead. Shen Zongnian frowned, "What’s wrong?"

Tan Youming was still dazed: "What?"

Shen Zongnian felt his forehead, his expression stern: "You have a fever and didn’t notice?"

"Really?" The muddled man touched his own forehead, saying, "Didn’t feel anything."

Shen Zongnian didn’t waste words, released the brake, stepped on the accelerator, and sped all the way back to Lefton Road.

"Take a hot shower, then eat and take medicine."

He’d been fine all day at work in Pinghai, but back home, Tan Youming belatedly felt unwell—dizzy, head throbbing, his breath scorching hot.

Shen Zongnian took his temperature, fetched water for medicine, gave him the pills, applied a cold compress to his forehead, and tucked him in. Only when his breathing steadied did he turn off the light and leave.

White wreaths, mournful chants, flickering blue candle flames—the funeral hall was bustling with people.

Outside the eaves, cicadas cried loudly, their mournful screeches piercing the air.

But it was only early spring—how could there be cicadas?

When it was Tan Youming’s turn to offer incense, he lit it and bowed. Someone comfortingly patted his shoulder from behind. Tan Youming turned to see it was Ceng Ni, her expression full of pity and compassion.

Tan Youming was stunned—wasn’t this Ceng Ni’s memorial service? If Ceng Ni was beside him, then who was in the coffin?

He urgently looked toward the large portrait in the hall, and his pupils dilated instantly, his heart freezing.

The long, straight black hair, the handsome, striking eyebrows—it was clearly—

Tan Youming jolted awake, heart racing, breathing labored. A stifling fire burned in his throat, his head aching and ears ringing. He frantically reached for the cup on the bedside table, but his hand was weak—the cup fell with a clatter, water spilling everywhere.

Before he could react, the door was pushed open from outside. Shen Zongnian turned on the light, saw the half-soaked bed, and came over to pick up the cup.

Tan Youming stared blankly at him, his eyes somewhat lost and disheveled. Shen Zongnian half-knelt by the bed, his tone steady: "It’s okay."

When Tan Youming didn’t respond, Shen Zongnian repeated, "It’s okay."

The bed and slippers were wet. Shen Zongnian guessed he’d had a nightmare but didn’t press. "Come sleep in my room for now," he said, blaming himself inwardly for leaving as soon as he saw him asleep—he should have stayed by his side for the night to be sure.

Tan Youming looked down at the bedding, motionless, his brow furrowed as if not fully awake or still recalling the nightmare, seeking an explanation.

As the water stain spread and Tan Youming remained still, Shen Zongnian simply picked him up bridal-style and carried him to his own bed, fetching warm water to feed him.

Tan Youming was distracted. Shen Zongnian wiped his lips, then used a towel to dry his sweaty back and forehead.

Lying in the spot where Shen Zongnian had slept, Tan Youming placed a hand on his forehead, his chest rising and falling, his thoughts drifting in confusion.

Tan Youming’s eyes shifted, finally focusing: "What?"

Shen Zongnian was gentler than usual: "I asked if you’re still feeling unwell."

Medicine taken, water drunk, back wiped, hands and feet warmed—Tan Youming looked at Shen Zongnian and admitted dejectedly, "Yes." He didn’t know what was wrong with himself, how he could have such an ominous dream.

Shen Zongnian, rarely feeling so helpless, stayed silent for a moment before getting up and taking something from the wardrobe. He tucked it into Tan Youming’s arms, saying softly, "Will holding this make you feel better?"

Tan Youming was indeed distracted: "I thought you said you threw it away?"

Shen Zongnian didn’t reply.

The panda plush was brought back by Tan Youming from a middle school exchange trip to the mainland.

Shen Zongnian couldn’t leave Haishi for security reasons, so he would receive up to eight hundred messages from Tan Youming every day, constantly sharing live updates.

“Shen Zongnian, we’re going to the museum today.”

“Shen Zongnian, look! It’s a sundial!”

“Shen Zongnian, we’re heading to the ancient town this afternoon and staying overnight.”

“Shen Zongnian, I bought you some brown sugar mochi. They’re kinda like *puto*, but softer and chewier. You’ll see when I get back.”

“Shen Zongnian, my legs are killing me.”

“Shen Zongnian, Zhao Shengge is insane—he slept eleven hours straight. We nearly missed boating.”

“Shen Zongnian, we went to the zoo today.”

“Shen Zongnian, it’s a real giant panda!!” [Photo attached]

“Shen Zongnian, so cute and huge!”

“Shen Zongnian, look, Zhao Shengge is sleeping again.” [Photo attached: a lion basking in the sun with its eyes closed]

“…”

Another photo of a pack of wolves came through, with the one baring its teeth at the front circled: “Shen Zongnian, why so fierce?”

Tan Youming might send eight hundred messages, but Shen Zongnian would only reply with one, ice-cold: “Where’s my school badge?”

"Oh, since you couldn't come, I wore it myself—figured it's like you're here. Heart/Rose.jpg"

"..."

"Oh, and don't even bother looking for that tennis shirt of yours—I’m wearing it. Yours is bigger, more comfortable." He'd say, "It worked perfectly as his battle gear for the afternoon showdown with the rival school’s tennis team."

Zhuo Zhixuan was so done with Tan Youming, who kept asking him to take photos every few steps. Though frustrated, Zhuo Zhixuan couldn't bring himself to complain and finally asked exactly what Tan Youming was up to. Tan Youming said he was sending them to Shen Zongnian.

"..."

After finishing his boxing practice, Shen Zongnian opened his phone to find fifty-eight new photos.

Tan Youming was popular, always the center of attention and always helping people out. He had everything people might forget to bring—mosquito repellent, cold medicine, band-aids... His luggage had been packed by Shen Zongnian.

Shen Zongnian looked at a selfie of Tan Youming grinning with his signature canine smile, alongside Zhuo Zhixuan, then skillfully cropped Zhuo Zhixuan out of the picture.

Tan Zhongshan wiped his sweat and walked over, his heart aching a little. At the same age, his own son was gallivanting all over the country, while Shen Zongnian had to bear such heavy responsibilities.

But there was nothing to be done.

Tan Zhongshan had personally trained Shen Zongnian in boxing, shooting, and fencing. The boy was level-headed, decisive, and crazy resilient. After a moment’s thought, Tan Zhongshan said, "Zongnian, next time our whole family will go see the pandas together."

Shen Zongnian just shook his head and replied, "It’s alright, thank you, Uncle."

Tan Zhongshan gripped his shoulder and sighed inwardly.

When Tan Youming returned to Hong Kong, he brought back a pair of panda plush toys—one for each of them—and told Shen Zongnian to place his by the bedside. Shen Zongnian acted as if he hadn’t heard.

The panda stored in Shen Zongnian’s closet was much newer than the one Tan Youming kept on his nightstand. It carried the faint scent of Shen Zongnian’s clothes, with just a whisper of lemon freshness if one sniffed carefully.

Tan Youming buried his face irritably in the panda's belly and tugged at the panda's ears, unsure how to tell Shen Zongnian that he had dreamed the person in the memorial portrait from earlier had turned into his own mother.

Shen Zongnian didn’t press him, simply waiting.

After a while, Tan Youming’s muffled voice floated through the darkness: “I dreamed about what happened today…” He avoided anything ominous, frowning as he searched for another way to express it. “I thought… if I were Xie Zhenlin, I really don’t know how I’d get through it.”

Shen Zongnian felt as if he'd been struck, instantly wide awake. It turned out this incident had affected Tan Youming far more deeply than he had imagined.

Tan Youming was still shaken: “If it were me—”

“It won’t be,” Shen Zongnian interrupted, his voice firm and resolute, as if making a promise. “Tan Youming.”

“Hmm?”

“You won’t,” Shen Zongnian said decisively. “You’re not him.”

Tan Youming turned over and moved closer, muttering almost to himself: “For the first time, I felt how close death actually felt.” Usually, it didn’t register, but when a peer’s parents pass away, it really hits home—your own parents are no longer young.

It was like the first crack appearing in a wall; no one knew when the next one would crumble or which wall would fall next.

Truth be told, Xie Zhenlin was even a few years younger than him.

Shen Zongnian pursed his lips. He could promise Tan Youming that he wouldn’t get hurt or fall ill, but he couldn’t guarantee the safety, health, or fate of their loved ones. The only thing he could do was reduce human factors in the process and restrain himself from becoming the loose stone that makes the wall collapse.

“Tan Youming, that won't happen to you. I promise. Don’t overthink it.”

“Close your eyes and get some sleep.”

Tan Youming moved even closer, thinking to himself, *Thank goodness I have Shen Zongnian. Even if that day really comes, Shen Zongnian will always be by my side.*

Tan Youming fell asleep peacefully, leaving his companion awake all night.

The next day, Tan Youming’s fever hadn’t fully subsided, so they both worked from home.

The housekeeper came to cook and, noticing Tan Youming’s low spirits, felt a pang of sympathy. After some thought, she decided to inform Guan Kezhi. A parent's heart aches for their child—she had practically watched Tan Youming grow up and rarely saw him so listless.

Having raised a healthy child, Guan Kezhi rarely got to play the doting mother. Seizing the opportunity, she dropped by to see her son while running errands in the afternoon.

After enjoying the housekeeper’s lovingly prepared lunch and with Shen Zongnian wrapping up some urgent documents, Tan Youming was doing much better by the time Guan Kezhi arrived.

Shen Zongnian answered the door when she arrived. As Guan Kezhi headed toward Tan Youming’s room, Shen Zongnian hesitated for a moment before stopping her and saying quietly, “Auntie Guan, he’s in my room.”

Guan Kezhi immediately turned and changed direction. Tan Zhongshan, half a step behind, locked eyes with Shen Zongnian as Shen Zongnian looked up.

Their gazes met for a second before Tan Zhongshan approached, placed a hand on his back, and said, “Come, let’s go in too.”