A stray thought snapped him back. Xia Lin opened his eyes and answered the voice, “I’m coming—hang on, Qi Shang.”
When he reached the bathroom, Qi Shang was braced against the wall with both hands, forcing himself upright. He’d clearly slipped and twisted his ankle.
Worry took over. Xia Lin steadied him, helped him finish his shower, then shouldered him back to the bedroom and laid him on the bed. Only after making sure Qi Shang was settled did he notice something off.
“Why don’t you just heal your ankle?” Xia Lin asked.
Qi Shang kept his head down. A flash of realization lit Xia Lin’s face. “You haven’t lost your ability, have you?”
Qi Shang shook his head. “Not lost—only temporarily. It’ll come back after a while.”
“It’s my fault,” Xia Lin said, crestfallen. “You only did it to save me, and now you’ve lost your power—because of me.”
Qi Shang couldn’t stand to see him so guilty. He opened his mouth to protest, then another question cut him off. “How long will it take to recover?”
“Two weeks, Xia Lin. It’s not your fault. I just wasn’t strong enough.” He sounded calm, but there was a brittle edge beneath the words.
Xia Lin tapped his forehead with a playful smack. “Don’t talk like that. You’re one of the strongest—there’s no talking you down. I won’t run away for causing this, but I’m not going to wallow in self-blame either. I’ll take time off with you and nurse you until your ankle’s healed. Well—maybe you won’t need the full two weeks. Probably a week, maybe ten days. Fine. I’ll call in sick now. Lie down and wait. I’ll bring ointment and a spray.”
He left in a flurry. Qi Shang sighed, more to himself than to the empty room. He hadn’t told Xia Lin the whole truth: there was a small chance his ability might not return after two weeks. The possibility was slim, but it was there, and it nagged at him. Even so, he knew he wouldn’t become timid without power. If worse came to worst, he could hop to the bathroom on one foot—but he wasn’t about to make Xia Lin watch him struggle like that.
So Xia Lin fussed. He carried Qi Shang to the bathroom several times a day, bringing meals into the room and waiting until Qi Shang had eaten before clearing the dishes. He stayed with him through showers and prescriptions, hovering over him with the kind of solicitous attention usually reserved for an ailing VIP. For a week, Xia Lin tended to Qi Shang like a doting nurse.
After days spent motionless in bed, Qi Shang probed his stomach and grumbled, “My abs are all gone.”
Xia Lin smacked his belly lightly; the sound was faintly percussive. “Still six-pack worthy. Now go to sleep.”
Qi Shang rolled over and stared at him, the ceiling light haloing his profile. “I can’t sleep. It’s not even eleven yet, Xia Lin…” His voice dropped, darkening a notch. Xia Lin looked up at him.
Qi Shang slipped his hand into the blanket and found Xia Lin’s. He began to stroke it slowly, deliberately. “It’s been eight or nine days. Don’t you miss it?”
Xia Lin swallowed. Qi Shang’s face was impossibly handsome up close, and the teasing brush of his fingers sent a flutter through him. Reason still held sway, though. “But your ankle—”
“It’s fine.” Qi Shang shrugged. “No bones bruised. It’s almost healed. Anyway…” He leaned close, breath warm at Xia Lin’s ear. “You could just ride me.”
That suggestion lit something hot and immediate in Xia Lin. He couldn’t help himself—he pivoted and pinned Qi Shang beneath him, careful not to press on the injured ankle. “Come on then.”
They moved together in the dim room.
“Too tired…hah…this position is killing me!” Qi Shang panted after a while.
“Come on, Xia Lin—one more time. I know you’ve got the energy.” Qi Shang’s voice was intimate, coaxing, and Xia Lin felt himself smile into the dark as he readied himself again.