Morning in Haicheng lacked the solemn tolling of bells found in Beijing; instead, it arrived as fragmented shards of golden dawn, filtering through sheer curtains and scattering across the foot of the bed. The air still held that specific dampness peculiar to the aftermath of a storm, mixed with the brine of the sea—yet the moment it entered this room, it was tamed by the concentrated, stabilizing scent of orange and cold fir.
Silas Shen slowly opened his eyes. As his gaze met the intricate plaster molding on the ceiling, his mind experienced a brief, hollow void.
It was the typical aftereffect of a heat cycle that had been forcibly induced and then violently soothed. His brain felt as though it had been repeatedly washed over by a warm tide; all his logic, formulas, and rigorous academic reports felt distant and blurred in this moment.
That was, until he felt the scorching, mountain-like body behind him.
Silas maintained his side-lying position, his entire body stiffening for a second before slowly relaxing again. He discovered he was being held tightly from behind by Hunter Huo—a posture that was fiercely possessive, yet carried a streak of childlike attachment.
The left arm that had been injured to protect him lay sprawled across his waist. The navy-blue suit jacket had long since vanished to some corner of the floor; Hunter wore only his white shirt, the left sleeve rolled up to the elbow. The wound there had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood had turned a startling dark red—against the snowy-white sheets, it looked like a medal of honor that would never fade.
Silas did not move.
He lowered his eyes slightly, looking at the hand resting on his waist. Hunter's hands were large, his knuckles well-defined, and his palm still carried the lingering heat of last night's frantic entanglement. Meanwhile, at the back of Silas's neck, the gland that had been temporarily marked was radiating an unprecedented sense of satisfaction.
The feeling of being completely covered by a top-tier Alpha—of having his world taken over by the power known as "Hunter Huo"—was actually more effective than any high-potency suppressant he had ever taken.
Outside the window, the waves continued their steady beat against the shore, like a long, rhythmic lullaby.
Silas lay quietly, his back flush against Hunter's chest. He could feel the heart of the youth behind him—thump, thump, thump—steady, powerful, and rhythmic. Every beat seemed to silently recount how, amidst that chaos of blood and sweetness, this boy had stood before him like a lone wolf, how he had tenderly kissed his forehead and whispered "I'm here" over and over again.
It was a sense of security Silas hadn't felt in a very, very long time.
In this adult world full of competition and indifference, on that Beijing University campus composed of experimental data and vanity fairs, he was used to being the "Deity" who was always sober, always invincible. But only in this moment—in the morning light of Haicheng, in the embrace of the youth who bled to save him—did he allow himself to briefly regress into an ordinary Omega who needed protection.
As it turned out, after the high walls of logic collapsed, the flowers blooming atop the ruins were... sweet.
Silas remembered the loss of control last night.
It was the most absurd, heart-pounding variable in his twenty-eight years of life. He remembered how he had gripped Hunter's shoulders, how he had gasped breathlessly in the boy's arms, and he especially remembered that sentence that had made his very soul tremble—"I like you, Silas."
Not "Professor."
But Silas.
Silas's eyelashes fluttered, casting a small shadow in the dim light. He had always been a man who was extremely stingy with his emotions, yet now, he felt a corner of his heart turning achingly soft.
He turned his head slightly, using the morning light to quietly observe Hunter's sleeping face.
In sleep, Hunter had shed that sharp, aggressive Alpha aura. His blonde hair was a messy nest against his forehead, his lashes were long, and the bridge of his nose was high and straight. Even in sleep, the corners of his mouth were turned up slightly, as if he were dreaming of a magnificent experimental result.
If one ignored that blood-stained arm, he truly looked like a simple, loyal, and slightly clingy Golden Retriever.
But Silas knew that when this "Golden Retriever" lost his temper, he really would tear someone's throat out.
Silas instinctively reached out, wanting to touch that jagged wound. It was a scar earned for his sake. As a biologist, he knew very well that in a humid coastal city, a cut of this depth would easily become infected if not disinfected and treated promptly.
But the moment his fingertips brushed the firm skin, the person behind him let out a muffled mumble, and his arm instinctively tightened its hold.
"...Don't run," Hunter grumbled, nuzzling his head against Silas's nape. His hot breath fanned over the freshly healed mark, triggering a wave of physiological shivers in Silas.
Silas's body stiffened instantly, the tips of his ears turning nearly transparent with a deep flush.
This intimacy—this profound union that transcended the boundaries of teacher and student, assistant, or even an ordinary couple—left him, a man used to controlling everything, feeling a rare sense of "helplessness."
He began to count silently in his head, attempting to reclaim his logical dominance through deep breathing.
One, two, three...
It wasn't working.
The scent of sun-drenched oranges was too domineering. It snaked through the air into his lungs and flowed through his blood into his heart, turning all his defenses into nothing more than useless ornaments.
Silas closed his eyes with a touch of self-mockery.
He used to tell his students that biological instincts could be suppressed by willpower. But looking at things now, he was likely going to receive a "failing grade" on that particular subject.
The sunlight gradually shifted toward the head of the bed.
Silas knew he couldn't indulge in this embrace any longer. Although his conference report was finished, as an academic leader, he still had much follow-up collaborative work to handle. And then, there was Hunter's wound...