Early autumn at Beijing University always carried a scent of old books baked by the lingering summer sun.
When the plane touched down at Beijing Capital International Airport, the humidity and salt-tinged air of Haicheng seemed to evaporate instantly into the dry northern atmosphere. Silas Shen pushed his suitcase down the jet bridge, his high-collared shirt—which had seemed excessively formal in Haicheng—finally blending back into the solemnity of this fast-paced city.
He said his goodbyes to Hunter Huo at the airport exit.
"See you tomorrow night, Professor." Hunter carried his light sports bag. Before getting into his car, he made a point of using his left hand—the one that had just had its stitches removed and which Silas had strictly ordered "no heavy lifting"—to give a broad, sweeping wave.
Silas merely gave a dignified nod and turned away, his silhouette as upright and solitary as ever.
Monday morning, Laboratory One.
Silas had put on his snow-white lab coat, ironed so perfectly there wasn't a single crease. He stood at the podium, slender fingers gripping a laser pointer, his cool eyes behind his lenses sweeping over the captivated students without a trace of warmth.
"Regarding the reprogramming efficiency of induced pluripotent stem cells, let's look at this data set..."
His voice remained like shards of ice clinking against porcelain—clear, sharp, and rigorous. Below the stage, students scribbled notes frantically while stealing glances and whispering to one another.
"Hey, did you notice? Since Professor Shen came back from the conference, he seems... different somehow."
"Different how? He's still handsome, still cold, still... miles away from everyone."
"No, look closely at his collar."
A few perceptive Omega students lowered their voices. Silas's white shirt collar was fastened exceptionally high today, even more strictly than usual. As he turned to write on the chalkboard, the stretch of his neck—white as cold jade—faintly emitted an incredibly subtle, yet unmistakably real, scent of oranges.
It was a physiological brand left by a top-tier Alpha. Even with the strongest blocking sprays, it was impossible to completely mask that lingering mark.
The chalk in Silas's hand faltered for a fraction of a second.
He could feel it—that familiar, scorching gaze from the second-to-last row.
Hunter hadn't skipped class today. He wore an oversized black hoodie, the left sleeve rolled up loosely to reveal a firm wrist wrapped in thin gauze. He wasn't slumped on the desk catching up on sleep as usual; instead, he rested his chin on one hand, his brilliantly bright eyes greedily capturing every minute movement Silas made on the podium, inch by inch.
He looked like a hound patrolling its territory, his gaze practically shouting a blatant, arrogant sense of possessiveness: "This is mine."
Silas pushed his glasses up, forcing his focus back onto complex metabolic pathways, but his ear tips quietly flushed a faint crimson under the public gaze.
At 4 PM, the sun lay slanted across the open-air basketball courts of Beijing University.
This was the "battleground" where the male students released their excess energy. News of Hunter Huo's return to the court had spread like wildfire, and the sidelines were already three layers deep with girls watching the game.
"Huo! Pass!"
Hunter caught the ball with his right hand, his dribbling speed incredibly fast. Although the doctor had warned him not to put weight on his left hand, his top-tier physical conditioning allowed his one-handed control to leave opponents questioning their life choices.
He spun gracefully, driving into the paint with movements that were bold and filled with wild tension.
At that moment, on the long corridor of the teaching building leading to the lab, a lean, solitary figure carrying a laptop bag walked by at a measured pace.
Silas walked steadily, looking straight ahead. He knew that if he turned his head, he would see the youth drenched in sweat under the sun. But he couldn't look—not here, under these prying eyes. He had to remain the flawless, untouchable professor on the pedestal.
Thump—Thump—
The sound of the ball hitting the pavement was exceptionally clear in the open court.
From the corner of his eye, Hunter captured that flicker of white.
A mischievous smirk suddenly tugged at the corner of his mouth. Instead of opting for a safe layup, he came to an abrupt halt, stepped back a huge stride, and pulled up three meters behind the three-point line.
"Whoa! A deep three?" The crowd let out a collective gasp.
Hunter's dribbling rhythm accelerated instantly. As if intentionally trying to grab someone's attention, he raised his right hand high, his core muscles firing as he leaped into the air, tracing a beautiful arc against the setting sun.
The basketball traced a perfect, high-arcing parabola through the air.
The moment the ball left his hand, Hunter didn't look at the hoop. Instead, he abruptly turned around, facing the corridor of the teaching building.
Swish!
Nothing but net. The crowd erupted into a feverish cheer.
And amidst that wave of sound, Hunter flashed an incredibly brilliant, slightly provocative grin at the cool, retreating back that was nearly at the end of the corridor.
He knew Silas could hear it.
He also knew that the professor, who always pretended to be indifferent, was definitely furrowing his brows right now, scolding him for being "reckless."
Silas's footsteps did indeed falter for a moment.
He didn't look back, but his fingers tightened around the handle of his laptop bag. That crisp swish of the net felt like a heavy mallet striking his heart from across the distance. He could imagine Hunter's smug expression—like a giant Golden Retriever wagging its tail for praise.
Childish.
So incredibly childish.
Silas critiqued him coldly in his mind, yet in the shadows where no one could see, the corner of his mouth curved upward in an extremely light, shallow smile.
Returning to his cold, quiet faculty apartment, Silas set his bag down and immediately opened the windows to ventilate the room.
The apartment was spotless. It lacked the salty, damp smell of Haicheng, but it also lacked the comforting orange fragrance that had made him feel at ease. He sat on the sofa for a moment, then picked up the "Wound Care Instructions" on the table. His gaze landed on the final line—the time he had personally noted down.
Wednesday afternoon.
That is, tomorrow.
Silas's slender fingertips lightly brushed the edge of the paper. He remembered Hunter's heavily bandaged arm; he remembered the raspy voice of the boy on the night before the stitches came out, whispering into his embrace: "Professor, I don't want to go back."
He opened his medical kit, arranging the alcohol, iodine, and sterile gauze one by one into a neat row.
Even though he was back at Beijing University, and back on the safest track possible, Silas discovered that his heart was beginning to produce an incredibly irrational chemical reaction called "anticipation."
He was looking forward to that troublemaker named Hunter Huo breaking his painstakingly maintained peace once again.
Outside the window, the night in Beijing deepened.
But their secret—hidden beneath lab coats and high collars—was quietly brewing the next storm, following that "deep three-pointer" in this rigorous campus.