Late night at Peking University. The rhythmic hum of cicadas rose and fell within the dense shadows of the plane trees, carrying with it the stifling, restless heat unique to the end of summer.
Hunter Huo strode toward the dormitories, his bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, his steps light and swift. In his hand, he repeatedly stroked a tube of ointment packaged in aluminum. His long, slender fingers traced the metallic casing, which still held the faint, lingering chill from the pharmacy's air conditioning—a sensation hauntingly similar to the temperature of Silas Shen's fingertips.
He pushed open the dormitory door, and the quintessential atmosphere of a male dorm—a chaotic blend of Red Bull, sweat, and the faint scent of scorched graphics cards—hit him full force.
"Yo, Hunter, back so early today?" A roommate, currently embroiled in a fierce battle on the Summoner's Rift, shouted without even turning his head. "This doesn't look like you. Aren't you usually 'planted' in the lab every day, keeping that 'Iceberg God' company to study receptor binding or whatever?"
Hunter didn't bother replying. He walked straight to his bunk, his movements practiced and even possessing a hint of solemnity as he tucked the tube labeled Gland Soothing Cream gently beneath his pillow.
"Hunter, I've been meaning to ask," another roommate chimed in, turning around while mid-bite into a burger, his face full of genuine confusion. "With your family's background, you could walk sideways through the capital and no one would dare block your path. Why the hell are you squeezing into this six-man dorm with us instead of living in your several-hundred-square-meter riverfront penthouse? What's the draw? Is it the unstable water temperature in the communal showers, or the luxury of hearing the guy next door snore because the soundproofing is so bad?"
Hunter collapsed onto the narrow, hard-board bed. He rested his head on one hand, his long legs forced to bend awkwardly due to the limited space. He stared at the old fan spinning lazily on the ceiling, a roguish and triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"My brother said if I don't live on campus for all four years of university, I can forget about touching even half of the family assets in the future." He casually tossed out a high-sounding excuse, his voice carrying a hint of magnetic, post-workout laziness.
"Stop lying!" the roommate laughed, seeing right through him. "I bet you're just staying here to be closer to the Life Sciences lab, aren't you? Tsk tsk, to chase Professor Shen, is our 'Golden Retriever' Hunter planning to leash himself right at the lab entrance?"
Hunter grabbed a nearby pillow and launched it with pinpoint accuracy at the gossiping roommate's face, laughing as he cursed, "Get lost."
However, at the moment the pillow flew, no one noticed that the ears of this fearless young master had quietly turned a suspicious shade of red.
In truth, there were three reasons.
First, it was indeed to get his iron-fisted, powerful older brother to back off.
Second, it was indeed to be close to Silas's lab—so that on every late night when the Professor stayed up analyzing data, Hunter could provide a "perfectly logical" cup of warm orange latte.
But the third reason was the most private, most parched desire hidden in the depths of his heart—
Starting from this dilapidated male dorm, if one cut through the quiet woods behind the campus hospital and exited through a small ivy-covered North Gate, it took exactly seven minutes of walking to reach the front of Silas Shen's private apartment.
That was Silas's "nest," and in Hunter's eyes, it was a forbidden zone.
He rolled over on the mattress, his fingertips brushing the tube of ointment under the pillow. Last night, in front of the apartment door, he had smelled it clearly: Silas's scent of cold fir had already been tainted by his own bitter orange aroma. That was the marking taking effect; it was the glacier beginning to melt.
Seven minutes. Four hundred and twenty seconds. Over a thousand steps.
As long as Silas uttered even the faintest whimper of distress within that sterile, minimalist bedroom, Hunter—as a top-tier Alpha—was confident he could sense those pheromones the moment they leaked through the cracks of the curtains and appear at his door in record time.
This "proximity" wasn't a mere geographical overlap; it was a sense of absolute control. He wanted to strangle every possibility of Silas's escape within this seven-minute walking radius.
"Hunter, your phone's ringing!" his roommate yelled.
Hunter flipped the screen open. It was a group notification from the lab assistant, Xiao Lin: [Tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM, full inventory of the low-temperature incubators. Professor Shen will be present. Anyone late will have their participation points docked to zero.]
Professor Shen.
Those three words hit his eyes like a spark thrown into a pool of gasoline.
Hunter tapped on Silas's profile picture. It was a minimalist shot of a crystal under a microscope—cold, pure, and devoid of any weakness.
His slender fingers hovered over the screen for a long moment before finally typing out a line: [Professor, remember to apply the ointment. If your hand can't reach the back of your neck, I'm only seven minutes away from your apartment. I don't mind a little house call.]
Click. Send.
He stared at the circle representing the successful transmission, his heart rate suddenly accelerating. This was a blatant provocation, and also the most subtle form of flirtation. He was gambling on whether Silas would reply or simply block him.
One minute. Two minutes.
Suddenly, the phone vibrated.
Silas had replied with a single word: [Get lost.]
Hunter stared at that cold, temperature-less word, yet he felt as if he had just received a royal decree of favor. He bolted upright in bed, letting out a short, delighted laugh.
He could imagine it perfectly: Silas sitting in that grey-toned living room, his long legs crossed, brows furrowed. Those frigid eyes would be glazed with a thin veil of moisture from sheer anger, and the red mark on his pale nape would be pulsing restlessly with every breath he took.
"Hunter, what's with that 'spring is in the air' look on your face?" the roommate muttered, feeling a chill down his spine.
Hunter didn't say a word. He lay back down and closed his eyes. His mind was entirely occupied by the memory of Silas grabbing his shoulders last night—and the way those fingertips had betrayed an involuntary, exquisite tremor.
He knew the glacier had cracked.
And as the "puppy," all he had to do was wait by the edge, patiently biding his time for the moment it completely collapsed.