Afternoon at Beijing University. The silhouettes of ginkgo trees cast dappled shadows across the laboratory floor as the sunlight filtered through.
Due to the recent streak of high-intensity experiments, the lab was filled with a slightly exhausted, heavy atmosphere. Silas Shen maintained his near-perfect, instrument-like composure. He sat in his dark brown office chair, his spine as straight as a javelin. His lab coat was buttoned up tight, the top-most button pressed firmly beneath his Adam's apple, exuding a sense of ascetic and frigid restraint.
But to Hunter Huo, this looked more like a blustering facade.
The "puppy's" nose was more precise than the most sensitive gas chromatograph in the lab. He could scent the minute, nearly transparent fluctuations beneath Silas's calm surface.
Hunter leaned against a nearby bench, mindlessly spinning a centrifuge tube in his hand while using the periphery of his vision to weave a dense net around Silas.
Silas wasn't quite right.
This "wrongness" wasn't a dramatic upheaval. He was still articulate on the lecture podium and sharp-tongued when guiding students through experiments. But Hunter noticed that in those unobserved intervals, Silas would suddenly stop what he was doing and turn his head to look out the window through the thick, radiation-shielded glass.
His gaze was vacant, as if pulled to a distant place by some invisible gravity. That expression did not belong on the face of a scientist who always prioritized data.
Furthermore, he had begun working overtime frequently. Yet, on several occasions when Hunter doubled back to retrieve forgotten items, he caught Silas staring blankly at the same page of experimental data he had been looking at for two days.
What made Hunter's heart race with trepidation—yet gave him a secret, sugary thrill deep down—was that Silas had stopped pushing him away.
The Silas of the past was a fir tree covered in frost. Whenever Hunter, emboldened by their 99% compatibility, intentionally or accidentally leaned close, brushed against his sleeve, or reached out to grab a test tube near his hand, Silas's spine would instinctively stiffen. It was a defensive posture etched into his bones when facing the threat of a top-tier Alpha.
But now, that "red alert" tension had vanished.
Just a moment ago, Hunter had walked over to help him organize a stack of scattered literature, and his shoulder had accidentally bumped into Silas's. Through two thin layers of fabric, he could feel the lean, resilient line of the other man's shoulder. Silas only paused for a microsecond; the tip of his fountain pen left a tiny ink dot on the paper, and then he continued checking a set of unchanging parameters as if nothing had happened.
No rejection, no cold face, not even his signature: "Student Huo, please maintain your distance."
This indulgence was more maddening to Hunter than any blunt invitation.
"Professor."
Hunter set down the folder. His voice was deep, carrying the slight rasp unique to a young man, sounding exceptionally clear in the silent room.
Silas didn't look up. His fingertip merely twitched as he adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Once the literature is organized, leave it there. You may return to the dorm."
"Is something... on your mind lately?" Hunter asked with feigned casualness, though his feet were already moving stealthily.
"No," Silas answered too quickly—a classic case of "protesting too much."
"Liar."
Hunter suddenly closed the distance.
Before Silas could react, Hunter strode to the desk in two steps. His tall, six-foot-plus frame loomed like an unignorable shadow, instantly pressing down. He leaned over, his long, powerful hands slamming onto the armrests of Silas's swivel chair with a sharp thud.
The posture was predatory and dominant, filled with the unquestionable desire for control typical of a top-tier Alpha. Silas was trapped firmly between Hunter and the lab bench, his every breath filled with that familiar, bold scent of oranges.
"What are you thinking about? Tell me."
Hunter lowered his brow, his deep, dark eyes stripped of their usual playfulness and testing, replaced by a nearly stubborn sincerity. He stared intently at Silas, his gaze so scorching it seemed capable of burning through that cold outer shell and directly searing Silas's soul.
Silas was forced to look up, the back of the chair leaving him no room to retreat.
The fluorescent laboratory lights formed a holy, blurred halo behind Hunter's silhouette, making his blonde hair look even more like a flickering fire. Silas's gaze traveled over Hunter's features—which seemed even more profound in such close proximity—and finally, uncontrollably, fell into the pupils that were filled with his own reflection.
He saw a certain absolute, unadulterated yearning in Hunter's eyes.
That yearning caused a tiny crack to form in Silas's carefully constructed fortress of logic. His throat suddenly felt dry. The seed buried in his heart, stirred up by Lin's words, finally broke through the soil irrepressibly.
"...I was just thinking about what Lin said."
Silas finally spoke.
His voice was very light, like a feather falling onto ice, carrying a rare, nearly vulnerable weariness.
"About that... 'clarity' between a Beta and an Omega."
The veins on the back of Hunter's hand, still bracing the armrest, gave a violent throb. His heart skipped a heavy beat in that instant because of this sudden confession.
He realized it.
He realized that Silas was no longer defending himself out of fear, but because he was contemplating how to give Hunter a pure answer in this world full of instinctual interference—an answer not dictated by his glands.
His Professor was conducting a rescue mission for his own soul, all for Hunter's sake.