Sunday evening found Xiaoran restless in a way he couldn't quite explain. His homework was finished—or at least, as finished as it was going to get before Tuesday's deadlines. His movement piece for the Art History presentation was progressing well. His suppressant medication was taken on schedule. Everything was organized, managed, under control.
And yet he couldn't sleep.
At 11:23 PM, he finally gave up trying, pulled on a hoodie over his pajamas, and slipped out of his dorm room. Wei Chen was dead asleep, snoring softly with his headphones still on—he'd probably fallen asleep while mixing music again. Xiaoran closed the door quietly and headed down the stairs.
The campus at night had a different quality than during the day. Quieter, obviously, but also more itself somehow. Without the crowds of students rushing between classes, the architecture became more visible—traditional buildings with modern facilities, the careful balance between preservation and progress that Beijing Central Arts University prided itself on.
Xiaoran walked without destination, just letting his feet carry him along familiar pathways. Past the theater building where he spent so many hours training. Past the library where he and Yuze had worked on their project. Past the cafeteria where Zhou Mei had dragged him for stress-relief meals more times than he could count.
He ended up at the central quad, a large green space surrounded by academic buildings. During the day, it was full of students studying on the grass, rehearsing performances, or just socializing between classes. At night, it was empty and peaceful, lit by antique-style lampposts that created pools of warm light against the autumn darkness.
Xiaoran sat on one of the benches, pulling his knees up to his chest, and just breathed. The air was crisp, carrying hints of approaching winter. Above, stars were visible despite Beijing's light pollution—not many, but enough to remind him that there was a vast universe beyond his immediate anxieties and complications.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Xiaoran jumped, his heart racing, and turned to find Lin Yuze standing about three meters away. He was also in casual clothes—sweatpants and a hoodie, so different from his usual put-together appearance that Xiaoran almost didn't recognize him. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.
"You scared me," Xiaoran said, hand over his racing heart. "How long have you been there?"
"I just arrived. I saw someone sitting here and recognized your posture." Yuze gestured toward the bench. "May I sit, or would you prefer solitude?"
"You can sit." Xiaoran made room, and Yuze settled at the opposite end of the bench, maintaining careful distance. They sat in silence for a moment, both looking up at the limited stars.
"Why can't you sleep?" Xiaoran asked finally.
"My mind won't quiet. I keep composing variations on the same musical phrase, trying different harmonic approaches, but none of them satisfy. When that happens, staying in bed becomes counterproductive." Yuze tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. "Walking sometimes helps reset my mental processes. Why can't you sleep?"
"I don't know exactly. Just... restless. Too much thinking, not enough resolution." Xiaoran pulled his hoodie sleeves down over his hands. "My brain won't turn off."
"What are you thinking about?"
It was such a simple question, but Xiaoran found himself unsure how to answer. What was he thinking about? His family's overwhelming enthusiasm? His complicated feelings about Yuze? The persistent anxiety about Jintao despite the restraining order? His upcoming therapy session to discuss trauma? The fact that he was sitting on a bench at nearly midnight with someone who made his heart do complicated things?
"Everything," Xiaoran said finally. "Too many things simultaneously. It's overwhelming."
"I understand that feeling." Yuze was quiet for a moment, then: "Can I tell you something? You don't have to respond or reciprocate. I just need to say it."
Xiaoran's heart rate increased. "Okay."
"Being around you is... different from being around other people. Usually, social interaction feels like performance—I'm executing scripts, meeting expectations, playing a role I've carefully constructed. But with you, I don't feel that same pressure. You accept my awkwardness without judgment. You translate my formal communication into understanding rather than criticism. When I'm with you, I feel less like I'm performing and more like I'm just... existing. As myself. Whatever that means."
The confession hung in the night air, vulnerable and honest. Xiaoran could see how much it had cost Yuze to say—his hands were clenched on his knees, his jaw tight, his entire body radiating tension.
"That's how I feel around you too," Xiaoran admitted quietly. "Like I don't have to pretend. After everything with Jintao, I've been so careful about how I present myself, what I reveal, who I trust. But with you, I don't feel that same guardedness. Or I feel it less, at least."
"Why?" Yuze asked, turning to look at Xiaoran directly. "I'm not particularly warm or approachable. I don't make people comfortable generally. Why would I make you feel safe?"
"Because you respect boundaries," Xiaoran said simply. "Every time—every single time—you've asked permission before touching me. You've maintained control even when biology made it difficult. You've never made me feel like my Omega status was more important than my personhood. After Jintao, who treated my biology as an excuse to ignore my autonomy, that's... that's everything."
Yuze was quiet, processing. Then: "What did he do? You don't have to tell me, but I've gathered that your ex-boyfriend violated your trust in significant ways. If you ever want to tell me the full story, I'll listen without judgment."
Xiaoran felt his throat tighten. He'd told Zhou Mei pieces. He'd told Dr. Chen the clinical details. But he hadn't told anyone the whole story—the emotional reality of what Jintao had done and what it had taken from him.
"He tried to mark me without consent," Xiaoran heard himself say. "We'd been dating for six months. I trusted him. We'd been intimate before—I thought I understood what he wanted, what we both wanted. But during one of my heat cycles, he decided that we should bond. Permanently. Without discussing it with me first. Without asking. Just... deciding that my body was his to claim."
The words came faster now, like a dam breaking. "I felt his canines against my neck and I realized too late what was happening. I fought him off—barely. Got away before the mark completed. But he'd already broken skin. Already started the process. I carry the scar, even though the bond didn't form. Every time I see it, I remember how powerless I felt. How my own biology betrayed me by making me vulnerable to someone I thought I loved."
Xiaoran was crying now, tears he hadn't realized were forming sliding down his face. Yuze didn't move closer, didn't try to touch him, just sat there with complete focus and attention.
"That's why the suppressants," Yuze said softly. It wasn't a question. "You've been trying to prevent vulnerability through pharmaceutical control."
"Yes. Because if I don't have heat cycles, I can't be in that position again. Can't be biologically compelled to need an Alpha's help. Can't be marked without consent." Xiaoran wiped at his face roughly. "But it's not working. The suppressants are failing and my body is revolting and I'm still just as scared as I was six months ago."
"You're not powerless," Yuze said firmly. "What Jintao did was assault. Attempted reproductive coercion. That's not a failure of your biology or your judgment—that's a failure of his character. He chose to violate your trust and autonomy. That's on him, not you."
"Logically, I know that. Emotionally..." Xiaoran trailed off. "Emotionally, I still feel like I should have seen it coming. Should have been more careful. Should have prevented it somehow."
"That's trauma distorting your perception. Victims often blame themselves because feeling responsible is less terrifying than accepting that we can't always control what others do to us." Yuze's voice was gentle but certain. "You didn't cause what happened. You didn't deserve it. And you're not broken—you're healing from injury. There's a difference."
Xiaoran looked at Yuze, at his serious expression, his careful distance, his complete presence. "How do you know this? About trauma and victim blaming and healing?"
"I read extensively after your second heat episode. After I saw how afraid you were, how the medication was harming you. I wanted to understand what you might be experiencing, what approaches might help." Yuze looked almost embarrassed. "I may have read six academic papers on reproductive coercion trauma and PTSD management in Omega populations. Also three books on consent negotiation in Alpha-Omega relationships. I wanted to be informed in case you ever needed support."
Something in Xiaoran's chest cracked open—not breaking, but opening. Softening. "You researched trauma recovery because I was struggling?"
"Of course. You're important to me. Understanding your experiences helps me be better support. It seemed like basic friendship responsibility." Yuze said it like it was obvious, like reading six academic papers about someone's trauma was just standard caring behavior.
"That's not basic friendship, Yuze. That's exceptional friendship. Most people wouldn't put in that effort."
"Then most people are doing friendship incorrectly." Yuze almost smiled. "I don't understand casual relationships. If someone matters to me, they matter completely. Half-effort feels disingenuous."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the emotional intensity gradually settling. Xiaoran felt exhausted but also lighter, like releasing the full story had lifted weight he hadn't realized he was carrying.
"Can I tell you something now?" Yuze asked eventually. "About my family and expectations?"
"Of course."
Yuze took a breath, gathering words. "My family is... prestigious. Multiple generations of accomplished classical musicians. My father is a renowned conductor. My mother was a concert pianist before she stopped performing to raise children. My grandfather composed pieces that are still performed at major concert halls. That's the legacy I'm inheriting."
"That sounds incredible."
"It's suffocating," Yuze said bluntly. "From the moment I showed musical aptitude at age four, my path was determined. Piano lessons at five. Composition study at seven. First public performance at nine. Everything carefully structured to produce excellence, to maintain the family reputation. I'm not allowed to be average. I'm not allowed to pursue music for joy. It's achievement or disappointment—there's no middle ground."
"That's why you're so disciplined," Xiaoran realized. "It's not natural preference—it's learned survival mechanism."
"Yes. If I'm perfectly controlled, perfectly excellent, perfectly meeting every expectation, then maybe I'm worthy of the family name. Maybe I'm not a disappointment." Yuze's voice was quiet. "But I don't know who I am beyond those expectations. Don't know what I actually enjoy versus what I've been trained to pursue. You asked me once if I've ever experienced joy—purposeless, unstructured joy. I haven't. Because joy without achievement feels like wasted potential in my family's worldview."
"That's heartbreaking, Yuze."
"Is it? I've accomplished significant things. I'm successful by objective measures. Many people would envy my opportunities and resources."
"Success without happiness is just high-functioning suffering ," Xiaoran said firmly. "You're allowed to want more than achievement. You're allowed to want connection and joy and experiences that don't have productivity metrics attached."
Yuze was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. "I don't know how to want those things. Don't know how to pursue them. My entire life has been structured around goals and discipline and meeting standards. The idea of just... existing without purpose feels impossible."
"It's not impossible. It just requires practice." Xiaoran shifted slightly on the bench, angling toward Yuze. "What if we practiced together? You help me work through trauma and trust issues. I help you discover what brings you joy beyond achievement. Mutual support toward healing."
"That sounds like a fair exchange," Yuze said, his tone lightening slightly. "Though I'm uncertain how one 'practices' purposeless joy."
"We figure it out together. Try things. See what makes you feel light instead of heavy. What makes you smile without thinking about whether it's productive." Xiaoran felt bold suddenly, emboldened by the darkness and the honesty and the sense that this conversation mattered. "Starting with something simple: what's one thing you've been curious about but never pursued because it didn't serve a goal?"
Yuze considered the question seriously. "Cooking. I've always been curious about cooking—the chemistry of it, the creativity in combining flavors, the way recipes are like musical compositions with timing and proportion. But it seemed frivolous when I should be practicing or composing."
"Cooking is perfect. It's creative, it produces something tangible, and you have to eat anyway so it's not entirely purposeless." Xiaoran pulled out his phone. "There's a community center near campus that offers cooking classes on weekends. Basic techniques, different cuisines. Want to sign up together?"
"That would be... enjoyable. Yes. I'd like that." Yuze's expression shifted—not quite a smile, but something softer, more open. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"Thank you for listening about Jintao. For researching trauma recovery. For being patient with my healing process." Xiaoran felt warmth spreading through his chest despite the cool night air. "You're a really good friend, Yuze. I hope you know that."
"I'm learning. You're teaching me, whether you realize it or not." Yuze was quiet for a moment, then: "Can I ask what your family said after I left yesterday? I've been concerned that my presence made things awkward."
Xiaoran laughed, the sound carrying across the empty quad. "They loved you. Too much. My mother sent heart emojis. My father approved of your 'honorable character.' My sisters are already planning our bonding ceremony despite us explicitly stating we're just project partners."
"Families often see what they want to see rather than what actually exists," Yuze observed. "My family does the same thing—constantly interpreting my achievements as validation of their approach to parenting rather than just my personal accomplishments."
"Does that bother you?"
"Sometimes. But family relationships are complicated. They genuinely believe they're supporting me, even when their support feels more like pressure." Yuze stretched his legs out, some of the tension leaving his posture. "I envy your family's warmth. They're overwhelming, yes, but that comes from genuine affection. Mine express love through expectation and achievement benchmarks."
"Both approaches have challenges," Xiaoran said diplomatically. "Too much warmth becomes intrusive. Too much expectation becomes suffocating. The ideal is probably somewhere in between."
"Probably." Yuze checked his phone. "It's nearly one AM. We should probably return to our dorms. Sleep deprivation affects cognitive function and academic performance."
"There's the Lin Yuze I know," Xiaoran teased gently. "Can't even suggest going to bed without citing productivity concerns."
"I'm aware that I'm predictable." But Yuze's tone was self-aware rather than defensive. "I'm working on it. Slowly."
They stood together and started walking back toward the dorms. The campus was utterly silent now, just the sound of their footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. It felt peaceful, companionable, like they'd crossed some invisible threshold into deeper friendship.
"Can I tell you something that might be premature to say?" Xiaoran asked as they walked. "Feel free to not respond if it's too much."
"Tell me. I'll let you know if it's too much."
"Meeting you has been one of the best things about coming to university. Not just because we work well together academically, but because you've helped me remember that not all Alphas are like Jintao. That respect and boundaries and care are possible. That I'm allowed to trust again, slowly." Xiaoran kept his eyes forward, not quite brave enough to look at Yuze while saying this. "You've made me feel safe in ways I didn't think were possible anymore. That's significant. You're significant."
He heard Yuze's breath catch, heard his footsteps falter slightly before resuming. When Yuze spoke, his voice was rougher than usual, weighted with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain.
"You're significant to me too. More than I know how to articulate properly. Your presence in my life has disrupted my carefully controlled routines in ways that should be inconvenient but are actually..." Yuze paused, searching for words. "Enriching. Valuable. Necessary. I didn't realize I was lonely until I wasn't anymore. I didn't realize I was just going through motions until you made me want to actually live rather than just achieve."
They'd reached the point where their paths diverged—Yuze toward the east dormitory building, Xiaoran toward the west. Both stopped, neither quite ready to part ways despite the late hour.
"I'm glad we're friends," Xiaoran said softly. "Whatever else happens or doesn't happen, I'm glad we found each other."
"I am too." Yuze hesitated, then: "About what you said earlier—about practicing purposeless joy together. I want to do that. Want to learn how to exist beyond achievement. Will you be patient with me while I figure it out?"
"Of course. We'll be patient with each other. You with my trauma recovery, me with your learning to be human instead of a productivity machine." Xiaoran smiled. "Deal?"
"Deal." Yuze extended his hand formally, and Xiaoran shook it, both of them holding the grip a moment longer than strictly necessary. The touch was warm, grounding, charged with something neither was quite ready to name.
"Goodnight, Yuze."
"Goodnight, Xiaoran. Sleep well."
They separated, walking toward their respective dorms. Xiaoran looked back once and saw Yuze also looking back. They both quickly looked away, embarrassed at being caught, but Xiaoran could feel the smile on his face.
Something was shifting between them. Not quite romantic yet—Xiaoran wasn't ready for that, might not be ready for a long time. But something deeper than casual friendship. A connection that felt significant, weighted with potential, worth nurturing carefully.
Back in his dorm room, Wei Chen was still asleep. Xiaoran changed into fresh pajamas and climbed into bed, his mind finally quiet enough for sleep. The restlessness that had driven him outside had settled, replaced by something calmer. More hopeful.
His phone buzzed with a text from Yuze: *Thank you for tonight. For listening, for sharing, for the cooking class suggestion. I look forward to learning purposeless joy with you. Sleep well. —LYZ*
Xiaoran smiled at his phone, at the formal sign-off that was so characteristically Yuze, at the care evident in every word despite the formal structure.
*Thank you for everything. For being patient, for being safe, for being you. Goodnight. —WXR*
He added his own initials, matching Yuze's formality with playful mirroring. The response was immediate: *I appreciate the signature consistency. It's aesthetically satisfying. Goodnight.*
Even Yuze's goodnight texts were about organizational aesthetics. It was ridiculous and endearing and exactly right.
Xiaoran fell asleep easily for the first time in weeks, dreaming of cooking classes and midnight conversations and the particular way Yuze looked when he almost smiled—like sunlight breaking through clouds, brief but transformative.
The future was still uncertain. His healing was still incomplete. The complications of attraction and trauma and trust were still tangled together in ways he didn't fully understand.
But he had a friend who researched trauma recovery because he cared. Who listened without judgment. Who was willing to learn joy despite a lifetime of achievement-focused conditioning. Who made Xiaoran feel safe enough to share his darkest experiences and be met with respect rather than pity.
That was enough to build on. Enough to hope with. Enough to believe that healing was possible and that trust could be rebuilt, one careful step at a time.
One midnight conversation at a time. One honest admission at a time. One moment of vulnerability met with respect and care.
Xiaoran woke Monday morning feeling lighter than he had in months. The campus was beautiful in the autumn sunlight, the trees a riot of gold and red and amber. His classes felt engaging rather than overwhelming. His friends' company felt nourishing rather than draining.
And when he passed Lin Yuze in the hallway between classes, and Yuze gave him a small nod and the tiniest hint of a smile—private, just for him—Xiaoran felt his heart do that complicated thing again.
But this time, instead of panicking about it, he just let the feeling exist. Acknowledged it without forcing definition. Allowed himself to be interested, attracted, cautiously hopeful about where this might lead when he was ready.
Zhou Mei caught up with him after class. "You look different today. Good different. What happened?"
"I had a good conversation with someone. About important things. It helped." Xiaoran was intentionally vague, not ready to share the details of his midnight talk with Yuze.
"This someone wouldn't happen to be a certain ice prince who's been melting considerably in your presence, would he?" Zhou Mei's knowing look was insufferable.
"We're friends. Good friends. That's all I'm ready to define right now."
"But you're thinking about more than friendship eventually. I can tell." Zhou Mei bumped her shoulder against his. "That's progress, Xiaoran. That's healing. I'm proud of you."
"I'm thinking about possibilities. Maybe. When I'm ready. Which isn't now." Xiaoran smiled despite himself. "But yeah. It's progress."
"That's all anyone can ask for. Take your time. Heal properly. And when you're ready, if Yuze is still there—and I think he will be—then see where things go." Zhou Mei linked her arm through his. "In the meantime, tell me about your Art History project. Is it going well?"
They walked across campus together, talking about projects and classes and the everyday rhythms of university life. Normal things. Easy things. The kind of conversations that made life feel manageable rather than overwhelming.
But underneath the normalcy, Xiaoran carried the memory of last night—honest words in darkness, walls beginning to crack, the first tentative steps toward something that might eventually become more than friendship.
If he was brave enough.
When he was ready.
With someone who'd proven himself worth the risk.
One day at a time. One conversation at a time. One small act of courage at a time.
The path forward was still uncertain, still scary, still complicated by trauma and fear and the very real possibility of being hurt again.
But for the first time in six months, Xiaoran believed the risk might be worth taking.
Eventually.
When the time was right.
With Lin Yuze, who turned purposelessness into cooking classes and vulnerability into mutual healing and formality into the most genuine care Xiaoran had ever experienced.
That was enough to hope for.
That was enough to start with.
And sometimes, enough was exactly enough.
The semester continued. Leaves fell. The weather grew colder. And two young men learned to trust—themselves, each other, the possibility of connection after violation.
Slowly. Carefully. Beautifully.
One midnight conversation at a time.