The wind in Haicheng always seemed to be particularly ill-timed during such delicate moments. It carried a salty, humid heat, blowing the sheer curtains by the French windows high into the air and making Silas Shen's fingertips, as he gripped his phone, feel slightly scorched.
Outside the balcony was a shimmering expanse of cerulean blue; inside was the troublemaker, wrapped like a giant white mummy, staring at him with a face full of feigned innocence.
Silas took a deep breath, calming the lingering heat in his chest. His slender fingers swiped across the screen, dialing the office number of the Dean of the Life Sciences Department at Beijing University.
Ring... Ring...
Each dial tone seemed to stretch Silas's internal sense of guilt. As a model professor who was rigorous to the point of being pathological—someone who hadn't taken a single hour of personal leave in five years—this "absenteeism" felt like a major experimental failure.
"Hello, Silas? Isn't the conference over? What's the matter—is the food in Haicheng so good that you've forgotten your way home?" On the other end of the line came the voice of Dean Zhang—leisurely, teasing, and unmistakable.
Dean Zhang had watched Silas grow from a child prodigy into an academic pillar. Privately, their relationship was more like friends than boss and subordinate, so he never minced words.
Silas lowered his eyelashes, his cool voice slightly strained. "Dean Zhang, I'd like to request a leave of absence."
"A leave? You, Silas Shen, want to take a leave?" The voice on the other end jumped an octave, accompanied by the harsh scrape of a chair moving. The Dean was clearly startled. "Did the sun rise in the west today? Or did you blow up a laboratory in Haicheng?"
"...No." Silas spoke with some difficulty, his gaze involuntarily flickering back toward the room.
Hunter Huo was leaning against the headboard, his left arm wrapped in gauze like a giant cocoon, resting comically in front of him. His right hand was clumsily reaching for a water glass on the table. Sensing Silas's gaze, the kid immediately stopped. Not only did he fail to reach the water, but he also tilted his head, putting on a "weak, pitiful, and helpless" expression.
Silas retracted his gaze and continued into the receiver, "Hunter Huo is injured. He needed stitches, and the doctor recommended rest and observation. He was injured while... while protecting me. He has no one to care for him in Haicheng, so I need to stay and look after him."
The other end of the line fell into a bizarre silence that lasted for a full five seconds.
Then, Silas heard the Dean let out a long, meaningful, "Oh—"
That "Oh" twisted through eighteen different tones, carrying a world-weary sense of having seen through everything.
"Injured protecting you, eh..." Dean Zhang's tone turned instantly ambiguous. One could practically imagine the gossipy wrinkles forming on his old face across the screen. "Young people, full of vigor, hero saving the beauty—it's understandable, perfectly understandable. Silas, we have many Alphas in the department, but one like the Huo kid—good family, top-tier genes, and willing to put his life on the line for you? Those are rare."
Silas's brow twitched violently. "Dean, he is my teaching assistant. And my student."
"Oh, come on, it's the holidays. Once you're off-campus, it's all about fate," Dean Zhang's laughter became more unrestrained. "Is two weeks enough? If not, I'll give you three. Haicheng is beautiful; that seaside boardwalk is perfect for evening strolls. Just take good care of him; he is your 'savior,' after all. Get along well, have some fun, and don't rush back. I'll keep an eye on things at the department for you."
Silas felt the veins on his temple throbbing. What did he mean by "get along well"? What did he mean by "don't rush back"?
"Dean, we are just—"
"Alright, alright, I have a meeting." Dean Zhang swiftly cut off his defense, adding one final jab before hanging up. "Professor Shen, a person can't live in a laboratory forever. This 'nursing the wounded' trope is the best way to cultivate feelings. Good luck!"
Click.
The call was disconnected.
Silas gripped his phone with a blank expression, standing still for a full thirty seconds. He seriously suspected the Dean had been secretly watching too many trashy 8 PM soap operas. How could such lines come out of the mouth of a titan in the field of biology?
"Can this man just be professional for once?" he muttered under his breath. A rare flush of irritation—and a hint of a blush he didn't even notice—appeared on his cold face.
He pushed open the French windows and returned to the room, where the pervasive scent of orange pheromones enveloped him once again.
Hunter had given up on his self-sufficiency and was sitting as still as a statue. Seeing Silas enter, he immediately blinked his dark, puppy-like eyes, his voice full of anticipation. "Professor, what did the Dean say? Is he summoning me back to teach while wounded?"
"He granted two weeks of leave." Silas walked to the table, picked up the mineral water Hunter hadn't been able to reach, unscrewed the cap, and held it to the boy's lips. His movements were stiff, but meticulous.
"Two weeks?" Hunter took a large gulp of water while being fed, his eyes shining as if they were glowing. "Then, for these two weeks, do you belong to me... I mean, are you going to be taking care of me the whole time?"
Looking at the boy's excitement—as if he were about to wag a tail—the guilt Silas had felt moments ago vanished by half. He set the bottle down with a cold face, his tone flat. "I am taking care of a patient. If you continue to display this irrational level of hyper-activity, I will consider asking the doctor for a sedative injection."
"No, no, no, I'm very weak. Really." Hunter instantly went into "Best Actor" mode, shrinking back against the headboard. His mummy-arm wobbled comically along with him. "Just now, when I was drinking, I felt half my body go numb. Professor, did I lose so much blood that I've suffered nerve damage?"
Silas glanced at him sideways. As a biology expert, he knew very well that for a top-tier Alpha like Hunter, losing that much blood wouldn't even qualify as mild anemia.
But in the end, he didn't call the bluff.
"Are you hungry?" Silas turned around, avoiding the gaze that was so scorching it felt like it could melt him.
"Hungry. I want seafood congee—the kind with lots of shrimp." Hunter's voice held a smile he couldn't hide—the chirpy tone of someone who had successfully gotten his way. "Professor, my right hand needs to be used to maintain my balance right now. I can't hold a spoon."
Silas's frame paused.
Can't hold a spoon? Using the right hand for balance? Even a kindergartener wouldn't believe such an absurd excuse.
Yet, Silas only pursed his lips, his fingers curling slightly at his side, before he finally whispered, "Wait here."
He walked out of the room to order the food, leaving Hunter alone on the bed to silently pump his right fist in victory. Although the sudden movement pulled at his left-hand wound, making him wince in pain, his eyes were filled with the brilliant sunshine of all of Haicheng.