Afternoon in Haicheng arrived with sunlight piercing through the floor-to-ceiling windows, soaking half the room in a warm, near-transparent hue.
The seafood congee from the delivery was still steaming, the freshness of the shrimp mixing with the mellow aroma of the rice to permeate the small suite. Silas Shen moved the dining table closer to the bed, the wood making a slight scraping sound. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing a pair of wrists as white as porcelain and elegantly contoured. His fingertips held a warm white porcelain spoon, stirring the bowl gently.
Hunter Huo leaned against the pillows, his left arm—wrapped like a giant mummy—resting comically in front of him. In reality, as a top-tier Alpha with a perfect physical rating, Hunter could have finished this bowl of congee even if his left arm were gone, and probably could have performed a one-handed engine disassembly while he was at it.
Yet at this moment, Hunter's perfectly functional right hand hung limply at his side. He radiated an aura of "I am not just disabled in my left arm; I am likely paralyzed from the neck down."
"Professor, it's too hot." Hunter looked at the congee, his voice slightly raspy, carrying a blatant, wheedling tone.
Silas's hand stopped stirring. He lifted his gaze, his cool eyes sweeping over Hunter's spirited face before finally landing on the heavy layers of gauze.
Remembering the doctor's warning that it would have filled with pus had they waited any longer, the lingering fear in Silas's heart finally overrode his logic. He lowered his head, his slender fingers lifting the porcelain bowl. Pursing his lips, he blew a gentle breath onto the thick congee in the spoon.
The slight current of air dispersed the steam and ruffled a stray lock of hair on Silas's forehead.
He sat on the edge of the bed, half his body submerged in sunlight, his expression as focused as if he were operating a piece of precision equipment worth millions in the laboratory.
"Open up."
Silas spat out these two words with a blank expression, his tone stiff. However, the spoon he held out to Hunter was so steady that not a single drop was spilled.
Hunter cooperated perfectly, opening his mouth to let the perfectly tempered, sweet, and soft congee slide down his throat. He barely chewed before swallowing it eagerly, his eyes acting like oversized magnets, locked onto Silas's face, refusing to miss even a flutter of an eyelash.
"Is it good?" Silas asked, his voice remaining indifferent.
"This is the best thing I've eaten in my life." Hunter looked reverent. He didn't look like he was drinking congee; he looked like he was receiving the Holy Eucharist.
Silas let out a cold snort. "This is just ordinary clay-pot congee. It seems Young Master Huo has grown tired of delicacies; if you can taste a Michelin-star quality in plain white congee, your injuries must be severe enough to have disordered your gustatory system."
"It's not the congee; it's the person." Hunter pushed his luck, his right hand creeping toward Silas under the covers. His voice deepened, carrying that specific magnetic quality of a top-tier Alpha that could make one's ears go numb. "Professor, do you know who you look like right now?"
Silas scooped another spoonful of congee, his movements mechanical and precise. "Who? Your attending physician?"
"Like my newly-wedded little wife."
Ssh—!
Silas's hand jerked, and the hot congee nearly splashed onto the tip of Hunter's nose. He snapped his head up, his usually calm and clear eyes now looking as if a bomb had been dropped into them. Fury and embarrassment intertwined, burning a faint red into the corners of his eyes.
"Hunter Huo, do you think eight stitches aren't enough? Do you want me to help you stitch your mouth shut too?"
"No, no, no! Professor, I was wrong. I have a big mouth." Hunter scrambled to beg for mercy, though the smile in his eyes was impossible to hide. "I'm just trying to find joy in the suffering. Look at me—I'm a cripple, and I'm making a great scientist like you feed me. I feel so guilty."
"I think you're enjoying this far too much." Silas unceremoniously stuffed the spoon back into the boy's mouth to seal that unfiltered lips.
Hunter puffed out his cheeks while swallowing the congee, looking like a satisfied hamster.
In truth, Silas knew exactly what Hunter was thinking. This youth in his early twenties was always using these absurd, even somewhat shameless methods to try and bridge the chasm created by status and dogma between them.
And after that frantic mark last night, that chasm had long since collapsed.
Silas was still wearing his high-collared shirt, fastened tightly. Even in this private space, he was unwilling to reveal the blood-scented mark on the back of his neck that belonged exclusively to Hunter.
That was his forbidden zone, and his final shred of pride.
And yet, the scent of oranges in the room was growing thicker.
Hunter was intentionally releasing his pheromones, heavily tinged with a desire to please and soothe. The scent was like an all-pervasive thread, winding around Silas's fingertips and snaking into his nasal passages, causing his tensed shoulders to sag, inch by inch.
"Eat one more shrimp," Silas whispered, his tone carrying a touch of tenderness he hadn't noticed himself.
He carefully used the back of the spoon to cut the shrimp into bite-sized pieces before patiently holding it out.
Hunter watched the man before him.
At school, Silas was an unreachable snow-capped mountain, a cold fir tree that carried a chill even when standing in the sun. But the current Silas was less than twenty centimeters away from him. He could see the tiny mole on the bridge of Silas's nose; he could smell the faint, lingering sweetness mixed into the fir scent—the result of being marked.
The feeling was too surreal, so good that he felt it would be worth taking another knife to the arm for.
"Professor."
"Hmm?"
"In the future... can you stop being so good to me?" Hunter suddenly pulled back his smile, his deep eyes reflecting Silas's shadow.
Silas's hand froze. "What do you mean?"
"If you're always this good to me, I'm afraid that when we go back to Beijing and the lab, I won't be able to stop myself from shoving this 'mummy' into your arms in front of everyone." Hunter's voice was very soft, but it carried the "all-in" desperation unique to youth.
Silas fell silent.
He set the porcelain bowl down and took a napkin, gently wiping the corner of Hunter's mouth. The movement was incredibly light, like brushing against a fragile flower.
"When we return to Beijing, you will still be the student, and I will still be the professor." Silas withdrew his hand, his voice calm to the point of cruelty, yet his fingers clutching the napkin were trembling slightly. "Hunter Huo, these two weeks are only because you are injured."
"I know." Hunter smiled brilliantly, as if he hadn't been discouraged at all. "So, these two weeks are my heaven. I'm going to take every bit of sweetness I can while I'm here."
Silas looked at him and, in the end, couldn't bring himself to say anything else to ruin the mood.
He stood up and began clearing the dishes.
The sunlight remained brilliant, and the sound of the tide rose and fell in the distance.
Silas thought silently to himself: If this truly is a dream destined to end, then for these two weeks... let me be a little greedy too.
However, he didn't notice that Hunter's "paralyzed" right hand was quietly reaching for the phone under the pillow.
In this so-called "heaven," Silas had no idea that, beyond feeding and changing bandages, Hunter had prepared a very "surprising" entertainment program for him.