The final rays of the Haicheng sunset clung stubbornly to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel suite.
Inside the room, the scent of oranges had ripened over the past two weeks, becoming almost excessively sweet. Silas Shen was half-kneeling on the floor, his movements swift and methodical as he folded the last few shirts into his suitcase. His head was naturally bowed, revealing a stretch of neck as white and smooth as fine porcelain.
There, the tooth-mark that had once carried a hint of blood and driven Hunter Huo into a frenzy had faded. In its place was a post-marking softness—a subtle warmth that only an Alpha could detect, the distinct scent of "private property."
Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed intently on the suitcase as if he were staring at a thief about to steal his beautiful dream.
"Professor," he spoke up, his voice heavy with an obvious sense of grievance.
Silas didn't look back. His fingertips smoothed a corner of a shirt, his voice as cool as a mountain spring without a single ripple. "Speak."
"This injury of mine..." Hunter lifted his left arm. The massive mummy-style wrapping had been reduced to a thin layer of white, breathable gauze. He intentionally gave his wrist a tiny shake, letting out an extremely faint but perfectly exaggerated gasp of pain. "I moved it just now, and it felt like... a pulling sensation. Maybe Haicheng is too humid and the internal wound hasn't healed firmly enough? Should we... stay a few more days for observation?"
Silas's hands finally paused.
He slowly turned his head, his clear eyes reflecting Hunter's posturing face. The setting sun gave Hunter's messy blonde hair a fuzzy golden halo. Combined with his "pitiful puppy" expression, it was indeed a lethal combination.
"Hunter Huo." Silas pushed his glasses up, his tone sounding like he was refuting a low-level logical fallacy at an academic conference. "When the stitches were removed this morning, the attending physician stated clearly that because you are a top-tier Alpha, your cellular regeneration is three times faster than an average person's. The wound is fully closed; even the scarring is minimal."
He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping over Hunter's restless left hand. "As for this 'pulling sensation,' it is most likely a psychological illusion brought on by overactive imagination."
"An illusion is still a sensation. The pain is real." Hunter pouted, then simply flopped backward, lying spread-eagle on the soft mattress.
The beds in Haicheng were too soft; the night breeze was too gentle.
Here, he could righteously let Silas feed him seafood congee. He could greedily feel the warmth of Silas's fingertips during a hair wash. He knew all too well that once they returned to the concrete jungle of Beijing—once they stepped back into that airtight laboratory—the wall known as "Professor Shen" would be rebuilt.
When that happened, he would return to being the student looking up at a deity from below, rather than the lover whose soul had resonated with Silas's in dark alleys and on a warm bed.
"Get up." Silas stood, patting the creases out of his trousers. "The flight is tonight. If we don't leave now, we won't make check-in."
Hunter didn't move. He just covered his eyes with his right hand, his voice dropping an octave. "Professor... do you really want to go back that badly?"
Silas's fingers curled slightly.
Did he want to go back?
Back to the place of cold instruments and endless experimental reports? Back to the ivory tower where he had to constantly disguise himself and rely on blockers to resist his instincts?
In truth, the moment he was packing his bags and saw that unopened bottle of blockers at the bottom of his suitcase, a rare sense of repulsion had flickered in his heart. He had spent the fourteen most "un-Silas-like" days of his life in Haicheng. He had grown used to waking up with the back of his head resting against a burning chest; he had grown used to the arrogant yet comforting scent of oranges lingering at the tip of his nose while he organized data.
But he couldn't show it.
He was Silas Shen. He was the leader who had to maintain absolute rationality.
"Life must return to its proper track, Hunter. You've missed two weeks of classes, and I need to return to the lab to check the growth of those cell lines." Silas's voice showed no emotion. He leaned over to zip the suitcase, the metallic sound of the closure sharp and cold.
Hunter sat up, his eyes a bit dim. His youthful heart, which usually conquered everything in its path, felt powerless for the first time against Silas's logic.
Silas grabbed the handle of the suitcase. A second before walking out the door, his frame jerked to a sudden halt.
With his back to Hunter, his gaze landed on a slightly wilted plant on the balcony. After a long silence, he added in a low voice: "Once we are back... every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after school, come to my apartment. I will help you change your dressings."
The air in the room froze for a heartbeat, then exploded with a wave of sheer ecstasy.
Hunter's eyes lit up instantly like two torches ignited in the dark. His slumped back straightened immediately. "Really? Professor, I can really come to your apartment?"
As far as he knew, Silas's private apartment was the "Forbidden Zone" of Beijing University. Even Dean Zhang had only been there a handful of times. Silas guarded his private space with a near-clinical obsession; it was his final line of defense.
"The wound hasn't fully healed, and I don't trust the campus clinic." Silas still didn't turn around, but in the glow of the sunset, the tips of his ears turned a highly suspicious shade of crimson. "Since I brought you out here, I have the responsibility to supervise your recovery."
"Professor, I suddenly feel like my hand might hurt for another month!" Hunter scrambled off the bed, crossing the room in a few strides to stand behind Silas.
The aggressive scent of oranges that had been suppressed all afternoon suddenly burst forth, carrying the joy of a successful scheme.
"Shut up," Silas snapped coldly. But this time, he didn't avoid Hunter as the boy stepped forward to take the heavy suitcase from his hand.
Using his "not-yet-healed" left hand, Hunter effortlessly hoisted Silas's heavy luggage. The pride radiating from him was enough to lift him off the floor. He glanced sideways at Silas, his tone as light as a song. "Then Professor, should I stock my medicine cabinet with other things? Like ingredients for seafood congee? Or... 'painkilling candy' for after the dressing is changed?"
Silas took a long stride toward the elevator, his voice drifting back on the wind: "Hunter Huo, don't push your luck."
Ding.
The elevator doors opened, revealing two figures standing side-by-side.
One was cold as frost, yet inadvertently revealed a hint of softness at his collar; the other was as bold as fire, his gaze fixed on the other with unhidden determination.
On the last day in Haicheng, the flight took off on time, but some things remained forever in that blue harbor.