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Gao Tu had presented as an omega at thirteen. He remembered the day vividly—the sharp spike of heat in his veins, the sick-sweet scent that had clung to his skin, and the panic in his mother’s eyes. That same night, she’d handed him a bottle of suppressants and told him never to forget what happened to omegas who stood out.
For four years, Gao Tu lived like a beta. He took his pills religiously, covered his scent, and pretty much made himself invisible. He didn’t join the omega support club, and he never walked through the east wing where bonded couples hung around in full scent-saturation like it was a performance. Most of all, he kept his head down and his eyes lower.
Except when it came to Shen Wenlang.
S-tier alpha. Top of the academic charts. Captain of the football team. Shen Wenlang had no interest in courtship displays or omega games. He was polite, distant, and terrifyingly composed.
Gao Tu had been watching him for years.
It started with admiration. Then curiosity. Then something warmer and more painful. But he never planned to act on it. Omegas like him didn’t end up with alphas like Wenlang.
Still, he started leaving breakfast at his desk.
It began on a rainy Monday. A steamed bun wrapped in wax paper, left quietly before first bell. Wenlang never looked back to see who’d done it. But he ate it. Every bite. And the next morning, when Gao Tu left a tea egg and a note that simply read "Good luck on the math test," it disappeared too. By the end of the month, it had become a silent ritual.
Gao Tu didn’t expect Wenlang to notice him.
But then he showed up at Gao Tu’s part-time job.
It was a small convenience store by the subway station, tucked between a dry cleaner and a rundown noodle shop. Gao Tu worked there four days a week, mostly stocking shelves and manning the till. He liked the quiet. The fluorescent hum and the steady beep of barcodes were comforting.
One evening, near closing, Wenlang walked in. He didn’t buy anything at first. Just stood near the instant ramen aisle, scanning the shelves like he had all the time in the world.
Gao Tu watched from behind the counter, heart pounding. He considered ducking into the storage room. Too late. Wenlang approached, holding a bottle of vitamin water and a small packet of spicy dried tofu.
"You shouldn’t skip dinner," he said, setting them down.
Gao Tu stared. "What—?"
"You’ve been working since school let out. You skipped lunch too. I saw."
Gao Tu blinked. "You... saw me?"
Wenlang raised an eyebrow. "I’m not blind. You sit two rows in front of me. And you smell like... citrus and cold wind. I remember things like that."
Gao Tu froze. He'd upped his suppressants dosage last week—how could his scent still be slipping?
"Relax," Wenlang said, almost smiling. "It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it."
He paid for the snacks and left without another word.
But the next evening, he returned. And the next. Each time, he brought Gao Tu a snack: taro chips, a honey rice cake, a packet of warm chestnuts. They didn’t talk much. Just short nods, small smiles, a growing understanding.
******
The first time they really talked was after a disciplinary meeting. Wenlang had gotten into a fight. Rumor had it an omega from Class 2B had cornered him during gym, scent-heavy and insistent, and Wenlang had shoved him hard enough to sprain his wrist.
The omega claimed Wenlang had overreacted. But Wenlang refused to apologize.
"He tried to provoke my rut," Wenlang muttered, sitting on the stairs behind the gym building, ice pack on his knuckles. "Like I’m a wild animal waiting to snap."
Gao Tu sat beside him, quiet.
"Most alphas like it," Gao Tu said finally. "Being wanted like that."
"I hate it. I don’t like being pushed. Or chased."
"So what do you like?"
Wenlang looked at him then. Really looked.
"Breakfast. Left without a name. A scent I don’t mind being around."
Gao Tu blushed to his ears.
******
As weeks turned to months, they grew inseparable.
They studied in the library after school, Wenlang pointing out equations with a red pen, Gao Tu correcting his grammar with soft laughter. They ate lunch on the back stairs where no one else went. Sometimes Wenlang would doze off beside him, head falling gently against Gao Tu’s shoulder.
Gao Tu stopped pretending he didn’t love him.
He still didn’t tell him the truth. That he was an omega, that the scent Wenlang liked wasn’t clean detergent—it was his own suppressed heat curling faintly at the edges. He was selfish. He wanted more. He needed more time.
******
It happened after gym. Wenlang had been watching him more closely lately—how Gao Tu flinched when other alphas passed too close, how his hand trembled the day a substitute teacher brought an unmated alpha into the class and the air turned cloying.
They were in the changing room. Everyone else had left. Gao Tu was slow, dizzy. The new suppressants were making him light-headed. He fumbled with the locker.
And Wenlang was just there, watching.
"You’re not a beta, are you?"
Gao Tu froze.
"You’ve never been."
He didn’t answer.
Wenlang stepped closer. "You don’t trust me."
"I do," Gao Tu whispered. "I just didn’t want to lose you."
"Then let me carry it with you. The truth."
Gao Tu looked up. Wenlang’s eyes weren’t angry. They were sad. And careful. So careful, like he was afraid of touching glass.
"I’ve loved you since the second month you brought me breakfast," Wenlang said. "Even before I knew why. I didn’t need your designation to tell me."
He reached forward, fingers curling softly around Gao Tu’s wrist.
"Can I kiss you?"
Gao Tu nodded, eyes stinging.
Gao Tu’s breath caught as their lips met. It was barely pressure at first, the soft brush of Wenlang’s mouth against his own, tentative and trembling. Gao Tu felt the world tilt slightly beneath him, his body swaying forward instinctively. The warmth of Wenlang’s palm cupped his jaw as he deepened the kiss, not hungrily—but reverently. Like Gao Tu was something sacred, something not to be claimed but cherished.
Gao Tu made a soft, breathless sound, his fingers fisting gently in the hem of Wenlang’s blazer. The kiss was slow, lips parting just enough to taste one another, a gentle slide of breath and warmth and trembling understanding. Wenlang’s other hand found Gao Tu’s lower back, steadying him, grounding him.
And for the first time in years, Gao Tu let himself be held.
When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard, the silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, iris and citrus mixing together.
Wenlang smiled, a small, stunned thing. "So... not detergent."
Gao Tu laughed, eyes shining. "No."
Wenlang leaned in and pressed another soft kiss to the corner of Gao Tu’s mouth.
"Good", he said, "I like the real you way more anyway."