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“School is starting in a few days. How’s your homework? Finished yet?” Shen Wenlang’s tone was sharp, almost like he was testing him. “With a part-time job like this, how much money can you even make? Studying should be your priority, you know?”
The words pierced like a blade. Gao Tu couldn’t respond—his body stiffened, his clenched fingers trembling ever so slightly. He lowered his head, as though the table was safer to look at than the face before him.
Before he could say anything, another voice slipped in between them. A friend of Shen Wenlang, who had just arrived, spoke softly but firmly. “Wenlang, don’t say that. Did you forget? Gao Tu is a scholarship student. He has to work to survive. Our private school isn’t cheap, and clearly, he’s trying his best just to stay here.”
Silence swallowed the space, pressing down on their ears. Only the faint hum of cars in the distance dared to disturb it, but not enough to push back the heavy air that hung around them.
“Classmate Gao, please forgive Wenlang. He didn’t really mean it like that,” Shen Wenlang’s friends tried to smooth things over.
Gao Tu swallowed, his head ducking even lower. “I-it’s… it’s fine,” he whispered, so soft it sounded like he was trying to cover a wound with nothing but thin cloth.
But to Shen Wenlang, that reply struck harder than anything else. Gao Tu’s words cut deeper than his friend’s reprimand. He hadn’t even known that Gao Tu was one of the scholarship recipients—funded by his own family’s foundation. How could he not know something that simple?!
The blood drained from his body, leaving behind a hollow tightness in his chest. Why did he say that? Why had he made Gao Tu’s burden even heavier?
Shen Wenlang stole a glance. Gao Tu was still bowing his head, the computer light casting a fragile silhouette over his face, making him look smaller, weaker than usual.
Shen Wenlang couldn’t bear to look any longer. Awkwardness and regret tangled inside him, and in the end, he just grabbed his things, turned, and walked away. Each step felt heavy, as though every footfall was a reminder of the mistake he’d just made.
“Shen Wenlang.”
His steps nearly crossed the sliding door when that voice reached him—soft, but firm enough to stop him in place.
His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned. Behind the counter, Gao Tu stood frozen in his convenience store uniform, half his face hidden under the harsh neon light. His round eyes looked straight at him, as if summoning the courage to speak.
“You… left your drink,” he said quietly, raising a bottle of lime soda. He hesitated, then lifted the small box in his other hand, voice more uncertain this time. “And also the free pheromone suppressant stickers.”
Silence descended.
Shen Wenlang snorted faintly, trying to smother the guilt clawing at his chest with a cold tone. “Keep it.”
Confusion flickered across Gao Tu’s face. “Why?”
“Consider it payback,” Shen Wenlang said quickly, as if desperate to end the conversation. Yet his voice carried a weight that betrayed more than he wanted. “For the breakfasts on my desk every morning. You’re the one who buys them, right?”
The words cracked the air like lightning. Shen Wenlang’s friend, standing beside him, gaped in shock, staring between them. “What? Really? Classmate Gao, why would you do that? You know Wenlang never eats breakfast, don’t you?”
Heat rushed to Gao Tu’s face, burning all the way to his ears. His fingers clenched tightly around the bottle and the box of stickers, trying not to shake. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t say that he knew Shen Wenlang rarely ate, and that was why he wanted to spare a little from himself. That those simple breakfasts were his small way of quietly giving something—no matter how little—to the person he liked.
Shen Wenlang, locking eyes with him, suddenly felt something strange tugging at his chest. It hurt. And, as always, he didn’t know how to express it properly.
With a harsh exhale, he snapped, “You’d better buy a proper lunch for yourself instead. You eat less than a cat.” His eyes narrowed, voice rising before he could stop himself. “Don’t buy for me again! Eat more meat! You’re too skinny!”
The words cracked the air like a whip. Too sharp. Too cruel.
The moment they slipped out, regret crushed him. He saw the way Gao Tu’s body seemed to shrink, the way his face—once flushed red—dimmed into something wilted, like a flower suddenly drooping.
But his bad habit, his pride that always smothered his true feelings, kept him from taking the words back. His tongue felt numb, his heart restless, and his face burned—not with anger, but with fear.
Finally, in frustration, he turned away. One step, two steps, and then he was gone—leaving Gao Tu frozen behind the counter, clutching the soda bottle as though it were the only thing holding him upright.
The early morning air bit into his skin, piercing down to the bone. Gao Tu pulled his hood low until it covered half his face, tightening his thick jacket as he stepped out of the convenience store. The light bag on his back felt heavier than usual, as though it carried the remnants of fatigue from a long night shift.
He exhaled softly, already imagining the warmth of his bed and the silence of his small room. But his steps faltered when a firm voice cut through the stillness of dawn. The words were quiet, yet carried with unmistakable clarity.
“Gao Tu.”
His body tensed on reflex. He turned quickly, his eyes widening.
By the dimly lit doorway stood a figure leaning casually against the wall. Too familiar to be ignored. Shen Wenlang. His tall frame was sharply outlined beneath the streetlight, posture straight and imposing.
Gao Tu’s gaze flicked to Wenlang’s hand, where a cigarette dangled between his fingers. The glowing tip flared faintly, sending out small sparks. Smoke curled into the cold air, leaving behind its acrid scent.
“Shen Wenlang?” Gao Tu’s voice caught, nearly breaking. More than surprised at being called, he was stunned by the fact that Wenlang was actually waiting there. “You…”
But there was something sharper than surprise lingering in the air. Subtle, yet undeniable. The iris-scented pheromones of an S-class Alpha were seeping out, leaking uncontrollably from bottled-up frustration. The aroma slid in quietly yet pressed hard, as if sinking into his pores and wrapping around his breath with an intensity he couldn’t ignore.
The exhaustion from his shift weighed even heavier under that invisible pressure. His heartbeat stuttered, his body trembling faintly in response. Gao Tu clenched his teeth, trying to smother the rising panic in his chest. He couldn’t let it show. Not tonight. Not in front of Shen Wenlang.
Meanwhile, Shen Wenlang stood with a blank face, one brow slightly raised, as if there was nothing to explain. He exhaled smoke with a lazy motion, though his chest churned beneath the facade. His friend’s words from earlier still echoed, accusing him of being too harsh on Gao Tu. He had never meant to wound, but the memory of the boy’s startled, confused expression twisted something deep in his chest.
That guilt lingered, making the cigarette taste more bitter than usual. And now, seeing Gao Tu standing before him, shoulders hunched, body nearly trembling beneath his hood, his thoughts circled one point: he must be exhausted. Maybe even hungry. And the cold… too cold to endure.
The thought sparked an uncomfortable heat inside him. The urge to care flared stronger, yet clashed against the frustration he carried. Wenlang gave a small, sharp exhale and looked away. Every time he tried to close the distance, one question clawed at him: did his presence only make Gao Tu feel more suffocated?
So he hid behind his mask again.
“Finished work?” he asked flatly. His voice was cold, stiff, sounding like idle small talk—though beneath it burned emotions he didn’t dare reveal.
Gao Tu hesitated a split second. His heartbeat quickened with shock and confusion, his steps faltering. He could only nod slightly and move closer. Lowering his hood, damp strands of hair fell across his forehead, his face looking even paler under the streetlight.
Unconsciously, his eyes traced Shen Wenlang from head to toe. How long had he been standing there? The last time Gao Tu saw him, Shen Wenlang had left with his friends four hours ago. There’s no way… he waited all this time?
The thought spiraled, stirring heat in his chest that clashed with the night’s chill. But before he could ask, Wenlang turned his head. His sharp, guarded gaze locked onto Gao Tu’s examining eyes, sending a flicker of panic through him. Quickly, he looked away, voice striving for indifference though it quivered with unease.
“What? Don’t like cigarettes?” he asked, his tone more defensive than cold.
Gao Tu muttered softly, “Mm…” faint, but clear enough.
As though enchanted, Shen Wenlang immediately stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray by the door. The ember died instantly, leaving behind one last thin curl of smoke before vanishing into the air.
Silence pressed between them.
Shen Wenlang stood rigid, hands buried in his pockets. His face looked cold, yet inside something shifted, unfamiliar. This was the first time Gao Tu had openly shown distaste toward him. Over something so small, just a cigarette—but it still pricked at his chest. More startling, he had obeyed without protest. As though Gao Tu’s voice carried a weight he couldn’t ignore.
At last, Gao Tu spoke, his voice soft, nearly lost to the night’s chill, yet edged with quiet curiosity. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Shen Wenlang answered without hesitation. The truth slipped out before he could hide it, though he quickly coated it in sarcasm so Gao Tu wouldn’t read too deeply. He reached for the bag on Gao Tu’s shoulder, slinging it onto his own instead. His voice casual, he added, “Come on. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?” Gao Tu asked, bewildered, his brows arching slightly.
Shen Wenlang didn’t answer. Instead, he draped an arm over Gao Tu’s shoulder, the gesture casual but laced with possession, tugging him to walk at his side. “Just follow. I’m cold.”
The words should’ve sounded ordinary, but Gao Tu turned sharply to him. “You’re cold?” he asked, his tone filled with genuine concern.
Without hesitation, he reached for Shen Wenlang’s hand. His smaller fingers clasped the larger ones tightly, rubbing them gently as though to transfer warmth. He even leaned closer, blowing warm breaths into the gaps between Wenlang’s fingers. The simple act was so intimate that time seemed to stop.
Wenlang, whose Alpha-class-S body barely registered the cold, froze nonetheless. Not from the chill—but from the sudden warmth wrapping his hand. His heart thrashed wildly, his pulse erratic. He felt torn between wanting to freeze the moment forever and fearing that if he moved even slightly, the warmth would vanish.
You really… did that for me, Gao Tu?
His chest tightened with something unfamiliar—a tangled mix of shock, joy, and dread at his own vulnerability.
When Gao Tu looked up, his eyes sparkled like those of a young deer—innocent, sincere, unguarded. His lips moved softly, asking in a whisper, “Is it still cold?”
Shen Wenlang nearly lost control. His heartbeat thundered so loud he feared it could be heard. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat harshly to mask the panic. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away.
“What are you doing!” His voice cracked louder than intended, nearly a shout. The sound shattered the fragile stillness of the night.
Without giving Gao Tu a chance to respond, he seized his wrist and dragged him along. His grip was tight—not only to guide, but to hide his panic. As though if he let go, the tremors in his chest would become too obvious. It was the only way to conceal the fracture in his composure.
Beside him, Gao Tu stayed silent. His face burned crimson, the flush deepening under the glow of the streetlight. Only now did he realize how bold his action had been—so close, so intimate—that his body stiffened.
Ironically, the night air only made the heat in his cheeks more unbearable. His heart still pounded furiously, each step beside Shen Wenlang heavy, as if carrying a secret he mustn’t reveal. He ducked his head, trying to hide the color spreading to his ears.
Not long after, they reached a sleek luxury car parked near the store—a silver-gray BYD Yangwang U9 sports car gleaming under the streetlight, standing out among the others.
Shen Wenlang moved ahead and opened the passenger door. His movements calm, yet naturally commanding, as though it were second nature. Gao Tu hesitated, then finally slid inside. His body stiff, hands resting carefully on his lap, afraid to touch the unfamiliar, expensive interior. Shen Wenlang shut the door softly, leaving him in the silent cabin.
Circling around, Shen Wenlang slipped into the driver’s seat. The solid click of the door closing sealed them in a private, hushed world. Gao Tu turned, his eyes widening. “You… drive?” he asked, half in awe, half in fear.
“Mm.” Shen Wenlang hummed lowly, starting the engine. The purr of the car sounded almost like a whisper.
“But… you don’t have a license!” Gao Tu blurted, incredulous.
Shen Wenlang turned to him, his gaze sharp, daring him to protest further. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Do I look like I need one?”
The words made Gao Tu’s chest tighten. No reply came. Silence filled the space.
Shen Wenlang exhaled, his voice heavy as it resonated in the small cabin. Slowly, he leaned closer, tension crackling in the air. The faint scent of soap mixed with his iris pheromones, wrapping around the shrinking distance. Only inches remained.
Gao Tu held his breath, heart racing wildly. His whole body screamed danger, yet he couldn’t move. His eyelids fluttered—half of him urging retreat, half frozen in place.
But Shen Wenlang didn’t close the gap. Instead, his hand reached past, pulling the seatbelt across Gao Tu’s shoulder and snapping it into place.
The simple gesture felt far too intimate. His knuckles brushed Gao Tu’s arm—brief, but enough to send sparks racing through his skin. Heat spread along Gao Tu’s body, clashing with the cool air from the AC.
Shen Wenlang restrained himself with all his strength. A satisfied smile nearly slipped out, but he bit it back, jaw tight. His breath hitched, chest quivering with emotions he refused to name. Just a little closer, and I really would’ve kissed that foolish face.
“Do you have work after this?” he asked suddenly. His tone flat, but underneath burned a restless fire. If Gao Tu dared say “ yes ,” Shen Wenlang was ready to drag him home, even pay a hundred times his wages just so the boy would rest properly.
“No.”
That single word made Shen Wenlang’s shoulders drop in relief. A fleeting smile escaped, faint but warming his chest.
The car glided smoothly into the empty night streets. Silence reigned—but it felt oddly comfortable.
Until a red light forced the car to halt. Wenlang turned, his gaze locking instantly.
Gao Tu had fallen asleep. His head tilted, breaths even. His face softened in slumber, though still marked by exhaustion that pierced Shen Wenlang’s heart. His brows knit faintly, carrying burdens unshared. His lips parted slightly, making him look innocently vulnerable—so much that Shen Wenlang’s chest ached. Equal parts fondness, equal parts longing.
Gently, almost afraid to wake him, Shen Wenlang reclined the seat, letting Gao Tu rest more comfortably. He adjusted the AC so it wouldn’t blow directly on him.
“Sleep well,” he whispered in his heart, “I’ll protect you.”
The light turned green. Masking his face with cold composure again, Shen Wenlang pressed the accelerator. The car moved forward, as though nothing had happened—though inside, his chest still roared with unspoken emotions.
The car slowed before finally stopping in front of a small roadside restaurant. Its signboard glowed brightly against the quiet night, standing out as if it were the only trace of life in the area. Gao Tu had once mentioned this humble place in passing, during a casual morning conversation as they walked to class. Just a fleeting remark, yet for some reason it had etched itself clearly into Shen Wenlang’s memory.
He didn’t wake Gao Tu right away. The man was still fast asleep in the passenger seat, his head tilted slightly toward him, breath steady and deep. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, traces of exhaustion that made his face look fragile and beautiful in a way Shen Wenlang could hardly put into words. For a while, he just sat in silence, letting the soft ticking of the dashboard clock and the quiet hum of the air conditioner fill the car.
Finally, Shen Wenlang leaned forward. His fingers reached out and gently shook Gao Tu’s shoulder, hesitation lingering as though he almost withdrew his hand. “Wake up,” he murmured, softer than he had intended.
Gao Tu’s eyelids fluttered before slowly opening. He blinked, dazed and disoriented, his gaze wandering before it finally settled on Shen Wenlang’s face. That look—half asleep, half bewildered—was enough to send Shen Wenlang’s heart pounding as if his chest had been caught in an unfamiliar rhythm. “Where are we?” Gao Tu’s voice was rough, thick with drowsiness. His hand rose, moving to rub at his eyes.
“Don’t.” Shen Wenlang caught his hand quickly, stopping the motion. “You’ll hurt your eyes if you rub them like that.” His tone was firm, but his grip was warm. Gao Tu froze for a moment, then simply nodded, surrendering to the concern he couldn’t bring himself to resist.
“Come on. You haven’t had dinner yet,” Shen Wenlang said. He stepped out first, circling around to open the door for Gao Tu, making sure he set his feet down steadily before giving his back a light pat. The small gesture brimmed with quiet care, as if he were afraid Gao Tu might stumble again from sleepiness.
Once inside, the aroma of food enveloped them—spicy, sweet, savory, all mingling with the warm steam of rice. The restaurant was simple but clean, polished wooden tables gleaming under the lights. Without asking, Shen Wenlang placed their order. He chose five dishes Gao Tu had once spoken of with bright eyes: spicy mapo tofu, kung pao chicken, fresh stir-fried kailan, sweet-salty char siu pork, and ginger-steamed fish.
Soon after, the food arrived. Steam curled up from the bowls of white rice, carrying a mouthwatering fragrance. Yet across the table, Gao Tu had already let his eyes slip shut again, his head slightly bowed. His lips pursed into a faint pout, an innocent expression so unlike his usual calm composure that it almost drew a smile from Shen Wenlang.
“Wake up,” Shen Wenlang coaxed gently, placing a pair of chopsticks in Gao Tu’s hand. “Eat a little.”
Still half-asleep, Gao Tu obeyed. The chopsticks wavered in his grasp, nearly slipping, so Shen Wenlang leaned forward, offering him a bowl of rice. He even picked up pieces of meat and vegetables, laying them onto Gao Tu’s small plate. His movements were patient, as if tending to a habit long ingrained.
Bite by bite, Gao Tu ate, punctuated by faint murmurs and long sighs. There was no real conversation, only the clink of chopsticks against plates, the soft hiss of steaming dishes, and the steady hush of night that wrapped around them. To Shen Wenlang, the meal felt like far more than just filling their stomachs. It was an intimate ritual, simple yet something that belonged only to the two of them.
Afterwards, Shen Wenlang asked for the untouched dishes to be packed up. He waited until Gao Tu stood, then walked beside him out of the restaurant, steadying his pace before guiding him back toward the car.
The ride home was quiet. Streetlights flickered in the windows, the shadows of the night enveloping them, while Gao Tu sat with his head slightly tilted back, clearly still feeling sleepy. As the car approached his apartment complex, Gao Tu suddenly spoke.
"Just stop at the end of the street," he said softly.
Shen Wenlang glanced over. "Why not go all the way to the gate?"
"Your car can't fit in because the road to my apartment is narrow," Gao Tu replied curtly, this time sounding confident.
Normally, Shen Wenlang would have argued, but tonight he let it go. Still, when the car stopped, he got out and insisted on walking him home.
The path toward the apartment was dark and narrow. The asphalt was cracked in places, making it hard to walk. More than once, Shen Wenlang nearly stumbled, which made Gao Tu, walking ahead, let out a small laugh. His laughter was light, clear, echoing softly in the cold air.
“Why do I keep tripping, but you don’t?” Shen Wenlang complained, irritation in his voice.
“Because I already know where the road’s broken,” Gao Tu answered lightly, his smile blooming under the dim glow of a streetlamp.
Shen Wenlang’s gaze sharpened, as though unwilling to accept such a simple answer. Without realizing it, an odd impulse drove his hand forward, wrapping around Gao Tu’s neck and pulling him closer. The sudden movement erased the distance between them, and that was when his nose caught something—faint, fresh, and calming. The scent of sage.
His body stiffened at once. Something inside his chest quivered uncontrollably, not just from shock, but also from a heat that rose suddenly like anger. It wasn’t just a smell—it was pheromones. And they clung to Gao Tu’s body, as if they had been there for a long time.
Startled by the closeness, Gao Tu panicked, and his body released even more of that faint aroma. His true pheromones—the ones he had always suppressed so others would believe he was a Beta. Panic was clear in his eyes.
Shen Wenlang quickly let go, his face hardening. His jaw tightened, and his eyes gleamed sharply. “Sage?” His voice was low, almost a hiss, laced with contempt. “Did you meet another Omega at the convenience store earlier? Or did someone get close to you on purpose?”
Gao Tu froze. His gaze fell to the ground. “No…” His voice was barely audible. “I didn’t meet anyone.”
“Lies!” Shen Wenlang snapped, his tone rising. “Don’t lie to me. Pheromones like this don’t appear for no reason. This scent has been lingering for a while. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice!”
Those words cut deeper than any shout. Gao Tu bit his lip, trying to steady the tremor in his chest. The sage scent was his own—his Omega pheromones, which he had fought so desperately to hide, masking them so the world would only see him as an ordinary Beta. But hearing Wenlang reject it so fiercely, as though his very existence was tainted with something filthy, made his chest tighten.
“I…” Gao Tu took a shuddering breath and lowered his head even more. “If the scent disgusts you, I’ll… I’ll be more careful next time.”
Shen Wenlang fell silent, not because he was calm, but because his chest was roiling violently. Gao Tu's words hadn't calmed his anger; instead, they had ignited a flame he couldn't extinguish. His disgust and revulsion paralyzed his logic. How could someone else's scent cling to Gao Tu? Why not him?
But he couldn't say it. He couldn't admit that he felt betrayed by something that wasn't even real. So he simply glared at him, throwing his anger into his own defense.
"Fool," he muttered coldly, full of sarcasm. "You don't even know when someone else marks you with their pheromones. You don't realize that their pheromones can bring trouble for you."
The words fell like a blade. Gao Tu only lowered his head further, swallowing the bitterness burning in his throat. He had no reply, only silence.
The air grew tense, the chill of early morning stretching the distance between them. At last, Shen Wenlang looked away, letting the silence hang heavy, though inside he was still battling a storm of feelings he couldn’t name.
Soon, they reached the apartment gate. Gao Tu stopped, staring at the keys in his hand. “Thank you for walking me back,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Shen Wenlang gave a crooked, bitter smile. “Don’t misunderstand. I just don’t want the trouble if you collapse asleep on the street.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, cold as the night air. Gao Tu clenched his teeth, then forced a thin smile that looked more like a wound. “Of course.”
He quickly lowered his head and stepped inside the gate without looking back. Only the sound of his footsteps faded, leaving Shen Wenlang standing alone beneath the streetlight.
Shen Wenlang remained there for a while, as if waiting for something that never came—a brief farewell, a glance over the shoulder. But all that followed was the creak of the gate closing, then silence.
He took a long breath and lifted his face toward the empty night sky. The cold air stiffened his fingers, but it was that very cold that disguised the bitterness in his chest.
“Fool,” he whispered, so softly it was unclear whether it was meant for Gao Tu or himself.
With heavy steps, he finally turned away, slipping both hands into his jacket pockets. The street was deserted, save for the rustle of wind pushing an empty plastic bag along the pavement. Every now and then, Shen Wenlang glanced back at the apartment, as though hoping a figure would appear behind the windows.
But the windows stayed dark, offering no sign at all.