Chapter Text
The day had started like no other.
Gao Tu woke early, washed up, took his suppressants, and dressed carefully before checking his reflection in the mirror. Everything was in place.
He arrived at the office before half the department and certainly before his boss, President Shen. The routine was familiar, comforting. He prepared the materials for the upcoming meetings, checked Shen Wenlang’s schedule, and reviewed the reports pending approval.
When Shen Wenlang passed him on the way to his office, Gao Tu rose more out of habit than conscious thought. He moved to the kitchenette, preparing Shen Wenlang’s white tea as he had done countless mornings. The scent of the leaves steeping filled the small space, grounding him.
Tray in hand, he paused at his desk to retrieve a set of files, then stepped into Shen Wenlang’s office. His movements were precise, practiced. Despite the recent ups and downs his body had forced him through, his pheromone disorder, the constant itch of abused scent glands, the lingering headaches, this day felt normal.
It was a good day. Everything about it felt normal.
By lunchtime, Gao Tu had already joined Shen Wenlang in yet another meeting at another company for a possible business deal. It was all routine.
Then they heard it.
At first, it was subtle; a buzzing sound, ominous but distant. Then the sound rumbled louder, closer, and urgent. But before anyone could react, the floor lurched sideways, a sound like metal tearing through bone. The world tilted; the table slid; reports became a storm of white paper.
Gao Tu reached for the table, but the ground continued to move.
A crash. A shadow crossed his vision. Shen Wenlang’s arm, sudden and solid, pulling him down.
He felt the air rush from his lungs as they hit the floor together, Shen Wenlang pressing hard against his shoulder, shielding him. Glass rained somewhere nearby. Dust choked the room, and then silence, broken only by Shen Wenlang’s steady breath.
“Stay down,” Shen Wenlang ordered. “Don’t move.”
Gao Tu wanted to answer, but his mouth tasted of dust and copper. He turned his head, seeing Shen Wenlang’s eyes, clear, unflinching.
And then the ceiling gave way.
The last thing he felt was weight pressing against him. Warmth seeping into his skin.
Then it was dark.
*
The first thing Gao Tu noticed was the pressure. Pressure, and stillness.
He tried to move, but pain surged in terrible waves. It was excruciating, a full-body scream that refused to quiet. It pulsed with his heartbeat, relentless, raw. Worse than any fevered heat, worse than the bone-deep ache the suppressants left behind.
He forced his eyes open. Everything was blurred, edges smeared with dust. His glasses were cracked, one lens missing, the other hanging crooked on his nose. The air was thick with grit; every breath scraped his throat, pushed harshly against his ribs.
He turned his head slightly, and the world tilted. Something heavy pinned him down.
When he finally saw what it was, the sight wrenched the breath from his lungs.
Shen Wenlang lay on top of him, utterly still, blood coating half his face from his temple down to his jaw.
Panic cut through the pain. Gao Tu struggled to free an arm and turn on his back, ignoring the stabbing in his ribs, and reached out to him. He pressed trembling fingers to Shen Wenlang’s neck, desperate for a pulse.
Slow. Faint. But there.
Relief stung his eyes.
He looked around, squinting through the dust, trying to find anything that might help—light, movement, an opening. Nothing. Just collapsed beams, broken glass, and silence.
He tried again to move, to shift Shen Wenlang’s weight, but the shearing pain stopped him cold. His body refused to obey.
So he lay there, helpless. His hand found the fabric of Shen Wenlang’s shoulder and held on. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to pull him closer or wake him. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The world around him blurred at the edges. His thoughts thinned into fog.
Just a second, he told himself. Just to catch my breath.
He closed his eyes.
Darkness took him before the next heartbeat.
*
When he opened his eyes, the world was white.
The ceiling above him was too bright, edges of light dissolving into a blur. He tried to move, but something sharp caught under his ribs. He stopped breathing for a second, the pain climbing in a slow wave before ebbing again.
Hospital.
He knew that sterile stillness, the hum of machines, the faint bite of antiseptic, the dry chill of recycled air.
He turned his head. The other bed was occupied.
Shen Wenlang lay motionless, an IV threaded into his arm, a broad bandage circling his head. The monitors beside him pulsed in a steady green rhythm. Too steady, too calm, too wrong.
For a moment, Gao Tu thought the ceiling was still shaking. Then he realized it was only his hands.
Fragments returned in flashes: the conference room, the tremor, the crash of glass, Shen Wenlang’s arm pulling him close before everything went dark.
He should have been the one hurt. Not Shen Wenlang. Never Shen Wenlang.
He fumbled blindly for the call button, the beeping from his own monitor spiking in protest.
A nurse hurried in. “You’re awake,” she said quickly. “Please, try to stay calm—your heart rate is climbing.”
“What happened?” Gao Tu asked. His voice came out rough, dry.
“You’re at Heci Hospital,” she explained, glancing at the monitor. “You were brought in about six hours ago. You have two cracked ribs and a mild concussion. We’ve given you pain medication, so you might feel lightheaded. Please don’t move too much.”
Now that she said it, he realized the pain had dulled to a distant throb. “I’m fine,” he managed.
She noted something on his chart, her pen scratching softly.
“What about him?” Gao Tu asked, eyes already fixed on the other bed.
The nurse followed his gaze, then looked back at him with something like pity. “Mr. Shen sustained a severe concussion and some internal bruising. He’s stable now, but still unconscious. Honestly, he’s lucky; an ordinary Alpha might not have survived that kind of impact.”
Gao Tu nodded numbly.
The nurse hesitated before turning another page on the clipboard. “Mr. Gao, your file lists a history of pheromone disorder and hormone imbalance. Have you felt any symptoms since waking? Perhaps dizziness, sensitivity, scent fluctuations?”
He blinked, the question barely registering. “No,” he said, though he wasn’t sure.
“For now, just rest,” she said gently. “But your body’s been under a lot of strain. The doctor wants your system to stabilize naturally. That means no suppressants for at least two weeks.” Her tone was professional, almost apologetic, but the words landed like a blow.
Two weeks. Without suppressants.
He hadn’t gone two days without them since he differentiated.
Already, he could feel it, an unsteady hum under his skin, a prickling warmth at the back of his neck.
When the nurse left, Gao Tu pressed both hands over his face and tried to breathe. In. Out. Slow. Quiet. No one would notice.
But the air grew heavier as the hours passed.
By nightfall, even he could smell it: faint, sharp, unfamiliar. Sage. His own scent. He had almost forgotten what it smelled like without the heavy notes of his heats. There was something humiliating in that, like hearing his own voice played back, distorted through static.
A few hours later, the sound of footsteps pulled him from a shallow doze.
“Mr. Gao?”
A man in a white coat stood at the foot of his bed, flipping through a tablet. His expression was calm, his voice soft in that practiced, reassuring way doctors have when they’re used to speaking to people in pain.
“I’m Dr. Han,” he said. “I was on call when you were brought in.”
Gao Tu blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“I understand the nurses already briefed you on your condition,” Dr. Han continued, checking the monitor before looking back at him. “But I’ll go over it again to be safe. You were very lucky — a couple of cracked ribs, some bruising, a mild concussion, but nothing life-threatening. You’ll need to stay here at least three or four days so we can monitor your breathing and neural responses.”
Gao Tu nodded faintly. The words floated past him, half-heard. His gaze kept drifting to the bed beside him.
Dr. Han followed his line of sight, then set the tablet down at the foot of the bed. His voice lowered slightly. “Mr. Gao, you’ve been using daily suppressants, correct?”
“Yes.”
The doctor exhaled slowly, as if weighing each word. “I understand how difficult that is to manage. But after what your body’s been through — trauma, blood loss, concussion — suppressants are too risky right now. Your system’s unstable. We can’t afford to add hormonal strain on top of that.”
Gao Tu nodded. “The nurse already informed me.”
“Your regular physician came by earlier,” Dr. Han said, his tone honest but not unkind. “He mentioned that you don’t always follow advice regarding suppressant intake. You need to understand — if your body doesn’t recalibrate on its own, your recovery will take much longer than expected.”
Gao Tu looked away, jaw tight.
Dr. Han studied him for a moment, then added more gently, “Your body’s in shock. Just inform the staff if you notice any instability— emotional, sensory, or otherwise. Anything out of the ordinary.”
Gao Tu tried to nod, but his throat tightened around the motion.
Dr. Han offered a sympathetic half-smile. “We’ll keep monitoring you closely. Try to rest, Mr. Gao. Your body needs calm.”
“Can I change rooms?” Gao Tu asked before the doctor could leave.
The doctor frowned slightly. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“No– it’s just– I wouldn’t want to be in the way in case President Shen wakes,” Gao Tu hurried to reply.
“If you make a formal request for it, we will move you. But the hospital is at full capacity, and the earthquake left a lot of people injured. You are lucky you were placed in a room with Mr. Shen,” Dr. Han said apologetically.
Gao Tu let the words sink in and nodded.
The doctor must have taken it as a dismissal, so he left with a soft click of the door, and the room was quiet again.
The word calm lingered like a taunt.
Gao Tu leaned back against the pillow, every muscle trembling with restraint. He focused on his breathing, counting the rhythm in his head, but the air already felt different — thicker, warmer, charged with something unspoken.
Across the room, Shen Wenlang lay motionless, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
Gao Tu closed his eyes.
He could smell it again. His own scent, sharper now and unmistakable, was spreading like a whisper through the sterile air.
*
The next morning, the door slid open without a knock.
Hua Yong stood in the doorway, dressed in the same pale striped hospital clothes as him, the fabric hanging loosely on his thin frame. His skin was almost translucent, his lips colorless, but his smile was composed—graceful in a way that made it hard to tell how much pain he was in.
“Secretary Hua,” Gao Tu said, startled.
“Secretary Gao.” Hua Yong’s tone was light, teasing despite the faint rasp in his voice. “I would say it’s nice to see you, but given the circumstances…” He let the sentence trail off with a soft smile.
Gao Tu returned a polite smile. “Were you also injured in the earthquake?”
“Yes,” Hua Yong said simply, though he didn’t elaborate.
Up close, Gao Tu could see the tremor in his hands and the uneven rhythm of his breathing, but Hua Yong carried it with practiced ease, as though pain were a mild inconvenience he could simply ignore.
“When I heard President Shen was brought here as well, I thought I’d check on him.” His gaze drifted toward the other bed, toward Shen Wenlang’s still form beneath the thin white blanket. “I wasn’t aware you would be in the same room. I’m sorry, I would have knocked before I entered.”
“It’s okay,” Gao Tu said softly. “The doctor said he hasn’t woken up yet,” he added quietly. He wasn’t sure why the words felt so heavy in his mouth.
Hua Yong nodded once, expression unreadable. He moved closer to Shen Wenlang’s bedside, each step deliberate, as if balancing his weight carefully. For a moment, the room was filled only with the soft beeping of the monitors.
Then Hua Yong spoke again, his voice mild but laced with curiosity. “I didn’t know you were an omega, Secretary Gao.”
Gao Tu froze.
His pulse jumped, the scent in the air thickening. “I—” He stopped himself. “It’s not—”
“I am not judging,” Hua Yong murmured. He finally turned, his eyes—dark, sharp, too knowing—meeting Gao Tu’s. For a heartbeat, Gao Tu thought there was something strange in them. Not pity. Not judgment. Something older. Something that saw.
Then Hua Yong smiled again, the softness returning like a mask being set back in place. “Your scent is nice,” he said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice.
Gao Tu didn’t reply at once; he was too stunned to. He wasn’t sure if Hua Yong meant it or was simply being polite. No one had ever commented on his scent before. No one except Shen Wenlang, of course, and he had said it stank.
“You should rest,” Hua Yong said when Gao Tu remained silent. “I’m sure President Shen wouldn’t want you exhausting yourself on his account.”
Before Gao Tu could respond, Hua Yong had already turned toward the door.
“I’ll come back later,” he added, almost casually. “And if you need anything, Secretary Gao, you only have to ask.”
He left as quietly as he’d come, the soft echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
For a long moment, Gao Tu sat very still, the air heavy with the scent he could no longer suppress.
There was something off about Hua Yong, something Gao Tu couldn’t quite put his finger on.
But the room was quiet, the machines steady and low, and exhaustion crept over him like a tide.
He closed his eyes. The scent lingered in the sterile air long after he drifted back to sleep.
*
Sound came before sight. A slow, rhythmic beeping. Then the soft rustle of fabric. Breathing. Voices.
The words barely reached him. His body felt heavy, trapped beneath something invisible. His chest burned when he tried to inhale.
Pain spiked. Sharp. Deep. His head felt like it was about to split open.
The beeping sound sped up, making the pounding in his head louder.
“Mr. Shen? Can you hear me?”
He tried to open his eyes. Light spilled in — too bright, too white — and the ceiling blurred at the edges.
The world swam. He couldn’t hold on to it.
He closed his eyes with a pained groan.
“Mr. Shen, can you hear me?” the voice asked again. “You’re in the hospital.”
Everything was wrong.
His breath hitched. His pulse quickened, the monitor beside him jumping.
He needed— something.
He wasn’t sure what. He breathed deeply, trying to stabilize himself.
And then he caught it.
A scent; warm, clean, steady.
Close, distressed, but so familiar, it smelled like home.
It brushed against his senses like a hand on the back of his neck, quiet and grounding.
The noise in his head dulled a little. The panic softened.
He turned toward it instinctively, ignoring the sharp protests of his body. “...mate,” he whispered, the word dragging itself from his throat like it had been there all along.
He tried to get closer, ignoring the stabbing pain.
“Mr. Shen, please don’t move—” the same voice said frantically.
He didn’t hear them. His entire focus locked onto that scent, that steady, anchoring warmth that was his. He could feel it. He knew it.
“Mate,” he said again, louder this time, struggling to rise. The effort tore through his body; he gasped, chest heaving. “Where— mate?”
A nurse rushed to his side, pressing him gently back. “Mr. Shen, you need to stay still—”
“Let me—” His voice broke. “My mate—”
“Who?” one of the voices asked, confused.
He didn’t know. The name wouldn’t come. His memories slipped through his fingers like water. But the scent—
The scent was right there, just a few ways away.
He turned his head toward the other bed. Through the haze, through the blur of light and movement, there was someone sitting upright, though their features blurred together.
“Mate,” he breathed, almost in relief.
There were more voices now, but he couldn’t make sense of them.
His mate’s figure moved closer. The moment they stepped near, Shen Wenlang’s body responded, tension bleeding away.
He exhaled shakily, eyelids fluttering. The corner of his mouth twitched, something between exhaustion and peace. “Mate…” he murmured one last time, barely audible.
Then he went still again. His breathing evened out.
Sleep took him, soft and deep.
*
Gao Tu stood frozen beside Shen Wenlang’s bed, one hand clutching the railing, the other hovering uselessly in midair.
For a moment, no one moved.
The air itself seemed too still.
He wasn’t even sure when he’d stood up.
Shen Wenlang had gone still again, the lines of pain fading from his face as his breathing steadied. The machines beside him hummed in quiet rhythm, unbothered, as if the last moments didn’t cause Gao Tu’s chest to clench in pain that had nothing to do with his fractured ribs.
Mate.
The word still hung in the air, soft and impossible.
A nurse adjusted the IV, her expression carefully neutral. “He’s stable again,” she murmured to the others. “His vitals calmed as soon as you came near, Mr. Gao. We’ll need to monitor him closely for post-traumatic confusion.”
Gao Tu’s fingers tightened around the metal bar until his knuckles turned white. “Confusion,” he repeated, though the word barely sounded like his voice.
The nurse nodded, distracted. “Yes — it’s common with head injuries. He’s disoriented, not fully aware of where he is. Patients in that state often latch onto something familiar to feel safe. Don’t take it too seriously.”
Don’t take it too seriously.
She said it so easily, like it was something that could be set down and forgotten.
But Gao Tu couldn’t make his body listen. His pulse was still racing; his skin felt too warm.
The air was thick with the edge of his own distressed scent. He forced himself to breathe through it.
He looked at Shen Wenlang properly, and his heart clenched again. The bandages around his head. The faint bruising along his jaw. The hand that had fallen limp against the sheet, fingers curled as though still reaching for something.
For him.
Gao Tu’s throat felt too tight. “He... thought it was me,” he said quietly, as if testing the idea out loud.
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look. “He’ll wake again soon. It’s best if you rest in the meantime.”
He nodded because that’s what people expected him to do. Because obedience was a habit.
When they left, the door clicked shut behind them, leaving only the hum of machines and the sage scent that filled the quiet.
Gao Tu sank slowly back onto his bed, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. His pulse still hadn’t settled.
Across the room, Shen Wenlang slept on, face turned slightly toward him, calm, peaceful, unaware.
“Mate,” Gao Tu whispered under his breath, repeating it the way Shen Wenlang had said it. The word felt foreign in his mouth. Strange.
And yet, for a reason he couldn’t name, it made his chest ache.
He turned away, covering his face with both hands.
He would ask the doctor later. He would tell himself it was just confusion. He would try not to think about how Shen Wenlang had calmed only when he was near.
He would try... and fail.
*
The blinds were half-drawn, letting in a pale stripe of light that cut the room in two. Gao Tu’s scent threaded through the sterile space, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.
Dr. Han scrolled through Shen Wenlang’s vitals on his tablet while Hua Yong stood beside him, a little too composed for someone who had nearly bled out the day before. Gao Tu tried not to stare at him.
“Neurological readings are good,” Dr. Han murmured. “Swelling’s gone down. When he wakes, keep things simple. Don’t crowd him.”
Gao Tu nodded, though his pulse was already too fast. Every beep from the monitor sounded like a countdown.
His scent was rising in the room again — faint, unintentional, and he could already feel Shen Wenlang responding even before the alpha stirred.
Gao Tu opened his mouth to reply, but the monitor spiked—a short, urgent jump.
Dr. Han straightened. “Mr. Shen?”
A low sound came from the bed: a strained breath, half a groan. Gao Tu’s entire body went still.
Shen Wenlang’s eyelids fluttered. His face tensed as though light itself hurt him.
“Mr. Shen, you’re in the hospital,” Dr. Han said quickly, moving closer. “Try not to move.”
The alpha’s throat worked; his lips parted in a dry gasp. His eyes unfocused, then caught something, or, better yet, someone. Gao Tu felt it before he saw it, that flicker of attention like heat turning toward him.
Shen Wenlang inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. The sound was almost animal.
“Mate…” The word came rough, torn, disbelieving. But it was there.
Gao Tu’s heart stopped.
Dr. Han froze mid-movement. Even Hua Yong’s expression faltered for a beat before sliding back into something unreadable.
“Mr. Shen,” the doctor said carefully, “you’ve suffered a head injury. You may be disoriented. Can you tell me your full name?”
But Shen Wenlang’s gaze had locked on Gao Tu, eyes dilated, searching. Recognition flickered faintly beneath the confusion. “You… you’re…” His voice cracked. “Gao Tu?”
Gao Tu’s throat went dry. “Yes. It’s me.”
The alpha blinked slowly, his chest rising unevenly. “You—” His brow furrowed. He sniffed again, almost unconsciously. “You smell like—” The word died halfway through. “Mate,” he finished instead, as if that were the only truth left.
Dr. Han reached for the IV line. “It’s just confusion,” he told Gao Tu quietly, but his tone lacked conviction. “Early post-traumatic episodes sometimes trigger instinctual memory responses. Keep your distance for a moment.”
But distance was impossible; every time Gao Tu took half a step back, Shen Wenlang’s breathing quickened, monitors leaping in response.
Hua Yong gave a small, almost amused hum. “Seems his instincts disagree, Doctor.”
Dr. Han shot him a warning look. “Mr. Hua, please.”
Gao Tu couldn’t move. His ribs ached from holding his breath.
Then Shen Wenlang’s gaze shifted, finally registering the other figure in the room. His pupils narrowed, confusion rippling across his face. “Hua Yong?”
“I’m here,” Hua Yong said softly, tone flawlessly gentle.
“You… why do you smell like this?” Shen Wenlang asked, frowning. His voice was stronger now, but edged with bewilderment. “You’re… different.”
Hua Yong’s expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered in his eyes. “A long story,” he said. “One you can hear when you’re better.”
Shen Wenlang blinked as if trying to process that, but the effort exhausted him. His hand twitched on the sheet. His eyes darted back toward Gao Tu, confusion and something else —something softer?— lingering there.
“Why… omega?” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. His eyelids fluttered once, twice, then closed. The monitors steadied.
Dr. Han exhaled, easing the tension from his shoulders. “He’s asleep again. Good. That’s good.”
Gao Tu realized he was shaking. “He—he thinks—”
“Don’t dwell on the wording,” Dr. Han interrupted gently, though his gaze was measuring. “His memory may regress or blend old associations. For now, what matters is stability. Whatever keeps him calm, we use it.” He hesitated, then added, “That means you, Mr. Gao. Your scent anchors him. I’d prefer you remain nearby for the next twenty-four hours.”
Gao Tu’s mouth went dry. “Me?”
“Your presence lowers his vitals significantly,” the doctor confirmed. “Think of it as therapeutic exposure.”
Hua Yong’s smile returned, faint but sly. “Congratulations, Secretary Gao. You’re medically indispensable.”
Gao Tu ignored him, staring instead at the man lying motionless under the white sheets. Shen Wenlang looked peaceful now, younger somehow, the tension smoothed from his face.
Mate. The word still echoed, quiet and devastating.
This was the second time Shen Wenlang woke up, and the second time he called Gao Tu mate.
“Stay close,” Dr. Han said again, scribbling a note on his tablet. “No stress, no arguments. Just calm.”
When the doctor left, Hua Yong lingered by the window, his silhouette sharp against the pale light. “I would love to linger and help you through whatever spiral you are in right now, but I have to check on Mr. Sheng,” he said softly.
Gao Tu turned toward him, startled. He tried to come up with a response that didn’t sound pathetic, but Hua Yong was already halfway out the door, his faint omega orchid-sweet scent fading into the corridor.
The room grew quiet again, filled only by the slow rhythm of Shen Wenlang’s breathing and the steady pulse of the monitors.
He sat down slowly. Too tired to think. Too awake to rest.
*
When he woke the third time, it didn’t feel like drowning.
Light pressed softly against his eyelids. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and sage. His chest still hurt when he breathed too deeply, but his thoughts moved without stumbling.
He remembered waking up earlier, or maybe yesterday, he wasn’t sure. He remembered the panic, the bright lights, the scent that had reached for him when everything else had gone dark.
His mate.
The word surfaced again, unbidden. He almost winced at it. He remembered saying it out loud. Calling for them. For him.
Shen Wenlang opened his eyes.
The ceiling was familiar now. So was the quiet hum of the machines. But there were new sounds—voices, low and careful, a few paces away.
“…still responding well,” someone was saying. “We’ll keep up the observation for another day.”
He turned his head slightly. The movement hurt, but it grounded him. A doctor stood near the foot of his bed, tablet in hand. And next to him, by the window—
Gao Tu.
He was sitting rigidly in the chair, back straight, as if afraid to take up too much space. His hair was slightly disheveled. He looked tired. Older than Shen Wenlang remembered.
Something inside him eased immediately at the sight of him.
That scent was still there, soft, warm, steady. The same one that had pulled him back from the dark.
He inhaled before he could stop himself. The relief that followed was almost physical.
“Mr. Shen?” the doctor said, stepping closer. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
Shen Wenlang blinked a few times. His voice came rough but clear. “Tired,” he admitted. Then, after a beat, quieter: “And confused.”
“That’s completely normal,” the doctor said, voice calm and practiced. “You’ve been unconscious for several days. I just need to ask you a few quick questions. Can you tell me your full name?”
“Shen Wenlang.”
“Good. And your age?”
“Twenty-one,” Shen Wenlang said automatically.
The stylus in the doctor’s hand paused mid-note. “You’re twenty-seven now, Mr. Shen.”
The words landed slowly, one by one, until the number started to sting. Twenty-seven.
He frowned. “That’s… not right.”
“It’s all right,” the doctor replied evenly. “Memory gaps can happen after a concussion or prolonged stress response. The important thing is that you’re lucid and oriented.”
Lucid. Oriented. He wasn’t sure he was either of those things.
He felt… slow, like everything was moving faster than he could process.
Shen Wenlang’s gaze drifted again, this time toward the window. Toward Gao Tu.
Just to be sure he was really there.
Gao Tu met his eyes. His expression was taut, uncertain, as if afraid that even a word might break something fragile in the air.
The air between them shifted.
That scent, that same grounding, familiar warmth, rolled gently through Shen Wenlang’s senses again, and his heart stumbled.
He remembered calling for it. For him.
“You…” The word came before he could stop it. “You were here before. When I—” He paused, the memory flickering at the edges. “You stayed.”
“Yes,” Gao Tu’s voice was quiet. “You weren’t calm unless I was nearby.”
Something in Shen Wenlang’s chest twisted sharply. “That makes sense,” he murmured absently. Then, before he could catch himself, “You’re my mate.”
Silence.
The air shifted. The doctor stilled. Gao Tu’s face went rigid, the faintest color rising along his jaw.
Shen Wenlang blinked, realizing how strange the words sounded once they were out in the open. “Are you… not?” he asked, and suddenly his chest felt too tight, the pounding in his head louder. The atmosphere was suffocating for a second.
The doctor hesitated, but then, calmly, he said, “He is, Mr. Shen. You’re safe here.”
Relief hit so suddenly that it left him dizzy. His body loosened against the sheets. His instincts quieted, humming in low satisfaction beneath his ribs.
Gao Tu’s scent still wrapped around him like a quiet tether.
“Good,” Shen Wenlang murmured, almost to himself. “That makes sense.”
Dr. Han checked the monitor, his expression careful but approving. “Try not to strain yourself. We’ll go slowly with the questions. Your body needs time to adjust, and stress won’t help your recovery.”
Shen Wenlang nodded faintly, his gaze never leaving Gao Tu. The confusion didn’t vanish, but for the first time since waking, it didn’t hurt as much.
Something was wrong with the timeline in his head.
He remembered university. His luxurious apartment near the river. Nights staying up late with Gao Tu before exams. After that... nothing. Just blank space.
He turned his head slightly, focusing back on the doctor, wincing at the pull in his neck. “How… long was I unconscious?”
“A little over four days,” Dr. Han said. “But the memory loss you’re experiencing is more likely not just from the injury. Your brain is protecting itself. The confusion should improve as the swelling goes down.”
Four days.
But six years missing.
The thought felt too big to fit in his skull. “What happened?” His throat felt dry.
The doctor’s pause was brief but perceptible. “There was a severe earthquake. A lot of buildings were destroyed, thankfully, the casualties were lower than expected. You’re fortunate to have survived with only mild trauma.”
Shen Wenlang tried to swallow past the knot forming in his chest.
Fortunate. He certainly didn’t feel like he was.
He turned his gaze again, instinctively searching for something steady to hold on to. It found Gao Tu.
The other man hadn’t moved from his chair. He looked smaller somehow, shoulders tense, hands folded tightly in his lap. The faint sage scent still lingered between them, pulling at something inside Shen Wenlang’s ribs he couldn’t name.
“Gao Tu,” he said quietly. “You look… different.”
A flicker passed over Gao Tu’s face. “It’s been a while.”
The simplicity of it confused him more. “A while,” Shen Wenlang repeated softly, as though testing the weight of the words. “Right. Six years, apparently.”
Shen Wenlang searched his memory again. Back then, Gao Tu was wide-eyed and curious, soft and always fussing over details. He used to smell faintly of green tea and graphite and something earthy he could never quite place.
Now he had a scent. A real one. An omega one.
His scent was of sage, heavy, earthy, warm, refreshing, familiar, and soft. It threaded with a tension Shen Wenlang’s instincts couldn’t ignore.
“You have changed,” he said before thinking. “You smell…” He trailed off, searching for the right word. Suddenly, he felt like his vocabulary had been reduced to a primary school child. “...Different,” he decided.
Dr. Han cleared his throat gently, drawing the attention away. “Your sense of smell will likely be more sensitive for a while,” he said, professional, smooth. “The medication heightens perception. Don’t worry too much about it.”
Shen Wenlang nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. “I still don’t understand how I lost six years.”
“It will come back gradually,” Dr. Han assured him. “Memories are resilient, Mr. Shen. For now, we just want your body stable.”
Shen Wenlang frowned faintly, glancing back toward Gao Tu for confirmation. The doctor’s voice faded into the background, replaced by the sound of his own heartbeat.
His mind knew Gao Tu as his old friend. His instincts whispered something else entirely.
He thought of the way the panic had vanished the moment that scent touched the air. The way every nerve in his body had recognized it before his mind did.
He knew they were more than friends. He knew what to call it: mate. He almost said it again, almost called for him again, but stopped himself, jaw tightening.
Dr. Han stepped closer, checking the monitors one last time. “Your vitals are holding steady. I’ll adjust your dosage and let you rest.” He hesitated, then added with deliberate calm, “Mr. Gao will remain nearby for now. You respond well to him. It seems to help your recovery.”
Shen Wenlang didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he only nodded.
When the doctor left, the room dimmed back into quiet. Gao Tu shifted, just slightly, the chair creaking.
Shen Wenlang studied his rigid posture. “Were you also injured?” Shen Wenlang asked, half to be polite, half to satisfy the urge of reaching out.
Gao Tu didn’t move. “Only a little bit,” he admitted.
Shen Wenlang nodded. Gao Tu wouldn’t lie to him. “Were you with me?”
“Yes,” Gao Tu said sincerely. “You shielded me,” he added as an afterthought. “Thank you.”
“How could I not?” Shen Wenlang asked.
It was a rhetorical question, and Gao Tu didn’t reply, so Shen Wenlang took it as an agreement.
His thoughts sloshed, slow and heavy, like water trapped in his skull.
He could think, but his head felt mushy.
This was probably why he only then noticed that Gao Tu was wearing hospital clothes.
He frowned.
“You said you weren’t too hurt,” he said, and it almost sounded like an accusation.
“I am fine,” Gao Tu replied softly.
Shen Wenlang tried to sit up, but a pained groan left him.
“Don’t move too much,” Gao Tu said as he stood with a wince in an effort to placate him.
Shen Wenlang’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have stitches or something?”
Why did he lie about not being injured? Mates are supposed to support each other.
“No… I am ok, you need to relax to get better,” Gao Tu pressed.
Shen Wenlang closed his eyes, breathing in the calming sage scent once more. His chest loosened almost against his will.
“How did it happen?” He asked suddenly.
“We were in a meeting and then the tremors started and—”
“I mean,” Shen Wenlang interrupted. “How did we get together?”
Gao Tu closed his mouth with an audible click. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you hate omegas—”
“That’s not what—” Shen Wenlang interrupted again, but cut himself short. “If we are together now, then I assume we have worked something out,” he said slowly.
Right... Gao Tu was an omega now. He wasn’t one before.
He felt something tighten in his chest at the revelation, but it was muted.
Gao Tu... lied to him?
“You are okay with being in a relationship with an omega?” Gao Tu asked, surprise evident in his voice.
Shen Wenlang pressed his lips. Was he? He was unsure.
“I don’t know. But it makes sense,” he decided.
Gao Tu looked even more confused now. “What does?”
“That it is you. If it were anyone else, I don’t think it would make sense,” Shen Wenlang admitted with a frown.
Yes, that felt right. Gao Tu made sense.
“Oh,” was all Gao Tu replied.
Shen Wenlang’s eyelids felt incedibly heavy. He let them close.
“Will you stay?” he asked sleepily.
“Of course,” Gao Tu replied.
Shen Wenlang’s instincts purred: Mate. Safe. Mine.
He didn’t open his eyes again. The scent lingered —steady, grounding— until his pulse slowed and sleep claimed him again, gentle and sure.
*
When Shen Wenlang finally fell asleep, Gao Tu felt like he could breathe again.
He was glad the man was somewhat lucid — glad his words weren’t quite slurred, his eyes not completely glassy and unseeing — but the relief was short-lived. Every sentence they’d exchanged replayed in his head, twisting tighter each time.
According to Dr. Han, they should keep him calm and go along with what he says.
But how was he supposed to do that when Shen Wenlang kept saying they were in a relationship?
The earthquake had ruined more than buildings. It had cracked open Gao Tu’s carefully built life. First, it hospitalized him. Then it stripped him of the one thing that let him move through the world unnoticed: his beta designation. With the suppressant ban in place, every passerby could smell the truth: Gao Tu was an omega. And now, somehow, he had to pretend that he and the man he’d spent ten years quietly loving were mates.
The irony was almost cruel. Shen Wenlang would probably detonate on the spot if he realized his secretary, his former beta secretary, had been an omega all along.
It was all a massive, miserable mess.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and sage — his own scent still clinging to the sheets, anchoring the alpha in uneasy sleep.
A soft knock came from the doorway. “Busy, Secretary Gao?”
Gao Tu looked up. Hua Yong leaned against the frame, arms folded, smiling like he already knew the answer. “Secretary Hua,” Gao Tu said cautiously. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking in,” Hua Yong replied, stepping inside. His heels clicked against the tile. “Dr. Han told me our dear President Shen is stable. Good news, isn’t it?”
Something in his tone made Gao Tu straighten. There was humor there, not the gentle, self-effacing kind Hua Yong used to have, but something cooler, sharper, edged with private amusement.
“He’s resting,” Gao Tu said. “You shouldn’t disturb him.”
“Oh, I won’t.” Hua Yong stopped beside the empty visitor’s chair, glancing toward the bed. “He looks almost peaceful. Hard to believe, given the way he used to have temper tantrums every five minutes.”
Gao Tu frowned. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.” Hua Yong turned his gaze back to him. “Though I do think this situation is rather poetic.”
“Poetic?”
“Yes,” Hua Yong said lightly. “The great Shen Wenlang brought down by instinct. All that control, all that pride — and now he can’t sleep without your scent in the air. There’s a certain… symmetry to it.”
The words made Gao Tu’s pulse stutter.
But Hua Yong just smiled, tilting his head. “Relax. I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking. The doctors want him calm, don’t they? Then you’ll just have to play the part.”
Gao Tu blinked. “The part?”
“His mate,” Hua Yong said simply, as if it were obvious. “Don’t look so scandalized. You heard Dr. Han — if Shen Wenlang believes you’re bonded, it keeps his vitals stable. So…” He held out his hand expectantly. “Your apartment keys.”
“What?”
“I’ll have a few of your things moved into his house,” Hua Yong explained. “Clothes, toiletries, maybe your watch — something familiar, something domestic. If he returns and doesn’t see any trace of you, he’ll start doubting. We can’t risk that.”
Gao Tu stared at him. “That’s not necessary.”
“On the contrary, it’s essential.” Hua Yong’s eyes gleamed. “We have to sell the lie. Convince him. You don’t want him spiraling again, do you?”
The casual authority in his voice was jarring. Hua Yong used to sound… small. Soft-spoken, deferential, always apologizing before he spoke. The man in front of him now was nothing like that.
Gao Tu’s hesitation must have shown, because Hua Yong’s smile curved, slow and deliberate. “Keys,” he ordered and moved his palm up to receive them.
“You’re… different,” Gao Tu said bluntly.
Hua Yong’s hand retrieved, but his smile widened. “Different?”
“You don’t sound… like yourself.”
A pause — and then Hua Yong laughed quietly, low and controlled. “Don’t overthink it,” Hua Yong said finally, still holding out his hand. “Keys.”
Gao Tu hesitated, then fished them from his pocket and handed them over.
When Hua Yong’s fingers brushed his, Gao Tu shivered at the contact. The other man’s skin was warm, his smile too close.
“Good,” Hua Yong murmured. “You’ll thank me later.”
“For what?”
“For keeping your story straight,” Hua Yong said, turning for the door. “And maybe for saving your job.”
Before Gao Tu could answer, he was gone, leaving the faint echo of his amusement hanging in the sterile air.
Gao Tu stood there, staring at the empty doorway.
What was that?
*
Gao Tu’s pulse still hadn’t steadied. He could smell his own adrenaline, sharp and metallic, souring the faint sage that lingered in the room.
Pretend. Play the part.
As if this were some theater production, and not Shen Wenlang’s life.
He looked toward the bed. Shen Wenlang was still asleep, breathing evenly, one arm folded awkwardly against his chest where the IV line fed into his skin. His brow furrowed occasionally, but his expression had softened from earlier.
The sight pulled something deep in Gao Tu’s chest that he didn’t have words for.
He exhaled slowly and stepped closer, checking the monitor the way the nurse had shown him earlier. His hands moved on autopilot, adjusting the blanket, tucking the corner near Shen Wenlang’s shoulder. He froze when the alpha shifted slightly at the touch.
A low hum escaped Shen Wenlang’s throat. His head turned a little toward him, as if drawn by instinct.
Gao Tu went still.
The air in the room changed again, subtle, electric. Shen Wenlang’s scent, faint in his sleep, flared for a moment. Warm incense and iris. It reached for Gao Tu’s sage before ebbing back down.
A sigh slipped from Shen Wenlang’s lips, so soft it could’ve been sleep-talking.
Gao Tu’s throat tightened.
He wanted to step back, to put distance between them before his pulse betrayed him, but his feet wouldn’t move. Instead, his body did something else entirely; it leaned forward. His scent warmed unconsciously, answering the call before his mind caught up.
He stopped himself just in time.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
Still, when Shen Wenlang exhaled, his entire body seemed to relax. The lines of tension along his shoulders eased. His heartbeat on the monitor slowed into something steadier.
Gao Tu’s chest ached.
He put distance between them.
He sat on his bed slowly, careful not to make noise, and buried his face in his hands. The smell of sage clung to his palms, stubborn and grounding.
He hated himself a little for how much comfort that gave him.
If Hua Yong was right, then the only way to keep Shen Wenlang calm was to keep feeding him this illusion. To play the part.
And Gao Tu could do it. He’d done harder things. He’d swallowed worse pain.
But what terrified him wasn’t pretending to be Shen Wenlang’s mate.
It was how easily the lie might start to feel like the truth.
He forced a breath out through his nose, sharp and shaky, then lifted his head again.
Shen Wenlang shifted in his sleep, face turned toward him, mouth parted slightly.
He leaned back on his bed every muscle tight with exhaustion, and listened to the steady rhythm of Shen Wenlang’s breathing. The scent between them hung heavy, too intimate for a lie, too fragile for the truth.