The weekend passed in a blur of rehearsals, reading assignments, and frantic essay revisions. True to his word, Lin Yuze had sent Xiaoran a collection of academic articles Saturday night—fourteen PDFs on Buddhist philosophy, Tang and Song dynasty aesthetics, and the relationship between musical theory and visual composition. The email contained no message beyond "Attached are the promised sources. Review before Wednesday."
Xiaoran spent Sunday afternoon in his dorm room, working through the articles while his roommate Wei Chen composed electronic music through headphones. The research was dense but fascinating, opening up new dimensions to his essay that he hadn't considered. Yuze had been right—the Buddhist philosophical framework tied everything together, gave historical and cultural context to artistic choices that might otherwise seem purely aesthetic.
He was highlighting a particularly relevant passage about the concept of emptiness when Zhou Mei video-called.
"Emergency," she announced without preamble, her face filling his phone screen. "I need your opinion on something crucial."
"How crucial are we talking?"
"Life or death. Well, maybe not death. But definitely my grade in Movement class." Zhou Mei's camera flipped to show two different pairs of dance shoes. "Black or tan? We're doing a contemporary piece about urban isolation and I cannot decide which reads better under stage lights."
"Black," Xiaoran said immediately. "Urban isolation needs that stark visual. Tan reads too warm, too organic."
"See, this is why I keep you around. Excellent aesthetic instincts." The camera flipped back to Zhou Mei's face. "How's the essay coming? Did the ice prince's research articles actually help or were they just showing off how smart he is?"
"They helped, annoyingly. He has a really good understanding of the historical context. I'm actually improving my essay because of his input."
"Character growth! You're learning to appreciate his positive qualities despite the personality deficiency."
"I wouldn't go that far," Xiaoran said, but he was smiling. "He's still incredibly cold and treats human interaction like a necessary evil. But at least he's competent."
"Competence is sexy in its own way."
"Zhou Mei, no."
"I'm just saying! Genius musician, intense focus, those cheekbones that could cut glass—objectively, he's attractive. You're allowed to notice."
"I'm allowed to notice that he has the emotional warmth of a winter storm and the social skills of a particularly unfriendly rock."
Zhou Mei laughed. "Fair. Okay, I'll let you get back to your studying. But we're still getting dinner tonight, right? You, me, Chen Lili, and possibly Zhang Wei if he emerges from the production lab."
"Definitely. I need a break from Buddhist philosophy before my brain melts."
They confirmed plans and disconnected. Xiaoran returned to his articles, but his concentration had fractured. His mind kept drifting to yesterday's library meeting, to the brief moments when Yuze had actually engaged with ideas rather than hiding behind cold efficiency.
There had been something almost alive in Yuze's expression when discussing music theory, a spark of genuine passion that transformed his face from coldly handsome to something more compelling. For those few minutes, Xiaoran had glimpsed the person underneath the armor—someone who cared deeply about his art, who found meaning in the spaces between notes, who understood beauty in ways most people couldn't articulate.
Then the walls had slammed back up and Yuze had retreated into his fortress of scheduled meetings and optimized productivity.
Xiaoran shook his head, annoyed with himself. Why was he spending mental energy trying to figure out Lin Yuze? The guy had made it abundantly clear he had no interest in anything beyond professional collaboration. After this project ended, they'd go back to being distant classmates who occasionally occupied the same lecture hall.
His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *This is Zhao Jintao. I got your new number from your sister's social media. We need to talk about how you've been avoiding me. I just want to clear the air about what happened between us.*
Xiaoran's stomach dropped. He'd blocked Jintao on everything—how had he gotten this number? And which sister had inadvertently leaked information? He immediately forwarded the message to Zhou Mei with the caption: *He found my number. What do I do?*
Her response was instantaneous: *Don't respond. Block this number too. I'm calling you.*
Seconds later, his phone rang. "Okay," Zhou Mei said, her voice tight with anger. "First, block that number right now. Second, we need to figure out how he got it and close that security hole. Third, I'm officially worried about this escalating. Has he tried to contact you any other way?"
"Not since Thursday at the café." Xiaoran blocked the number while talking, his hands shaking slightly. "I thought he'd give up after we made it clear I wasn't interested in talking to him."
"Some people don't understand boundaries. Especially entitled Alphas who think persistence equals romance." Zhou Mei's tone was grim. "I'm checking your sisters' social media now. Does your family know about your ex being problematic?"
"They know we broke up. They don't know why or how bad it got." Xiaoran sank onto his bed, suddenly exhausted. "I didn't want to worry them. My sisters would probably try to hunt him down, and that would just make everything worse."
"Or it would make him back off," Zhou Mei countered. "Look, I found the leak. Your second sister posted a birthday message on her public account with a photo that has your phone number visible on a gift tag in the background. She probably didn't even notice—it's barely readable unless you zoom in. But if someone was looking specifically for it..."
"Fuck." Xiaoran ran a hand through his hair. "What do I do? I can't change my number—it's registered with the university, my professors, the theater department. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare."
"You don't change it. You document everything. Screenshot that message, save it with a timestamp. If he contacts you again, you'll have evidence of sustained harassment despite clear rejection." Zhou Mei's voice softened slightly. "I know you don't want to make this a big thing, but Xiaoran, this is already a thing. Better to be prepared."
They talked for another twenty minutes, Zhou Mei walking him through security measures and documentation procedures with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly researched this scenario. By the time they hung up, Xiaoran had a folder of screenshots, a plan for information security, and instructions to immediately contact Zhou Mei or campus security if Jintao appeared again.
But he also had a gnawing anxiety that hadn't been there before. The café encounter had been unpleasant but finite. This—this felt like surveillance, like no amount of blocking or boundary-setting would actually stop Jintao from finding ways to intrude on his life.
Xiaoran tried to return to his essay, but the words blurred together. His suppressant medication was on his desk—the daily pill he took religiously, more for psychological safety than physical necessity. He picked up the bottle, reading the label for probably the hundredth time.
*Omega suppressant. Regulates heat cycles, minimizes scent production, reduces biological vulnerability. Take one pill daily.*
Most Omegas took suppressants casually, viewing them as convenient rather than essential. For Xiaoran, they'd become a security blanket. After Jintao's attempted forced marking, the idea of going through heat—being biologically vulnerable, producing the scent that made Alphas react unpredictably—terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
He took his evening dose and tried to shake off the anxiety. Jintao was just a bad memory. A persistent one, unfortunately, but ultimately powerless. Xiaoran was safe here, surrounded by friends, protected by campus security, in control of his own biology through medication and careful management.
Everything was fine.
His phone buzzed again and his heart jumped, but it was just Chen Lili in their group chat: *Dinner at 6? The place near east gate with the amazing mapo tofu?*
The group chat exploded with enthusiastic agreement. Xiaoran felt some of his tension ease. This was real—friends, plans, normal university life. He wouldn't let Jintao's shadow darken everything he was building here.
Dinner was exactly what he needed—loud, chaotic, full of laughter and terrible jokes and academic complaints. Zhang Wei had finally emerged from the production lab and regaled them with stories of a disastrous recording session where everything that could go wrong did.
"The vocalist showed up an hour late, then couldn't hit the high notes because she'd eaten spicy food for lunch, then the software crashed and we lost two hours of takes," Zhang Wei said, gesturing dramatically with his chopsticks. "I'm convinced the universe is personally opposed to me finishing this project."
"The universe is opposed to all art majors finishing anything on time," Fang Ling said philosophically. "It's just how creative fields work. Chaos is the natural state of being."
"That's both comforting and deeply depressing," Xiaoran observed, stealing a piece of Zhou Mei's kung pao chicken.
"Hey! Order your own if you want chicken."
"But stealing is more fun."
They argued playfully while Chen Lili updated them on her Art History project progress. Her dance partner had turned out to be creative and enthusiastic, already planning an elaborate presentation involving live performance and visual projections.
"Meanwhile, my partner treats our collaboration like a hostile takeover negotiation," Xiaoran said. "Efficient but soulless."
"Has ice prince shown any signs of human emotion yet?" Zhou Mei asked. "Any cracks in the armor?"
"Maybe? For like three minutes when we were discussing music theory, he seemed almost passionate. Then he remembered he was allergic to feelings and shut down completely."
"Give it time," Chen Lili suggested. "Some people just take longer to warm up. And music composition students are notoriously intense about their work. They live in their own heads."
"Lin Yuze lives in a fortress in his own head," Zhang Wei corrected. "With armed guards and a moat. I've seen him at department events—he shows up exactly on time, listens to the required performances, then leaves immediately. Zero socializing. Zero small talk. Just pure professional obligation and nothing more."
"That's so sad," Fang Ling said. "What's the point of being talented if you're too isolated to enjoy it with other people?"
"Some people don't need other people," Xiaoran said, then realized he sounded defensive. "I mean, maybe he's just an introvert who recharges alone. Not everyone needs constant social stimulation."
"There's being an introvert and there's being a hermit," Zhou Mei countered. "Lin Yuze is definitely the latter. I asked around—apparently he hasn't been to a single party, doesn't hang out with classmates, and his only friend is his piano. It's not sustainable."
"Maybe he's happy that way."
"Or maybe he's miserable and doesn't know there's an alternative." Zhou Mei gave Xiaoran a significant look. "You could be good for him. Force him to experience human connection against his will."
"I'm not forcing anything on anyone. We're partners for two weeks, then we go back to our separate lives. That's it."
But as dinner continued and conversation shifted to other topics, Xiaoran found his mind drifting back to Yuze—to that brief moment of passion when discussing music, to the way he'd stood in the rain looking almost lost, to the question Zhou Mei had raised: was Yuze happy in his fortress of solitude, or just too defended to admit he was lonely?
Not Xiaoran's problem. Not his responsibility. He had enough to deal with between his coursework, his training, and his persistent ex-boyfriend who didn't understand what "leave me alone" meant.
After dinner, the group split up—Zhou Mei to evening rehearsal, Chen Lili and Fang Ling to the library, Zhang Wei back to his production lab. Xiaoran walked back to his dorm alone, enjoying the cool evening air and the relative quiet of campus at this hour.
He was halfway across the quad when he caught a scent that made his steps falter—cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Familiar. Too familiar.
Xiaoran turned and spotted Zhao Jintao leaning against a tree about twenty meters away, phone out, apparently scrolling through something but positioned with clear line of sight to the path Xiaoran was walking. Their eyes met. Jintao smiled and started walking toward him.
Every instinct screamed at Xiaoran to run. Instead, he pulled out his phone and called Zhou Mei on speaker.
"Change your mind about rehearsal?" Zhou Mei answered.
"I'm in the middle of the quad near the sciences building," Xiaoran said clearly, keeping his voice steady. "Jintao is here and approaching me. I'm walking toward the dorm now but I want someone to know where I am."
Zhou Mei's response was immediate and fierce. "Stay on the line. I'm five minutes away. Keep walking, don't engage."
"Xiaoran, wait!" Jintao called out, jogging to catch up. "I just want to talk for a minute. Can't we be mature about this?"
"I have nothing to say to you," Xiaoran said, not stopping, keeping his pace steady toward the dorm. "I've asked you to leave me alone. This is harassment."
"Harassment? I'm just trying to apologize for how things ended between us. Can't you give me five minutes?" Jintao fell into step beside him, close enough that Xiaoran could smell his cologne. "We have history, Xiaoran. That means something."
"Our history is exactly why I don't want to talk to you." Xiaoran's hand tightened on his phone. "Zhou Mei, are you there?"
"Right here," Zhou Mei's voice came through, strong and reassuring. "Two minutes away."
"Who are you talking to?" Jintao's smile faded, his tone sharpening. "You really need a babysitter just to have a conversation with me?"
"I need witnesses because you don't respect boundaries," Xiaoran said, finally stopping and turning to face him. Other students were around—not close enough to hear their conversation, but present. Safe. "I broke up with you four months ago. I've blocked you on every platform. I've explicitly told you I don't want contact. What part of that is unclear?"
"The part where you're acting like I'm some kind of monster." Jintao stepped closer, his Alpha presence pressing against Xiaoran in a way that used to feel protective but now just felt threatening. "We had something good. One bad night doesn't erase that."
"One bad night where you tried to mark me without consent," Xiaoran said, his voice low but steady despite the fear making his hands shake. "That's not a misunderstanding. That's assault."
"I was caught up in the moment. You were in heat, I was in rut—biology is complicated. I apologized." Jintao's expression hardened. "But instead of accepting my apology like a reasonable person, you ran away and blocked me everywhere like a child."
"I'm not interested in your apologies." Xiaoran could see Zhou Mei approaching at a near-run, along with Zhang Wei who must have come with her. "I'm not interested in rehashing this. I'm not interested in any contact with you ever again. Is that clear enough?"
"You don't mean that," Jintao said, reaching for Xiaoran's arm.
Before he could make contact, Zhang Wei was between them, his considerable height and build suddenly very relevant. "She said she's not interested. Back off."
"This is a private conversation—"
"Nothing is private when it involves someone repeatedly being told to leave someone else alone," Zhou Mei snapped, arriving breathless. "Xiaoran, let's go. Now."
They formed a protective cluster around Xiaoran and started walking. Jintao called after them, something about overreaction and dramatics, but his voice faded as they put distance between them.
"Are you okay?" Zhou Mei asked once they were safely inside Xiaoran's dorm building.
"I'm fine. Just..." Xiaoran leaned against the wall, adrenaline crash making his legs shaky. "How did he know where I'd be? Is he watching me? Following my schedule?"
"Probably stalking your social media even though you blocked him," Zhang Wei said grimly. "If you tagged your location at dinner, or if one of us did, he could have figured out your route back to the dorms."
"This is escalating," Zhou Mei said. "Xiaoran, you need to report this to campus security. Tonight. Not tomorrow, not next week. Tonight."
"And say what? That my ex-boyfriend tried to talk to me in a public space? He didn't technically threaten me or do anything illegal."
"He ignored your explicit rejection of contact. That's the beginning of a pattern. Security needs to know so there's documentation if this continues." Zhou Mei pulled out her phone. "I'm calling them right now. They can send someone to take a statement."
The next hour was a blur of official procedures—a security officer arriving to take Xiaoran's statement, filling out forms, providing screenshots of blocked accounts and previous contact attempts. The officer was professional and sympathetic, explaining that while they couldn't issue a formal restraining order based on one incident, they could add Jintao's name and photo to a watch list and increase patrols in areas Xiaoran frequented.
"If he makes contact again—any contact, whether threatening or not—you call us immediately," the officer instructed. "We'll document everything and can escalate to formal legal action if the pattern continues. In the meantime, vary your routes and routines, don't walk alone after dark if possible, and trust your instincts. If something feels off, call us."
By the time Zhou Mei and Zhang Wei finally left, it was past 11 PM. Xiaoran sat on his bed, emotionally exhausted, his carefully constructed sense of safety thoroughly shaken.
Wei Chen, who'd been diplomatically absent during the security interview, returned from the bathroom. "Everything okay? I saw security in the building."
"Ex-boyfriend trouble. Nothing dangerous, just annoying." Xiaoran didn't have energy for the full explanation. "I'm fine."
Wei Chen nodded, accepting the deflection. "Well, if you need anything—like, I don't know, someone to check if anyone suspicious is hanging around—let me know. I'm not intimidating like Zhang Wei but I'm decent backup."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
Xiaoran got ready for bed mechanically, his mind replaying the quad encounter. Jintao's words kept echoing: "You were in heat, I was in rut—biology is complicated."
That was the insidious part, wasn't it? The way biology could be weaponized, turned into an excuse for behavior that was inexcusable. Heat and rut created urges, yes, but they didn't eliminate choice. Didn't erase consent. Didn't transform assault into "complicated biology."
He took his suppressant medication, grateful once again for the control it provided. As long as he stayed on suppressants, as long as he managed his cycles carefully, he'd never be in that position again—vulnerable, at the mercy of biology, unable to defend himself properly.
His phone buzzed. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it might be another message from Jintao. But it was Lin Yuze: *Forwarding additional source on Tang dynasty court music. Relevant to pages 4-7 of your essay draft. See attached PDF.*
The message was characteristically terse and purely academic. But somehow, after the chaos of the evening, Yuze's cold efficiency felt almost comforting. Here was someone who existed entirely in the realm of ideas and work, who wouldn't bring emotional drama or boundary violations or complicated history into their interactions.
*Thanks*, Xiaoran typed back. *I'll review it before Wednesday.*
No response. Of course. Yuze had delivered information, job complete, no further communication necessary.
Xiaoran opened the PDF—a dense academic article on musical notation systems in Tang dynasty court music. Dry, scholarly, requiring significant concentration to parse. Perfect distraction from spiraling anxiety.
He read until his eyes burned, until the Chinese characters started blurring together, until his brain was too full of historical analysis to hold space for fear. Only then did he finally turn off his light and try to sleep.
His dreams were fragmented and uneasy—concert halls and practice rooms, the scent of magnolia mixing with cigarette smoke, piano music playing somewhere he couldn't reach, hands reaching for his throat and being unable to move or scream or—
Xiaoran woke with a gasp, heart pounding, sheets tangled around his legs. 3:47 AM according to his phone. He lay in the dark, waiting for his breathing to steady, telling himself it was just dreams, just echoes of old trauma mixing with new stress.
He was safe. The door was locked. Jintao was documented with campus security. His friends were looking out for him. Everything was under control.
He repeated it until sleep finally came again, dreamless this time, and morning arrived with the promise of routine and classes and the comforting structure of scheduled obligations.
Monday morning's Acting Fundamentals class was physically demanding enough to push anxiety to the background. By afternoon's Art History lecture, Xiaoran felt almost normal again—just another student taking notes, thinking about essays, planning projects.
Lin Yuze sat in his usual spot three rows back, as always. But today when Xiaoran glanced in that direction, their eyes met for just a second. Yuze's expression remained neutral, but he gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment.
Professional courtesy, nothing more. But after the chaos of the weekend, even that minimal recognition felt oddly grounding.
Two more days until their Wednesday meeting. Xiaoran would finish reviewing Yuze's sources, strengthen his essay arguments, prepare for productive collaboration with his cold, efficient partner who existed safely in the realm of academic work and had probably never experienced personal drama in his entire carefully controlled life.
It wasn't friendship. It wasn't even particularly warm. But it was predictable, structured, safe.
And right now, safe sounded perfect.