THE LIE OF DISTANCE
Li Weiyan learned very quickly that Shanghai did not allow distance.
The city pressed inward—from the streets that never quite emptied, from the buildings that leaned too close to one another, from the people who moved with purpose sharp enough to cut. There was no West Lake here, no mist that softened outlines. Everything was concrete and glass and heat trapped between bodies.
And everywhere he went, he felt watched.
Not overtly. Not in a way he could accuse. But the sensation followed him like a second shadow—measured, deliberate, patient.
He hated that his body responded to it.
The third day after the museum transfer, his suppressants failed completely.
It happened in the least dramatic way possible.
He was standing in line at a convenience store near his temporary apartment, holding a bottle of water, when a wave of dizziness rolled through him so suddenly his knees buckled. He caught himself against the counter, fingers whitening as he forced his breathing steady.
The scent escaped before he could stop it.
White tea bloomed into the air—soft, clean, unmistakable.
The Alpha behind him froze.
Weiyan felt it instantly: the shift, the attention snapping sharp as a blade. He did not turn around. Turning would make it worse.
"I'm fine," he said quickly, voice tight. "Just—low blood sugar."
The Alpha did not answer.
Weiyan paid and left without waiting for change.
By the time he reached the street, his heart was hammering hard enough to hurt. His skin felt too tight, too aware of itself, as though every nerve had woken at once.
Not now.
His heat was not due for another two weeks.
The thought barely registered before another followed, colder and more frightening:
Something triggered it.
A scent.
An Alpha.
Him.
Zhou Shen knew the moment it happened.
He was in a meeting—mid-sentence, mid-decision—when the air shifted in a way that had nothing to do with ventilation. His instincts surged violently, snapping his attention away from everything else.
His pulse spiked.
The Alpha across the table paused, confused by the sudden tension that had entered the room.
Zhou Shen stood.
"Meeting adjourned," he said flatly.
No one argued.
He left the room, already pulling up his phone.
"Chen," he said the moment the line connected. "Where is he?"
There was no need to clarify.
Chen Mingyu exhaled quietly. "Near Jing'an. Convenience store CCTV flagged a pheromone anomaly five minutes ago."
Zhou Shen's jaw tightened.
"Get the address."
He did not wait for confirmation before moving.
Li Weiyan barely made it back to his apartment.
By the time he locked the door behind him, his hands were shaking badly enough that the key scraped uselessly against metal. He leaned his forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow and panicked.
His scent flooded the small space.
The suppressants were useless now—burning against his skin, overwhelmed, rejected. His body had made a decision without consulting him, dragged into premature heat by a compatibility so violent it bordered on cruelty.
He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest.
"No," he whispered.
Heat was not just arousal. It was vulnerability—chemical honesty stripped of dignity and choice. Omegas in heat were treated like problems to be solved or prizes to be claimed.
And somewhere in Shanghai, the one Alpha his body had chosen above all others existed.
A knock struck the door.
Sharp. Controlled.
Weiyan's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
He knew that knock.
He should not have. He had only heard it once before—measured, precise, unyielding.
"Li Weiyan," Zhou Shen's voice came through the door, low and unmistakable. "Open the door."
Panic flared hot and bright.
"No," Weiyan said hoarsely. "You can't—"
"I can smell you from the hallway," Zhou Shen replied.
The truth of it burned.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
"You're not safe like this," Zhou Shen continued. "And you know it."
Weiyan laughed weakly, bitterness cutting through the haze. "That's rich, coming from you."
Silence fell.
Then, quieter: "I'm not here to take anything from you."
Weiyan pressed his palm to the floor, grounding himself against the sensation threatening to tear him apart.
"You don't get to decide that," he said. "Not just because you're an Alpha."
A pause.
"You're right," Zhou Shen said.
The admission struck harder than any command.
"I don't," he continued. "That's why I'm asking."
Weiyan swallowed.
His body screamed for the Alpha on the other side of the door—for his scent, his presence, his control. The betrayal of it made him nauseous.
"What are you asking?" he whispered.
"Let me in," Zhou Shen said. "So I can help you through this without marking you. Without touching you, if that's what you want."
Weiyan's breath stuttered.
"That's a lie," he said. "You can barely stand it."
A low sound came from the other side of the door—something between a breath and a growl, quickly restrained.
"You're not wrong," Zhou Shen said. "But wanting is not the same as taking."
Weiyan stared at the door.
His instincts clawed at him, desperate, furious, aching.
Finally—slowly—he stood.
When he opened the door, the scent collision was immediate and devastating.
Cedarwood and ink flooded the space, wrapping around him like heat and gravity combined. Zhou Shen stood just outside, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath his skin.
His eyes dropped to Weiyan's throat.
Then, deliberately, he looked away.
"You're burning up," Zhou Shen said, voice rough.
"So are you," Weiyan shot back.
Zhou Shen stepped inside and closed the door behind him with careful finality.
The room felt too small instantly.
"I won't touch you without permission," Zhou Shen said, each word measured. "But I need you to tell me what you need."
Weiyan laughed again, breathless and sharp. "That's cruel."
"Then tell me to leave."
Weiyan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The truth sat heavy and undeniable between them.
"Stay," he whispered.
Zhou Shen's control fractured—just enough to show the cost of it. He moved closer but stopped short, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard.
"Look at me," he said.
Weiyan did.
The want in Zhou Shen's eyes was not gentle. It was feral, restrained only by choice and willpower.
"You don't belong to me," Zhou Shen said. "Not because of scent. Not because of biology."
Weiyan's legs trembled.
"But if you ask," Zhou Shen continued, voice dropping, "I will stay with you through every second of this. And I will leave when you tell me to."
Silence stretched.
Weiyan stepped forward.
Close enough now to feel the heat rolling off him, to inhale the scent that made his body sing and ache and beg.
"Don't leave," he said.
Zhou Shen closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something inside him had changed.
"As you wish," he said.
And the heat claimed them both.