The faculty apartment district of Beijing University lay hidden behind a dense grove of ginkgo trees. Compared to the boisterous teaching areas, it was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop.
On Wednesday afternoon, sunlight filtered through the golden leaves, scattering fragmented light across the doorplate of Silas Shen's apartment. Inside, Silas stood in the bathroom, meticulously adjusting his collar in the mirror. Since returning to Beijing, his high-collared shirts seemed welded to his body; no matter how dry or hot the weather, the buttons remained fastened to the very top, sealed as tight as a silent "Keep Out" sign.
Ding-dong—
The doorbell rang, short and brisk, carrying the distinctively bold energy of the person outside.
Silas's fingers paused at his collar for half a second before dropping back to his side as if nothing had happened. He walked over and opened the door.
Outside, Hunter Huo stood with one hand shoved in the pocket of his black hoodie, his messy blonde hair exceptionally bright under the voice-activated hallway lights. His injured left hand hung somewhat comically in mid-air, the hoodie sleeve loose around it. Upon seeing Silas, those eyes—usually filled with a rebellious edge—immediately curved into two crescent moons.
"Professor, I've come to 'hand over' my arm." Hunter's tone was light and cheerful, as familiar as if he were returning to his own home.
"Come in." Silas stepped aside, his voice showing no ripples of emotion.
This was the first time Hunter had stepped into Silas's private territory. The apartment's decor was identical to Silas himself: minimalist gray tones, spotless white oak furniture, and an air filled with a cool, woody fragrance. But if one inhaled deeply, they could still catch an incredibly faint, lingering trace of oranges that only the two of them would understand.
Silas pulled the medical kit from the cabinet and placed it on the coffee table, pointing to the sofa. "Sit down. Don't move around."
Hunter sat obediently, his right hand subtly shifting toward the spot Silas had just occupied, soaking in the scent that made him feel at ease.
Silas sat down beside him, close enough that Hunter could see the shadow cast by Silas's eyelashes behind his lenses. Bowing his head, Silas used his slender fingers to precisely flick open the hoodie's sleeve, beginning to unwrap the thin layers of gauze one by one.
His movements were incredibly light, as if he were afraid of startling a fragile creature.
As the gauze fell away, the long, narrow wound—now covered in a thin, dark red scab—was revealed. Under the cool-toned lights, the wound looked somewhat savage, yet it had become a sort of heroic medal.
Silas stared at the wound, his gaze darkening. He pulled out a cotton swab soaked in iodine, his fingertips inadvertently brushing across Hunter's warm skin.
In that instant, the air felt as though it had been electrified.
Hunter felt a numbing current surge from the point of contact, racing up his spine before exploding at the crown of his head. He looked down and caught sight of Silas's lowered lashes—thick, long, and trembling slightly in the play of light and shadow, radiating a sort of repressed, monastic tenderness.
"Professor," Hunter spoke suddenly, his voice carrying a hint of post-exercise raspiness.
Silas didn't stop his movements, only letting out a hum of acknowledgment. "Hmm?"
"Are you this good to all your injured students?" Hunter stared at him, his eyes filled with a blatant, almost rascally probe. "Is it true that as long as someone takes a knife for you in an alleyway, they can enter this apartment and have Professor Shen dress their wounds personally?"
Silas's fingers gave a violent jerk. The iodine swab traced a crooked, dark streak across the edge of the wound.
He didn't answer.
The room fell into a suffocating silence, save for the tick-tock of the wall clock. Silas's lips were pressed into a tight line, turning pale from the force of the tension.
He knew exactly what Hunter was asking. This brat was constantly trying to drag the blood-stained, shadow-dwelling ambiguity out into the light for judgment.
"Straighten your arm," Silas finally spoke, his voice several degrees colder than before.
He set down the swab and pulled out a fresh roll of gauze. As he wrapped the first layer, he intentionally applied more force, almost roughly tightening the bandage against Hunter's muscle.
"Hiss—!"
Hunter sucked in a sharp breath of cold air, his entire shoulder flinching. But instead of calling for him to stop, the corners of his mouth tilted upward even further.
He watched Silas's hands—hands that had lost their usual composure. He watched the man's profile, which was cold yet clearly tinged with a flicker of faint anger. A bizarre sense of satisfaction welled up in Hunter's heart.
Because Silas hadn't denied it.
No denial was the only—and most special—answer.
"Gentle, Professor. This is property you marked personally," Hunter whispered, his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear.
"Hunter Huo!" Silas snapped his head up, sparks of embarrassment and fury dancing in his eyes. "If you utter one more word of nonsense, I will have Dr. Liu from the campus clinic take over."
"Don't. My mistake." Hunter knew when to retreat, immediately putting on a pitiful expression. He even grew bold enough to use his right hand to hook the edge of Silas's shirt. "But I was telling the truth... if this wound doesn't heal for a month, does that mean I can keep coming here?"
Silas sniped the gauze with a pair of scissors and tied a swift, neat knot. He stood up, looking down at the reckless youth.
"If you get injured again, I will recommend you take a leave of absence to recover at home."
Silas turned away to pack the medical kit, his back to Hunter as he issued a stiff dismissal. "The dressing is done. You can go now." He didn't even turn back to look.
Hunter stood up and leisurely adjusted his sleeve. He walked to the door, hand resting on the handle, then suddenly turned back to flash a brilliant smile at that cold, solitary silhouette.
"See you Friday, Professor. Remember... prepare some 'painkilling candy' for me next time."
The door clicked shut softly.
Silas stood in the center of the living room, staring at the spot on the sofa where Hunter had just sat. There was still a slight depression there, and the scent of oranges hadn't dissipated; in fact, it seemed to be growing stronger.
He walked to the window and pushed it open, letting the late autumn wind rush in to blow away the restless heat in the room.
But what he couldn't push out of his mind was Hunter's aggressive gaze, and that question—"Are you this good to all your injured students?"
Silas closed his eyes in a moment of self-mockery.
As it turned out, even the most rigorous logic was destined to lose when faced with something called "favoritism."