Shen Yuan had never feared heats.

That was the luxury of being a Shen.

Money insulated him from most of the ugly parts of omega life—politics, pressure, desperation. The family doctors rotated without complaint, the suppressants were top-grade and tailored to his body, and if he ever so much as hinted at discomfort, there were hands ready to help, voices ready to soothe. His family volunteered eagerly, almost aggressively, to sit with him through every cycle.

But Shen Yuan hated fuss.

So he waved them off, smiled, promised he was fine, and barricaded himself in his apartment with cooling patches, a blanket, and whatever terrible streaming service movie autoplayed next.

He was fine. Truly.

His head was hot and light, thoughts swimming in syrup, body loose in that strange, boneless way suppressants always left him. He lay curled on the couch, blanket half-draped over his shoulders, half-pooling onto the floor, eyes unfocused on a movie so bad it barely qualified as plot. At some point—somewhere between a poorly timed explosion and a dramatic monologue—he was pretty sure he texted someone.

Who? No idea.

It didn’t matter.

The doorbell rang.

Shen Yuan groaned, peeling himself off the couch with all the dignity of a man melting off furniture. Food, he thought vaguely. Right. He’d ordered food. Probably. He dragged himself upright, the blanket slipping off the couch and draping over his shoulders instead. It trailed behind him as he shuffled down the hallway, bare feet cold against the floor, head swimming pleasantly and uncomfortably all at once. The world felt soft around the edges.

He unlocked the door without checking the camera.

When he opened it, it was not a delivery driver.

Liu Qingge stood in the doorway, impossibly solid, as if he had been carved there and forgotten. His face was flushed—not the controlled, intimidating flush of exertion, but something rawer. His ears were red. His jaw was set so tightly it looked like it hurt. In his hands, held with rigid care, was a neatly packed lunch box. Steam curled faintly from the edges.

Soup.

Shen Yuan blinked, slow and unguarded.

The alpha scent hit him a heartbeat later—restrained to the point of pain, pressed down with sheer discipline, but unmistakable. Protective. Concerned. Edged with something dangerously close to panic. It settled over Shen Yuan like a weight and an anchor all at once, making his already overheated body feel even heavier.

Liu Qingge did not step forward. Did not cross the threshold. He stood perfectly still, as if afraid that one wrong move might fracture something delicate.

He cleared his throat once. Then again.

“I—” His voice came out rougher than usual. He swallowed. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

The blanket slipped further down Shen Yuan’s shoulders, forgotten. His eyes were unfocused but bright, cheeks flushed from heat and suppressant and feverish warmth. He swayed slightly on his feet, not even realizing it.

Liu Qingge noticed.

His grip tightened on the lunch box.

“I brought soup,” he said, stiff, formal, as though reciting something he had practiced. “If… if you haven’t eaten.”