13.
One night, after a storm broke out with thunder and lightning, I was jolted awake by a loud clap. I heard a dull thud from the next room.
I rushed over and found him sitting on the floor, face deathly pale, breathing hard—like he'd just escaped a nightmare.
"Ge?" I crouched down and gently held his wrist.
His fingers were ice-cold and trembling slightly. His eyes were vacant, still trapped in whatever horror had haunted him.
I hesitated, then reached out and pulled him into my arms.
He stiffened for a second, but in the end, he didn't push me away.
"Had a nightmare?" I asked softly.
He was quiet for a long time before he finally gave a faint "Mm."
I ruffled his hair. "Want me to stay with you?"
He looked up at me, gaze complicated, as if torn.
In the end, he nodded.
That night, I lay beside him, listening to the rain outside and the sound of his breathing slowly steadying.
For the first time, I felt—
Maybe the distance between us wasn't so far anymore.
14.
After that stormy night, I spent the next few days putting on a poor act of a worried younger brother who feared his gege would have nightmares again. He eventually gave in and allowed me to stay over occasionally.
At first, we kept our distance, each lying on one side of the bed, like strangers carefully observing boundaries.
Until one night, I was awakened by a faint noise—his breathing was heavy, body curled up tightly, forehead pressed to his knees, fists clenching the sheets.
"Ge?" I sat up and reached out to touch his shoulder.
He flinched hard. When he looked up, his eyes were misted over, as if he'd just woken from another nightmare.
"…Did I wake you?" His voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like him.
I didn't answer. I just pressed my palm to his forehead—it was burning hot.
"You've got a fever."
He shook his head and tried to brush my hand away. "It's nothing. I'll be fine after some sleep."
I ignored him. Got up, went to the bathroom, and came back with a damp towel.
He leaned back against the headboard, eyes shut, lashes trembling slightly as if he was trying to endure the discomfort.
I sat beside him and gently wiped the cold sweat off his forehead. He opened his eyes and stared at me blankly, as if surprised I would do this.
"You don't have to—" he murmured.
"Shut up," I cut him off, folding the towel and placing it on his forehead. "Lie down."
He was silent for a while, then finally slipped back under the covers.
I didn't move from the edge of the bed, fingers unconsciously brushing through his dark hair spread on the pillow.
"…You're not sleeping?" he asked.
"Waiting for your fever to go down."
He glanced at me and said nothing. After a while, he shifted closer to the edge and mumbled, "…Get up here, don't just sit."
I was stunned for a second, then climbed back in.
This time, we were much closer.
In the middle of the night, I vaguely felt someone leaning toward me—his body was still warm, forehead resting against my shoulder, his breath lightly brushing my neck.
I tensed up for a moment, but didn't move. I let him stay.
His fever eventually subsided. But the distance between us began to melt.
He started to allow my occasional touch—ruffling his hair, squeezing the back of his neck, even leaning over his shoulder while he read, resting my chin there to bother him on purpose.
"Pei Chengyao." He frowned and nudged me with his elbow. "You're seriously annoying."
I dodged his elbow with a grin, then snatched his book. "You've read this one like ten times. Time for a new one."
He glared at me and reached to grab it back. I raised it above my head, just out of his reach.
He huffed in frustration and lunged at me, knocking straight into my arms—and in that moment, we both froze.
His breath brushed my face, lashes close enough to count.
I stared at his lips and suddenly had the urge to bite them.
He reacted first, jerking back with the tips of his ears bright red. "…Give me the book."
I shoved the book into his hands, heart pounding out of control.
15.
That evening, Father suddenly decided to host a rare family dinner and even invited Mother over.
We dined on the terrace. The summer night was hot and stifling, even the cicadas' chirping sounded exhausted.
My brother sat across from me, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing lean, defined arms. As a Beta, his frame was much slimmer than an Alpha's, but the veins winding across the back of his hands carried a quiet strength.
"Chengran," Father said out of nowhere. "You'll handle Friday's meeting with the Zhao family project."
My brother's steak knife paused mid-cut. He looked up. "President Zhao specifically asked for Chengyao."
"Chengyao is going to Singapore," Father said lightly after sipping his wine. "You'll take Zhao to a round of golf and close the deal."
I looked up sharply. "What Singapore trip?"
Father feigned realization. "Ah, I forgot to tell you. Tomorrow morning's flight. Three months at the branch office. There are matters that need you there."
The porcelain spoon clinked against the bowl. My brother lowered his gaze, lashes casting faint shadows under the light. He looked indifferent to the conversation—but I noticed his fingertips were trembling.
"I was the one who secured that project," I said, eyes fixed on his lowered lids. "Why replace me?"
Father tapped his wine glass against the table. "Are you questioning my decision?"
"I just want to know—"
"Because it's for a marriage alliance," my brother interrupted, voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "Miss Zhao specifically asked not to see an Alpha. Says their pheromones smell awful." He looked up, a mocking smile on his lips. "A Beta is perfect. Safe. Harmless. Right, Father?"
Father laughed heartily and ruffled my brother's hair like rewarding a dog for fetching. "Well said! Our Chengran may be a Beta, but he's no less capable than any Alpha. Even better-looking than most Omegas."
I saw my brother try to pull away, shoulders twitching faintly before he forced himself still, face unreadable.
He picked up his water glass, took a sip. A faint lip mark remained on the rim.
"I'm not going to Singapore." I threw my napkin on the table.
Father's eyes turned cold. "It's not up to you."
"Unless you tell me the real reason." I stared him down. "There is no Miss Zhao."
My brother's fork scraped the plate, screeching.
Father slowly set down his wine and turned to my brother. "You may leave the table."
"No need," I said first, standing. "I'll go."
As I passed behind my brother, I caught a whiff of cedar—my pheromones. Somehow, they'd seeped into his clothes.
That realization made my throat tighten, like something was lodged in my chest.
He turned back to glance at me.
In the flickering candlelight, I saw Mother gripping her utensils tightly, her fingers trembling.