Beicheng International Airport, Terminal 2.
Arrival Hall.

7:10 a.m.

Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, morning fog still lingered over the tarmac. Airport announcements rose and fell, mixing with the rumble of suitcase wheels, tearful farewells, and joyful reunions—forming a vast, chaotic ocean of sound.

Song Xingran stood at the very front of the arrival barrier, both hands gripping the metal rail so tightly her knuckles were white.

She wore an off-white wool coat, with a slim-cut knitted dress underneath—the very dress Shen Muchen had ordered her to wear over the phone. To match it, she had even put on a pair of thin-heeled shoes she rarely wore.

Her heels hurt. Her calves ached.
But she didn’t dare move.

Her gaze was locked like radar on the direction of the automatic doors.

“Flight LH720 from Berlin has landed…”

The moment the announcement sounded, her heart slammed violently against her chest.

He had landed.
He was in this city.

That seven-day stretch of unreality—sustained only by radio waves and imagination—was finally colliding with reality. Nervousness flooded her all at once; her palms were slick with cold sweat.

What was she supposed to say when she saw him?

“Long time no see”?
Or shamelessly call his name the way she had on the phone?

Or… would he really do what he said—take her in the car?

Just thinking about it made her cheeks burn, a familiar weakness spreading at the roots of her thighs.

The automatic doors opened and closed again and again.

Groups of passengers emerged with their luggage—embraces, kisses, noise.

Song Xingran scanned the crowd for that familiar figure.

7:25.
No sign.

7:30.
Still nothing.

Anxiety grew wildly, like weeds. She took out her phone to check the flight status, but her hands were shaking so badly she failed fingerprint unlock twice.

Then—
the crowd suddenly quieted for a brief moment.

It was a strange collective reaction, as if a powerful presence had entered and instinctively lowered the volume of everything around it.

Song Xingran looked up.

Behind the automatic doors, just as they slid open, a tall figure stepped out.

Shen Muchen.

He wore a long black coat, sharply tailored, the hem lifting slightly with his stride. Underneath was the dark-gray turtleneck she knew so well, making his complexion look pale and cold.

He wasn’t pushing a luggage cart—just pulling a silver carry-on with one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket. Sunglasses hid those unfathomable eyes, leaving only his high nose bridge and tightly pressed lips visible.

He walked forward, an assistant beside him reporting rapidly on work matters—but he clearly wasn’t listening.

His head tilted slightly, as if searching.

Across more than ten meters of people.
Across the noise of announcements and voices.

Even behind the sunglasses, Song Xingran felt it.

His gaze had locked onto her.

In that instant, the world around her blurred. All sound dissolved into dull white noise, leaving only the crisp rhythm of his shoes striking the marble floor—each step landing perfectly on the beat of her heart.

Click. Click. Click.

Every step closed the distance that had been “paused” for seven days.

Shen Muchen stopped. He said something to his assistant, who froze briefly, then took his suitcase and tactfully left.

Then Shen Muchen removed his sunglasses.

Those eyes—after seven days apart and a grueling long-haul flight—were bloodshot with fatigue.

But the fire inside them burned fiercer than ever.

Hunger.

The undisguised hunger of a beast spotting its prey.

The look scorched Song Xingran so badly she instinctively hunched her shoulders and tightened her grip on the railing.

Shen Muchen strode toward her.

This time, there was no hesitation, no testing, no “one-millimeter distance.”

Carrying the cold of latitude 52° north and a distinctly male aggression, he swept in like a black storm.

Song Xingran parted her lips, about to call out, “Teacher Shen—”

He had already reached out.

Snap.

No words.

He directly—forcefully, irresistibly—wrapped his hand around hers.

This wasn’t static.
This wasn’t heat radiation.

This was real, skin-to-skin contact.

His palm was large, dry, rough—and scorching hot. His fingers forced their way between hers, prying her hand free from the icy metal rail—

and then—

their fingers interlaced.

In that instant, current exploded through Song Xingran’s entire body, racing wildly along her nerves.

“Ah…” she gasped sharply, knees buckling as she nearly collapsed.

The desire that had been suppressed in the studio, ignited through countless nights, and fermented across seven thousand kilometers finally found a physical outlet.

The sensation was too real—his knuckles pressing against hers, his palm lines rubbing against her palm lines. The seamless fit felt like two puzzle pieces that had always belonged together, finally clicking into place.

Shen Muchen felt her trembling.

He didn’t let go—he tightened his grip until it hurt.

“I’ve got you,” he said hoarsely, looking down at her.

“This time, there’s no net.”

From the Arrival Hall to the Parking Garage

The walk from the terminal to the parking lot was almost a drag—Song Xingran barely keeping up as Shen Muchen pulled her along.

His legs were long, his strides wide, as if he didn’t want to spend a second longer in a place filled with other people’s presence. He never released her hand—instead, he pulled it closer and tucked it into the pocket of his warm coat.

The pocket was warm.

In that narrow space, their hands overlapped. His thumb unconsciously rubbed the back of her hand; each rough brush of callused skin made her heart quiver.

“Shen… Shen Muchen…” she called softly, struggling to keep up. “Slow down…”

He stopped.

He glanced at her heels, brow creasing.

“Who told you to wear these?”

“You did—on the phone… you said I should dress nicely…” she protested quietly, aggrieved.

Seeing her reddened eyes, the violence in his gaze eased slightly.

“Trouble,” he muttered.

But his actions betrayed him. He released her hand and wrapped an arm around her waist instead.

With one sharp pull, he half-lifted her, tucking her against his side, and strode toward a black sedan parked in the VIP area.

Door open.
Her placed into the passenger seat.
Door shut.

All in one breathless sequence.

Shen Muchen circled to the driver’s seat and got in.

The moment the door closed, that familiar, heart-pounding sense of enclosure returned.

But he didn’t start the car.

He turned, unfastened his seatbelt, and leaned toward her.

Song Xingran’s back pressed hard into the seat, breathing fast. “What… what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

He reached out and took her hand again. It was still cold—pale at the fingertips from nerves and the chill.

“So cold?”

He frowned, released one hand, and unbuttoned his coat. Then he took her hand and slid it directly inside.

“Ah!”

Her fingertips touched burning, solid warmth—his waist. Even through the thin turtleneck, she could clearly feel the firm muscle and the astonishing heat radiating from him.

“I’ll warm you up,” he said, voice terrifyingly hoarse.

His palm covered the back of her hand, guiding it slowly downward—along his waist, past taut lines of muscle—

and finally stopping at his lower abdomen.

Beneath her palm, she felt a hard, blazing bulge. Even through the fabric of his trousers, its shape was devastatingly clear.

Her mind detonated.

“Shen… Shen Muchen!” she cried, trying to pull away—but he held her fast.

“Feel it?” he murmured against her ear, hot breath flooding her senses. “It’s been hungry for seven days. It wants to eat you.”

Her hand was forced to remain there, heat scorching through her palm into her chest. Shame, fear, and surging desire tangled together until she whimpered tearfully.

“Please… don’t…”

That sound flipped a switch.

Shen Muchen’s breathing turned heavy, feral. He lifted his head, eyes blood-red, fighting the urge to kiss her senseless and tear her clothes apart.

He leaned in.

Closer.
Closer—

Just as their lips were a millimeter apart—

a sudden beam of light swept across the windshield.

A patrol vehicle passed by, headlights flooding the car, instantly illuminating the intimate darkness inside.

It was like ice water thrown straight over him.

Shen Muchen squeezed his eyes shut, Adam’s apple rolling violently as he released her hand.

No kiss.
No further touch.

He leaned back, both hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, battling the beast inside himself.

“Seatbelt,” he said at last, voice raw. “Fasten it.”

“We’re going home.”

“And we’ll settle this… at home.”

The car shot out of the parking garage like an arrow.

On the Way Back

Shen Muchen drove fast.

Song Xingran curled into the passenger seat, her body still buzzing from the earlier extremity. Her blood was burning—but with each jolt of the road, sharp cramps suddenly stabbed through her lower abdomen.

The pain came with an unsettling warmth, slowly eroding her sanity.

The moment the car stopped in the underground garage, Shen Muchen unbuckled, walked around, opened her door, and lifted her straight into his arms.

“Shen… Shen Muchen…” she whispered, pale with pain, fingers weakly clutching his collar.

“Don’t talk,” he said through clenched teeth. “Save your strength—for later.”

Door locked.

Darkness inside the apartment, lit only by the faint glow of the entry sensor.

He pinned her against the wall.

His breath brushed her cheek, his hand urgently sliding under her coat, up along her inner thigh.

“Xingxing…” he gasped at her ear. “Give it to me…”

She went soft in his arms, wanting him desperately.

But—

Just as his fingers were about to reach the final barrier, a surge of heat spilled free.

Her eyes instantly reddened.

“Wait…!” she cried, pushing against his shoulder with her last strength.

He froze, eyes blazing. “Regretting it now? Too late.”

He leaned in again—

“Not that…” she sobbed.

Tears fell freely as she clutched his shirt.

“I want to… I really do… but…”

“But what?” His voice softened slightly.

“My stomach hurts…” she whispered. “I think… my period started…”

The air went still.

“…Your cycle?” he asked grimly.

She cried harder, soaking his shirt. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… it came early…”

He closed his eyes, veins throbbing, desire screaming—

and then sighed, long and helpless.

“Song Xingran… you are my nemesis.”

He turned on the lights, helped her gently, brought ginger tea, and cared for her with reluctant tenderness.

Later, as he bit her swollen lip in punishment—not desire—he warned softly:

“I’ll collect this debt later. With interest.”

She nodded obediently, cheeks flushed.

“Go sleep. Guest room.”

“And you?”

“Cold shower,” he said without looking back. “Don’t worry about me.”

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