After An Alpha Discovered I Have Pheromone Deficiency Syndrome - Chapter 27

Chapter 27: Age Difference — Let’s Read It Together

Late at night, Hua Che lay on his side in an unfamiliar bed, quietly watching the man seated beside him.

The room was dark except for the warm glow of a single bedside lamp, which lit just a small corner of the space.

These days, Professor Pei had quietly taken over his entire nighttime routine.

No screens an hour and a half before bed. A warm foot soak an hour before sleep. And a bowl of jujube soup—personally made by Pei Yu.

He hadn’t taken any sleeping pills, but somehow his body felt like someone had pressed pause. Drowsiness quietly crept in, stirred by the calm atmosphere.

Pei Yu sat nearby, wearing thin-rimmed glasses, flipping through a heavy book. The soft rustle of turning pages created a soothing rhythm, like comforting background noise.

Curious, Hua Che leaned over to take a look. The book was thick—like a brick—and filled with unfamiliar text.

It wasn’t Chinese, nor the writing of Sakurazuru. To the little fox, it may as well have been an alien language.

“What kind of book is that?” Hua Che asked, his ears twitching slightly.

“It’s a monograph on cryptotherapy,” Pei Yu replied, turning another page and jotting down a line of text.

“There’s still debate over whether sexual invisibility qualifies as a psychiatric condition. It’s not a specialty of mine, but a few colleagues in the institute are focusing on it. It’s often linked to disorders like OCD, anxiety, or bipolar episodes…”

Before he could finish, Hua Che let out a big yawn.

Pei Yu paused, closed the book with a smile, and asked, “Sleepy?”

“There’s no lullaby more effective than a college lecture,” Hua Che mumbled, his words slurring into drowsiness.

“Then go ahead and sleep.”

Pei Yu turned off the lamp and lay down next to him.

The blackout curtains sealed the room in total darkness. Not even Hua Che’s enhanced fox-like vision could make out a thing.

He lay there, wrapped in the quilt, eyes wide open, unable to see anything. The sleepiness lingered like a mist, but without warmth beside him, it wasn’t quite enough.

A growing emptiness stirred in his chest. He longed to be held—so strongly, his skin began to ache with the feeling.

“You said you’d hold me…”

He turned on his side, hugging his bushy tail to his chest like a stuffed animal, curling up into a ball.

Muttering softly, he pouted, “Liar.”

He heard a faint rustle—and then he was pulled into a warm embrace.

The warmth of skin pressed through soft fabric, soothing the ache of touch-starvation. It grounded him instantly.

With a contented sigh, Hua Che burrowed into the crook of Pei Yu’s neck and settled in.

“Little one, your ears keep twitching—they’re tickling my face.”

Pei Yu rested his chin gently atop Hua Che’s head and placed a hand over the restless ears.

He pulled Hua Che closer and rubbed his back in a slow, calming rhythm.

The plush fox tail, thick and soft, was tucked between them like a fluffy pillow.

“I can’t help it,” Hua Che replied, his voice small and sleepy, as soft as a spoiled kitten in the arms of someone it trusted.

Pei Yu just chuckled and gave his ears another gentle stroke. “Go to sleep.”

“Will you be okay like this? Won’t your arms go numb?” Hua Che asked, a little hesitant.

“I’m fine. My arm is under your neck—it won’t get numb.”

Pei Yu tucked the quilt around them and added, “You’re soft and warm. It’s like holding a big fluffy plushie.”

“Sleep well, and behave.”

Hua Che nodded, his eyelids growing heavier.

He never realized how comforting a steady human breath and heartbeat could be—or how soothing warmth could lull him into peace.

Being held like this—without any barriers, just warmth and quiet—made him feel safe.

For the first time, he fell into a deep sleep without medication. No dreams. No jolts awake. Just darkness, comfort, and rest.

He slept straight through until dawn.

When he woke, sunlight streamed in through the curtains. The spot beside him was empty—and cold.

But Hua Che felt unusually well-rested, both body and mind.

Overwhelmed with joy, the little fox pounced toward the pillow Pei Yu had used, his tail wagging so vigorously that the long, fluffy fur seemed to ripple like a banner.

His thick, bushy tail was hard to move in big swings. It only ever wagged like this when he was truly happy.

“So happy?”

The sudden voice startled Hua Che. His tail froze.

Still holding Pei Yu’s pillow, he turned to see the man leaning casually against the doorframe, watching him.

“I… I just never slept so well before.”

“Did you dream?”

Pei Yu’s tone was calm and clinical—it felt like he’d teleported straight into doctor mode.

“No… I slept straight through.”

“Alright. Get up, wash up, and come eat.”

After breakfast, Pei Yu helped apply moisturizer over Hua Che’s body, just like always.

He’d seen everything already. His hands had touched every inch of Hua Che’s skin.

Yet Hua Che still flushed, unable to shake the embarrassment, even though he kept reminding himself: Professor Pei probably saw his body the same way he viewed anatomical diagrams. No inappropriate thoughts at all.

From the professor’s deep gaze, it was impossible to read anything more.

“Isn’t Professor Pei working today?”

“I can work from anywhere when there are no classes or meetings.”

Pei Yu put on his glasses and returned to reviewing papers. “I’ll stay with you until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll go to the institute.”

“I want to go with you!”

Those wide, gleaming eyes were full of curiosity—impossible to resist.

Pei Yu pushed up his glasses. “I planned to take you anyway. The institute has more advanced instruments. I need your data to complete my research application.”

The house was open to Hua Che—every room.

While Pei Yu worked in his study, Hua Che wandered around quietly, drawn to the wall of books.

Aside from a few library loans, most were Pei Yu’s own collection—dense academic texts far more advanced than the psychiatry books Hua Che had been reading.

“Professor Pei, can I read one of your books?”

Pei Yu looked up from the growing stack of documents and nodded. “Of course. That shelf over there doesn’t have academic stuff—just some novels and comics I bought a long time ago.”

Pei Yu had studied abroad in Yinghe since age 14. That shelf, at last, held books Hua Che could relate to.

Fantasy novels, sprawling epics, collector’s editions of horror and sci-fi classics—most were sealed in plastic, their pages yellowing with time.

To Hua Che, they were legendary titles that had taken the country by storm shortly after he was born.

He picked one up carefully, wiping the dust from the plastic cover.

Glancing at the serious professor lost in paperwork, then down at the flashy anime cover with its bold gold lettering, Hua Che’s heart felt oddly soft.

Pei Yu looked up, sensing the gaze.

“You can unwrap them—go ahead.”

“I’m just surprised to find these kinds of books in your study,” Hua Che admitted.

Pei Yu smiled faintly, his tone casual. “Nobody turns thirty overnight—even me.”

He kept writing, unaffected.

Hua Che didn’t reply. He simply cradled the unopened novel in his arms, a strange feeling blossoming in his chest.

It hit him: the man before him hadn’t always been this calm, mature figure.

He, too, must’ve had a wild and passionate youth—one tempered by time, weathered by life, turned gentle by experience.

Right now, Hua Che was still in that fiery stage. And across their age gap, Pei Yu had reached out his hand—quiet, steady, and warm.

“Professor Pei… I want to read this book.”

“Sure. Scissors are over there.”

Hua Che brought the book to the desk, carefully slicing open the plastic wrap.

He glanced nervously at Pei Yu, who was still busy.

He wanted to ask—but wasn’t sure if it was the right time.

“Something on your mind?”

Pei Yu looked up, his lenses catching the room’s light.

“Are you busy now?”

“No, the grant application can wait.”

Hua Che braced himself, then quietly asked:

“Can we read this together?”

He fidgeted, trying to explain, “I… I’m not super fluent in Yinghe’s script. Some words are tricky, especially in literature. I might misread them…”

Even as he said it, he knew it was a clumsy excuse. He could’ve just used a translator app.

Pei Yu glanced at the cover, then smiled deeper. “Come here.”

Hua Che naturally sat in front of him, pressing back into his chest.

He liked this position—his back protected, wrapped in warmth.

They unwrapped the book together.

Then Hua Che realized—it was written in Chinese.

So that’s what Pei Yu had been smiling at earlier.

Embarrassed beyond words, Hua Che wanted to disappear.

Pei Yu just chuckled, rested his chin on Hua Che’s shoulder, and gently patted his head.

“It’s alright.”

“Wanting to spend time with me—that’s the best reason.”

At first, Hua Che sat stiffly, but after a while, he relaxed into that familiar warmth.

His tail curled over his legs in a fluffy arc.

There was no Alphan scent—just a quiet closeness.

Pei Yu held the thick book open for him, arms encircling him like a gentle cage.

Hua Che tried his best to focus on the text, but the words blurred. He couldn’t concentrate.

Worse, he was aware of Pei Yu reading along behind him. It made him nervous.

He started skipping lines. Losing focus.

Panicking slightly, he glanced back—and met calm, patient eyes.

He’d wanted this moment to feel like magic—to share stories, to bridge their age difference through this book.

But now he felt overwhelmed, frustrated, and unworthy.

Sweat prickled his back. His breathing grew shallow.

Then—Pei Yu covered his eyes with one hand.

Darkness.

Hua Che gasped, like waking from a nightmare, and leaned into his chest.

“Professor Pei…”

“I know this story well. Let me read it to you.”

Without sight, his hearing sharpened.

That deep, gentle voice flowed like warm water, rich and soothing.

“I’m sorry,” Hua Che whispered. “I haven’t read in a long time…”

“You don’t have to apologize. I understand.”

He lifted his hand, and their eyes met.

There was no judgment in Pei Yu’s face—only quiet understanding.

“I’m a psychiatrist,” he said. “I know how common this is.”

He closed the book, leaned back, and pulled the little fox fully into his embrace.

“So don’t worry. I’ll tell the story.”

Hua Che relaxed at last, head resting against his chest.

For once, the words “psychiatry professor” didn’t sound cold or clinical—they carried an unexpected warmth.

Hua Che scratched the fluffy fur of his tail, the sensation grounding him.

“Professor Pei, do you even remember the story? This book’s almost as old as I am…”

Pei Yu paused. Then pinched Hua Che’s waist playfully—his subtle revenge.

Hua Che squeaked and laughed, squirming at the ticklish touch.

He was breathless from giggling, curled up like a ball in Pei Yu’s lap.

The nervous tension of earlier was gone. The whole room echoed with the little fox’s laughter.

“Don’t—don’t tickle! It’s too much!”

Pei Yu finally relented, pulling the fox back into his arms.

He smiled down at him for a long moment, thoughtful and fond.

Too sensitive, he thought.

Hua Che, still recovering from laughter, simply wrapped his arms around Pei Yu’s waist.

His tail drooped peacefully to the floor.

“Storytime, Professor Pei. I want to hear it.”

“I’m really curious if you still remember it after all these years.”

“If I forget a part,” Pei Yu said calmly, “I’ll just make it up.”

Hua Che grinned. “So I get my own special, customized version?”

Then he fell quiet, eager to listen.

Pei Yu’s storytelling voice was different from the one he used in lectures—more relaxed, smoother.

He spoke at an easy pace, the narrative rich and logical.

The little fox hung onto every word, eyes shining with wonder.

Sometimes he gasped or exclaimed at a twist, and Pei Yu would pause to explain.

He didn’t even notice—he never zoned out once while Pei Yu was speaking.