The Moon That Never Warm

The clock struck two.

The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the rain outside — the kind that blurred the city lights into streaks of white and blue.

Li Wei’s breath came uneven, his chest heaving as sweat clung to his skin. The dream had come again — the same one that haunted him for ten years.

He was fourteen again.

His mother’s voice echoed through the dark hallway of their old home — faint, trembling, desperate.

“Wei’er, don’t come here—go inside!”

But he had run anyway.

He remembered the sound — the terrible sound — of glass breaking, of footsteps on marble, and the sudden rush of wind as her body fell.

Her white dress fluttered once against the night sky before disappearing into the darkness below.

And then, silence.

“Mom!”

He had screamed until his throat burned.

The metallic taste of fear, the world spinning, the sirens—

And then his father’s voice, cold, irritated, “Enough, Li Wei.”

The nightmare always ended there.

It never changed, no matter how many times he woke, no matter how many years passed.

Li Wei sat up on the bed, gasping, a tremor running through his hands.

The room was dark — the faint light from the city spilling through the half-closed curtains painted silver lines across his face.

He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to slow his heartbeat.

It’s over. She’s gone. It’s just a dream again.

But the pain never faded. It lived in the small cracks of his heart, quiet and permanent — like the rain outside, constant and cold.

He swung his legs off the bed and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand.

His fingers brushed against the thin gold band lying beside it — his wedding ring.

He stared at it for a moment, the metal glinting faintly in the dark.

He hadn’t worn it in weeks.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because there was no point in pretending.

What meaning did a secret marriage have, when the person you loved refused to even look at you?

From the other side of the wall, he heard a faint sound — the closing of a door, quiet footsteps down the hall.

Han Yue must have returned late again.

Li Wei closed his eyes. For a brief second, his pulse quickened — the same way it always did when he sensed the alpha’s pheromones nearby.

Rare, cold, powerful — they filled the air like winter mist.

But there was no warmth in them. Never for him.

He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside.

Down below, the city glimmered like glass — perfect, untouchable, indifferent.

He touched the windowpane lightly. It was cold under his fingertips, just like Han Yue’s voice when he spoke to him.

He still hates me.

He still thinks I’m like them.

Li Wei smiled — a small, practiced curve of his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.

It was a habit now — smiling to hide the cracks.

He turned away, his reflection fading into the dark.

Tomorrow, they would have breakfast at the same table again — two strangers bound by a secret ring no one was supposed to see.

He whispered into the empty room,

“Good night… Han Yue.”

But the only reply was the quiet rain tapping against the glass — soft, endless, like the sound of tears that never truly fell

The rain had stopped by morning.

Only the faint mist clung to the tall glass windows, veiling the skyline in pale gray.

Inside the penthouse, silence hung between the ticking of the clock and the soft clatter of cutlery.

Li Wei moved quietly around the kitchen — sleeves rolled, hair still damp from his shower.

He had woken early, as always. No one ever asked him to, but he still made breakfast every day — a simple habit from the time he had no one left to cook for.

The omelet on the pan hissed softly; the smell of brewed coffee filled the air.

Everything looked perfect, untouched — much like the apartment itself: beautiful, expensive, empty.

He set the table — two cups, two plates — and took his seat at the far end.

He didn’t expect Han Yue to join him. The alpha rarely did.

But today, footsteps echoed through the hall.

Slow. Steady. Confident.

Li Wei’s shoulders stiffened.

Han Yue appeared by the dining doorway, his suit half-buttoned, his tie loose, eyes sharp even through the faint fatigue.

His presence filled the room effortlessly — the kind of quiet authority that made people lower their gaze without realizing it.

“Morning,” Li Wei said softly, without looking up. His voice was even, calm — too calm.

Han Yue didn’t reply immediately. He walked to the table, picked up the coffee cup Li Wei had poured for him, and took a sip.

Black. No sugar — just the way he liked it.

Li Wei remembered, even when Han Yue never told him again.

“You’re up early,” Han Yue finally said, his tone flat. “Trying to impress someone?”

The words were cold, laced with that familiar bitterness that cut deeper than shouting ever could.

Li Wei’s hand froze for a second before he smiled — that same faint, harmless smile he used when he was bleeding inside.

“Just habit,” he said simply. “I’ve always been an early riser.”

Han Yue gave a small, humorless laugh. “Right. A perfect omega habit. Always serving, always pretending.”

Li Wei didn’t defend himself. He rarely did.

He picked up his coffee, took a small sip, and looked at the man across from him.

Han Yue’s eyes — sharp amber under the morning light — met his for a fleeting second, then drifted away as if even that glance burned.

There was silence again.

Only the sound of the city far below filled the space between them.

“You’re leaving for the office?” Li Wei asked, his tone gentle, polite — like talking to a stranger.

“Obviously,” Han Yue replied, buttoning his cufflinks. “Some of us have work that actually matters.”

Li Wei’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup, but his face stayed calm.

“Of course,” he murmured. “You always work hard.”

Something in his calmness made Han Yue’s jaw tighten. He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was because Li Wei never argued back — never showed anger, never showed pain.

It was infuriating.

Han Yue finished his coffee and placed the cup down with a soft click.

“Don’t wait for me tonight,” he said. “I have a dinner meeting.”

Li Wei nodded once. “Alright.”

He didn’t ask who the dinner was with. He didn’t need to.

It was always Shen Ruo.

The air grew heavier — quiet, suffocating in its restraint.

When Han Yue moved past him to leave, his sleeve brushed lightly against Li Wei’s arm.

The faint touch of alpha pheromones lingered in the air — sharp, intoxicating, and painfully out of reach.

Han Yue paused for a brief moment, as if to say something, but the words never came.

Instead, he just muttered, “Don’t act like you care,” and walked away.

The door closed behind him.

For a while, Li Wei just sat there — eyes lowered, coffee turning cold in his hands.

Then, slowly, he looked toward the empty chair across from him.

“I never stopped caring,” he wh

ispered.

The sunlight fell over the table — bright, but not warm.

He smiled faintly again, the kind of smile that hurt more than tears.