By the time Lin Chen caught up, the drizzle had thickened into a steady fall that turned the quad into a mirror of puddles and lamplight. Mingyu was standing in the middle of it, phone in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, facing a loose circle of students.
Someone had pulled up the photo on a tablet. Laughter rippled through the group.
"Hey, Mingyu, nice shot," one of them called. "Didn't know study sessions got so romantic."
Lin Chen froze at the edge of the crowd. Every word felt like static in his chest. He wanted to drag Mingyu away before it spiralled, but Mingyu's voice cut clean through the noise.
"Funny," he said. "You take a picture of two people drinking coffee and build a whole story out of it. That's creative writing, not gossip."
A few people shifted uneasily. Mingyu didn't raise his tone, but it carried; calm could sometimes sound louder than shouting.
"Lin Chen doesn't deserve your jokes," he went on. "He's worked harder than anyone here, and the only reason my grades look decent is because he helps me study. You want to tease someone, tease me."
The laughter died. Rain ticked against umbrellas.
Lin Chen's breath hitched. Mingyu wasn't angry—he was steady, sure, each word deliberate. It wasn't a confession, not really, but it was a defence no one had expected.
Someone muttered, "Chill, man, we were just kidding."
"Then maybe start kidding about something true," Mingyu replied.
He turned, saw Lin Chen through the mist, and the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly—as if to say See? I told you not to hide.
The crowd thinned, embarrassed. Phones slipped into pockets. In minutes, the rumour's laughter had dissolved into awkward silence and retreating footsteps.
When the last umbrella disappeared, Lin Chen finally walked forward. "You didn't have to do that," he said, voice quiet.
"I did," Mingyu answered. "They crossed a line."
Rain dripped from his hair. His shirt clung to his shoulders. Lin Chen wanted to look away, but couldn't.
"You made it worse," Lin Chen murmured, though there was no real heat in it.
"Maybe for a day," Mingyu said. "Then it dies. That's how noise works—it feeds on fear. Stop giving it yours."
Lin Chen swallowed. "You always sound so sure."
Mingyu's smile softened. "That's because one of us has to be."
For a moment, they stood there, rain pooling around their shoes, the world small and silver and still. Lin Chen opened his mouth to say thank you, but the words tangled somewhere between his chest and throat.
"Come on," Mingyu said finally. "You'll catch a cold." He offered the umbrella he hadn't even opened earlier.
Lin Chen hesitated, then stepped under it. The space was small; their sleeves brushed, rain whispering against nylon overhead.
The walk back to the dorms was wordless. Every few steps, Mingyu's shoulder brushed his again, and each time Lin Chen felt his heartbeat stutter and settle, like waves finding rhythm.
When they reached the building, Mingyu stopped under the eaves. "You don't owe anyone explanations," he said. "Not even me."
Lin Chen looked up, rain still catching the edges of Mingyu's hair. "Then why do you keep showing up?"
Mingyu's smile was quiet but confident. "Because you never tell me to stop."
Before Lin Chen could find a reply, a window above them slid open. Shen Qiao's voice floated down, half-teasing, half-surprised.
"Are you two planning to stand out there all night?"
Lin Chen stepped back instinctively, heat flooding his face. Mingyu only laughed, tilting the umbrella so Shen Qiao caught a stray splash of rain.
"Go back to your books," Mingyu called up. "We're fine."
Shen Qiao grinned, disappearing behind the curtain. The window shut with a soft click.
Mingyu looked back at Lin Chen. "See? The world didn't end."
Lin Chen stared at the puddles, the reflection of their shoes side by side. "No," he said, almost to himself. "It didn't."
Mingyu took a step backwards, into the rain again. "Get some rest, Lin Chen."
Then he turned, walking toward the lights of the main road, rain swallowing his outline until he was just another figure moving through the grey.
Lin Chen stayed where he was, listening to the soft hiss of water against concrete, the echo of Mingyu's words settling like warmth he didn't know he'd been waiting for.
He should've felt relief.
Instead, he felt the first fundamental shift—quiet but irreversible.
Whatever this was between them, it had stopped being something he could deny.