By Monday morning, the rain had washed the campus clean—or at least, it looked that way. The whispers had quieted, but Lin Chen could still feel them: the sideways glances, the half-swallowed words that he pretended not to hear. He walked through the courtyard with his head held high, every step deliberate, his expression unreadable. It was the same calm demeanor that had earned him the nickname "Professor Lin" among his classmates—composed, rational, and impossible to rattle.
But inside, he wasn't calm at all. Every time someone laughed behind him, a corner of his mind whispered: They're talking about you and Mingyu again.
He wanted to believe that Mingyu had fixed things that night. His steady voice had cut through the mockery like a blade. But rumors didn't vanish; they simply took on a new shape. Now, people weren't laughing; they were watching.
In the lecture hall, Lin Chen took his usual seat—front row, right by the window. His notebook was open, and his pen poised, ready for anything except the way his pulse jumped when he felt someone slide into the seat beside him.
"Morning," Mingyu said softly, setting down his backpack.
Lin Chen didn't look up. "You could've sat anywhere else."
"Sure," Mingyu replied, "but I like the view here."
Lin Chen's pen stilled mid-word. He turned just enough to give Mingyu a look that said, Not now, not in class.
Mingyu only grinned. "Relax, Professor Lin. I'm here to learn."
"Then focus."
"I am," Mingyu murmured, tapping the side of his temple. "On the lesson."
The lesson hadn't even started.
By the middle of the lecture, Lin Chen had given up trying to ignore him. Every time the professor asked a question, Mingyu answered—confidently, almost teasingly, as though daring Lin Chen to meet his eyes.
When class finally ended, Mingyu leaned over before Lin Chen could pack up. "Library after lunch?" he asked.
Lin Chen hesitated. "If we study, yes."
Mingyu smirked. "What else would we do?"
Lin Chen shot him a look that made Mingyu chuckle under his breath.
In the library, the quiet wrapped around them like a curtain. The table by the window—their usual spot—was empty, waiting. Lin Chen set down his books and tried to immerse himself in equations. Mingyu lasted all of ten minutes before sighing dramatically.
"Can we take a break?"
"We've barely started," Lin Chen said without looking up.
Mingyu rested his chin on his palm, studying Lin Chen's profile. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy."
"Busy pretending that night didn't happen?"
Lin Chen's pen froze. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. "It's better if people stop talking."
"I don't care what they say."
"I do," Lin Chen said sharply—too sharply. The sound startled even him.
Mingyu didn't flinch. He just tilted his head, his eyes softer now. "You think caring means hiding. I think it means standing next to someone, even when it's inconvenient."
Lin Chen felt his breath catch in his throat. The words hit too close to something he had buried—the quiet fear of being seen. He looked away, his voice low. "Not everyone can be fearless like you."
"I'm not fearless," Mingyu said quietly. "I just don't want to lose the things that matter."
Silence. Outside, sunlight spilled across the campus lawns, warm and indifferent. Lin Chen pressed his fingers against the page, grounding himself. "You don't even know what this is, Mingyu. You'll wake up one day and realize it was just—"
"What?" Mingyu leaned closer. "A phase? Curiosity?"
Lin Chen's heartbeat faltered. He didn't answer.
Mingyu exhaled slowly. "I've thought about that. I've asked myself if maybe I just liked the idea of you—the quiet genius who pretends not to care about anyone. But then I started noticing things."
"Don't."
"I noticed the way you always double-check people's notes before handing them back. The way you stop to help first-year students find their classrooms, even when you're late. You act cold, but you're not. You don't know how to let people stay."
Lin Chen shut his eyes. "Stop."
"I can't," Mingyu said. "Because you matter to me. And I'm tired of pretending it's nothing."
The words lingered in the air—quiet, dangerous, and impossible to take back. Across the room, a few students glanced over, sensing the tension. Lin Chen's knuckles whitened around his pen. He forced a calm he didn't feel.
"People are staring," he muttered.
"Let them," Mingyu replied. "I've got nothing to hide."
"But I do," Lin Chen whispered, and for a moment, his vulnerability cracked through.
Mingyu softened. "Then let me be the one to stand in front when they talk."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm serious."
Lin Chen finally met his eyes. Mingyu wasn't smiling now. His gaze was steady, honest, almost fierce in its gentleness. That scared Lin Chen more than any rumor could.
He rose abruptly, gathering his books. "I need air."
Mingyu didn't stop him—not this time.
Outside, the autumn wind carried the scent of rain and chalk. Lin Chen leaned against the library wall, closing his eyes. His pulse raced. Everything Mingyu said kept echoing: "You matter to me."
He wanted to shut it out. He wanted to believe...