Chen Linlin's mother was exceptionally warm in her hospitality, the kind of person who expressed affection through constant offerings of fruit, snacks, and tea. Every few days, she would knock gently on the door and appear with a freshly cut platter, apples peeled and sliced evenly, oranges separated into neat petals, grapes washed and arranged carefully on porcelain plates. She would smile as she set them down, urging them to eat more and not to overwork themselves. At first, Xun Yuming responded politely each time, standing up to thank her, feeling slightly embarrassed but grateful. However, Chen Linlin clearly found it excessive. After the third interruption in one afternoon, he finally walked his mother back out, closed the door firmly, and declared with mild exasperation, "That's just how my parents are. Don't mind them. My girlfriend's apartment is being renovated, so I'm temporarily staying here. Next time, we'll go to my teacher's studio instead. This really is too much trouble."
Xun Yuming waved his hands immediately, almost too quickly. "No, no, this is fine. It's really fine here." His tone carried an urgency that surprised even himself. Between enduring Old Chen's overenthusiastic tea lectures and going to Zhuang Yi's place, where memories clung to the walls like lingering shadows, he would choose this household every time. "It's my first time seeing Dean Chen at home," he added, attempting to sound casual.
Chen Linlin smirked knowingly. "Family trait. The women in this house have always been formidable." He paused, then shifted his expression into something more professional. "Let's not get sidetracked. Teacher Zhuang sent me your full records. I've reviewed everything. If we're going to do this properly, you'll need to be prepared for long-term counseling."
Xun Yuming's brows drew together instinctively. "Is it that serious?"
"It's not dramatic," Chen Linlin replied calmly, flipping through a thick stack of printed A4 sheets filled with assessment data and notes. "But psychological problems are rarely surface-level. What you're experiencing is probably just the visible tip of something much larger. No one resolves long-standing patterns in one or two conversations. Not even the best psychologist can do that." His eyes lifted briefly. "And you've developed dependency behaviors. You're drinking heavily."
"I don't drink," Xun Yuming shot back immediately, the denial escaping before he could soften it. Realizing the sharpness of his tone, he added awkwardly, "There's nothing excessive. You can ask Zhuang Yi. He said the same."
Chen Linlin didn't challenge the claim directly. Instead, he asked quietly, "Do you remember the first time you drank alcohol?"
Xun Yuming didn't need time to think. "Freshman year. I got drunk in a wine tasting class."
The memory surfaced with vivid clarity.
Stanford's curriculum had always struck him as paradoxically rigorous and relaxed, advanced mathematics and biological sciences in the morning, followed by seemingly indulgent electives in the afternoon. The wine tasting class was designed, according to the syllabus, to cultivate sensory awareness and cultural literacy. The instructor was charismatic—a sun-tanned white gentleman whose constant outdoor exposure gave him a Latino hue. He wore plaid suits and carried himself with theatrical flair.
On the first day, before introducing himself, he had declared cheerfully, "Before you turn twenty-one, this class will be your only legal opportunity to drink alcohol."
The room had fallen silent. Then he clapped dramatically and added, "Surely that deserves applause?"
The applause had been sparse and unconvincing.
Undeterred, the professor announced that they would be visiting Castello di Amorosa in Napa Valley. The prospect of leaving campus immediately revived everyone's enthusiasm.
Among the dozens of students in the class, most had already tasted alcohol long before legality permitted it. Some were indifferent, treating the class as an easy credit. But for Xun Yuming, who had skipped grades and entered university at fifteen under the strict supervision of a grandfather who monitored even his sugar intake, the idea of alcohol carried a forbidden curiosity. He had never so much as tasted chocolate liqueur.
The bus ride to Napa took two hours. Golden grass rolled beneath the intense Californian sun, the sky an unbroken blue. The instructor played guitar at the front of the bus, singing "Hotel California," and the mood gradually softened into laughter and casual conversation.
Xun Yuming had sat quietly in the back, clutching a copy of Linear Algebra out of habit rather than focus. Three rows ahead sat Zhuang Yi, the only other Asian student in the class. They hadn't spoken yet, but Xun Yuming had already heard of him: popular, athletic, confident in ways he himself was not.
At the winery, they followed a blonde guide through stone corridors adorned with religious murals. Long wooden tables displayed sparkling glasses filled with pale gold and deep crimson liquids. When instructed to taste, most students sipped carefully.
Xun Yuming did not.
Unfamiliar with the etiquette of sampling, he drank both glasses of sweet wine in full, mistaking "tasting" for finishing. The sweetness masked the alcohol until it was too late. Within minutes, his ears burned red, his vision blurred, and the world tilted gently off-axis.
Zhuang Yi noticed first. "Your ears are red," he had said, amusement dancing in his voice.
Startled, Xun Yuming had covered his ears defensively and laughed foolishly. His movements grew exaggerated. He announced loudly that he had "completed both samples" like an accomplished feat. When warned not to speak or everyone would notice, he responded by whispering theatrically and accusing Zhuang Yi of wanting to "steal" his ears.
The entire class turned to watch.
The professor laughed. "We have a winner today."
By the time they left the winery, Zhuang Yi had half-carried him onto the bus. Xun Yuming vaguely remembered being slung over someone's shoulder and hearing muttered commentary about muscle anatomy. The humiliation lingered far longer than the hangover.
"I didn't drink much after that," Xun Yuming said now, a faint smile touching his lips at the absurdity of it all.
Chen Linlin leaned back slightly. "When did you start again?"
"After graduation," he answered, voice lowering. "Around the time I entered medical school for my doctoral program."
"You weren't even twenty-one," Chen Linlin pointed out mildly.
Xun Yuming's academic timeline had been accelerated. He had entered Stanford Medical School unusually young, completed part of his doctoral training at Harvard, interned at Johns Hopkins, then moved on to residency at Mayo Clinic before earning international recognition. Legally speaking, he had been underage during the early period of his doctoral studies.
"State regulations vary," Xun Yuming said, more defensively than convincingly. "Non-alcoholic options are allowed earlier."
Chen Linlin nodded but did not pursue the technicality. Instead, he asked quietly, "What significant events occurred in the months between your undergraduate graduation and the start of medical school?"
The question lingered in the air longer than expected.
According to Zhuang Yi's earlier assessment, Xun Yuming was someone who adhered strictly to rules, sometimes rigidly so. He respected authority deeply, perhaps excessively. He rarely defied teachers or superiors. If there had been a behavioral shift, something that led him from abstinence to reliance, it likely coincided with a rupture.
Chen Linlin did not press immediately. He simply waited.
And in that silence, the space between graduation and medical school began to feel far less empty than it had moments before.