Chen Luoyang didn't say anything after pulling me away from Jian's friends.
He didn't have to.
His silence carried a weight sharper than any threat those boys could make.
His hand rested lightly against my shoulder—
not heavy, not possessive,
just a steady, familiar touch he always used when he wanted me to leave a place I didn't belong in.
We walked up the stairs together,
and while my steps were calm and even,
I didn't realize until we turned the corner that Luo had slowed down just enough to put himself slightly behind me,
almost shielding my back from view.
I didn't understand why.
Not then.
But he did.
Chen Luoyang always understood things faster than I did.
By the time we reached the upper landing,
the world felt quieter —
a corridor washed in pale winter sunlight,
the walls carrying faint warmth from the heaters,
the echoes of distant laughter fading below us.
I walked ahead, pushing open the terrace door with my shoulder.
And only then,
only in that moment of stillness,
did I notice how silent Luo had been the entire way up.
He finally spoke,
voice smooth, lightly amused,
but edged with something sharper beneath the surface:
"So… you've developed a habit of walking into trouble without blinking now?"
I turned slightly toward him.
"I wasn't doing anything," I said quietly.
He arched a brow, a small, elegant gesture that made him look older and more composed than the rest of our chaotic grade.
"Yes," he sighed, crossing his arms,
"that's exactly the part that irritates people like them.
You breathe calmly and they feel personally attacked."
I blinked at him.
He laughed softly —
a low, amused sound,
almost affectionate.
"Wei, you really don't notice anything, do you?"
"Notice what?" I asked.
He stepped closer, his expression softening the slightest bit.
Chen Luoyang rarely softened —
but when he did,
it was always for me.
"Those boys weren't angry because you walked by."
His voice dropped lower.
"They were angry because Jian stopped the moment he saw you."
I looked away, brushing cold hair from my forehead.
"I didn't do anything," I repeated.
"I know," he said.
A gentle scoff.
"That's what makes everything worse for them.
You don't try,
yet you get under people's skin."
I didn't answer.
He shifted his weight, leaning one shoulder against the terrace railing with effortless elegance, then looked at me with that sharp, artistic gaze of his — a gaze that dissected everything without mercy.
"Next time," he said calmly,
"tell me if they bother you."
"I handled it," I replied.
He exhaled slowly, as if restraining a smile.
"Yes. By doing absolutely nothing and letting your silence do the work."
A pause.
"Very you."
We stepped onto the terrace fully then,
the wind brushing our faces,
carrying the scent of winter and faraway classrooms.
And for a moment,
everything was still.
Then someone opened the stairwell door behind us —
it creaked softly.
Luo turned first.
I turned second.
It was a group of students passing through,
but they froze for half a second when they saw Luo's expression.
Not angry.
Not hostile.
Just one look—
a single, unreadable glance that carried all the unspoken things he would never say out loud:
"This person is with me.
Be careful how you look at him."
The students understood immediately.
They stepped aside.
They didn't speak.
They left quickly.
And without looking at me,
Luo said in a soft, almost lazy tone:
"This school confuses relationships too easily."
"What relationship?" I asked quietly.
He clicked his tongue softly, amused.
"Exactly."
He unpacked our lunch, pushing the container toward me with the casual familiarity of someone who had been doing this for years.
But before I took a bite,
before I said anything,
I had a strange thought:
If this is how Luo reacts…
how will Jian react next?
I didn't know the answer then.
But the small tension in the air told me something new had begun.