(Jian POV)
Class was supposed to be nothing more than sixty ordinary minutes.
Teacher Lin's voice floated across the room in its familiar gentle monotone, chalk tapping the board in soft, predictable rhythm. Sunlight poured through the tall windows in lazy golden bars, climbing slowly up the opposite wall. Students hunched over notebooks, pretending to copy formulas while secretly scrolling under desks or doodling in margins.
Jian wasn't pretending.
He wasn't listening either.
His pen had stopped moving five minutes ago. His notebook page stared back blank except for a single half-finished equation that trailed off into nothing. His gaze kept sliding—again, and again, and again—to the back corner by the window.
To Wei.
The boy sat exactly as he always did: spine straight, shoulders relaxed, dark hair falling just enough to shadow one temple. His pen moved with slow, deliberate strokes across the page, each character formed with the same quiet precision. Expression blank. Calm. Untouched.
Jian hated that calm.
He hated it because it made something twist inside his chest—something hot and nameless and restless. He hated it because Wei looked completely unaffected by last night's violence, as though the blood on concrete and the crack of palm against bone had been erased the moment he stepped into daylight. He hated it because the memory of that other Wei—the one who'd spoken low and lethal threats without ever raising his voice—refused to leave Jian alone.
He told himself he wasn't staring.
He was just… checking. Observing. Making sure there wasn't a hidden bruise blooming under the collar. Making sure Wei hadn't come to school limping or wincing or carrying any sign that the alley had left a mark.
But his eyes lingered too long.
Long enough that the edges of his vision blurred and the rest of the classroom faded. Long enough that if anyone turned around they'd notice. Long enough that when Teacher Lin called his name—twice—he didn't register it until the third time, sharper.
"Jian? Are you with us today?"
He startled, cheeks burning. "Yes, sorry, Teacher."
He forced his gaze back to the board.
But less than thirty seconds later it drifted again.
And then—
Wei looked up.
Not fully. Not deliberately. Just the smallest lift of eyelids, a brief flick of dark irises sweeping across the room.
Their eyes met.
Jian froze.
A sharp electric jolt shot straight through his sternum; his breath snagged audibly. For one suspended heartbeat Wei's gaze held his—cool, flat, utterly indifferent—then slid past as though Jian were nothing more than a shadow on the wall, a speck of dust, an empty chair.
Wei dropped his eyes back to his notebook without a flicker of recognition.
Jian's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He didn't even notice me.
But that wasn't the part that burned.
The part that burned was this: Wei only ever looked at him—only ever really looked—when Jian least wanted him to.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped back in a chaotic wave. Students spilled into the hallway like water breaking free, voices rising, laughter bouncing off lockers.
Yanyan appeared at Jian's side before he'd even stood up properly. Her fingers slipped between his with easy familiarity, small and warm through her gloves.
"Let's eat outside today," she said, smiling up at him. "It's actually sunny for once. And… I made something special for you."
Jian blinked, dragging himself back to the present. "Yeah. Okay."
They walked toward the courtyard together, Yanyan swinging their joined hands in small, cheerful arcs. Her laughter was light, bubbling softly against the winter air. She pressed closer to his side, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of her a quiet reminder of who he was supposed to be: steady boyfriend, perfect student, normal.
Heads turned as they passed. Whispers followed.
"They're so cute together.""Perfect couple.""Yanyan's so lucky."
Yanyan brushed a strand of hair from her face, cheeks pink from cold and happiness.
"Jian-ge, open your lunchbox. I tried baking the little egg tarts this time—I hope they're not too sweet."
But Jian's attention had already slipped away.
Across the wide courtyard. Past the rows of wooden benches. Past the low orange bushes still clinging to a few frost-bitten leaves near the old stone wall.
To where Wei stood alone.
Hands deep in pockets. Head tilted slightly as two boys from the next class talked at him, gesturing wildly. Wei barely responded—just the occasional small nod, expression blank. Between one sentence and the next, his gaze lifted.
And locked directly onto Jian.
Only for a second.
Only long enough for Jian's breath to hitch again, sharp and involuntary.
Only long enough for a question to sear itself under his ribs: Why now?
Then Wei looked away. Shoulders straight. Face calm. As though the glance had never happened.
Irritation stabbed through Jian so fast it tasted bitter.
Not at the boys talking to Wei. Not at the cold wind cutting across the open space. Not even at Yanyan's hand still tucked warmly in his.
At Wei.
At the way Wei looked at him.
At the way Wei only looked when Yanyan was right there—fingers laced with Jian's, body pressed close, smile turned up toward him like sunlight.
Why?
Why only then?
Why not in the quiet of the classroom when Jian had stared for half the lecture, heart hammering? Why not when they sat two rows apart in near-silence, air thick with everything unsaid? Why not when Jian was alone, unguarded, wanting—
He cut the thought off violently.
He hated that he'd even thought it. Hated himself for the heat crawling up his neck. Hated the confusing, tangled thing this boy kept stirring inside him.
Yanyan squeezed his hand. "Jian-ge? You're quiet today."
He forced his fingers to squeeze back. "I'm fine."
"You sure? You look… distracted."
"Just hot," he said too quickly.
She giggled. "It's like five degrees."
He didn't laugh.
Because across the courtyard—Wei had glanced again.
Just a brief flick. Just a second of attention.
And the pattern crystallized with painful clarity:
Wei only ever looked his way when Jian stood next to someone else. Especially Yanyan. Especially when their hands were linked. Especially when the picture looked perfect from the outside.
A sour ache bloomed behind Jian's ribs. A frustrated heat coiled low in his stomach.
Why do you only see me then? Why never when I'm alone? Why not when I'm—
He slammed the door on the rest.
He pulled his hand free from Yanyan's—gentler than he felt—and bent to open the lunchbox she'd packed. Forced himself to take a bite of the small, golden egg tart.
It tasted like nothing.
Because all he could focus on was the boy leaning against the stone wall fifty meters away—hands in pockets, expression blank, noticing everything at the worst possible moment.
And the worst part?
Wei's face never changed.
No flicker of jealousy. No irritation. No curiosity.
Just that same unreadable cold.
The kind that said:
I don't care about you. Or what you do. Or who you're with.
But Jian felt every glance anyway. Every brief sweep of those dark eyes. Every second Wei noticed him only when Jian desperately didn't want to be noticed.
Under his breath, so quiet he barely heard it himself:
"…Why the hell do you only see me when I'm with her?"
He didn't realize Yanyan had heard.
But she had.
Her smile faltered for half a second. Her gaze followed his line of sight—across the courtyard to the boy by the wall.
And misunderstanding number two took root.
Quiet. Sharp. Growing.