The bell rang, sharp and final, slicing through the science wing. Students burst out like startled birds—some sprinting toward the courtyard, others slumping against lockers, groaning about headaches and unfinished practical notebooks.
Yanyan grabbed Jian's sleeve, eyes bright. "Come na, Jian-ge! Let's walk together to the next class—"
"Go ahead," Jian said quickly. "I need to… wash my hands."
She blinked, confused. "But the washroom is—"
"I'll catch up," he interrupted gently.
Yanyan pouted, lips pursed in that familiar way, but she eventually turned and left with her friends, their laughter fading down the corridor.
Jian let out a slow, shaky breath.
He hadn't lied—his hands really were trembling. He did need to steady himself.
But that wasn't the real reason he lingered.
His gaze slid quietly down the emptying hallway.
And landed on one person.
Wei.
Wei slipped out of the lab like a shadow, quiet as ever. Books cradled in his left hand, right sleeve pulled down to hide the fresh bandage. Head tilted slightly forward, eyes on the floor. He didn't hurry. He didn't dawdle. He simply moved—slow, steady, almost weightless, like someone drifting through mist, trying not to be noticed.
Jian stepped into the corridor a moment later. Not too close. But close enough to see the faint hunch of Wei's shoulders, the careful way he held his arm. Close enough that his feet started moving before his brain caught up.
He followed. Not on purpose. Or so he told himself.
His thoughts spun faster with every step.
"…Where are you going?""…Do you even have class now?""…Are you okay?"
The questions stayed locked behind his teeth, burning. He wasn't stalking. He wasn't chasing. He was just… walking the same way. Same hallway. Same direction.
Wei reached the far end of the hallway, where tall windows let golden sunlight pour across the tiles. He slowed, almost instinctively.
Someone was already there.
Jian's footsteps faltered.
Chen Luoyang.
Tall, gentle-eyed, always calm. Blazer hanging open just enough to look effortless, headphones looped loosely around his neck, sketchbook pressed under one arm like it belonged there.
He wasn't in their class. But everyone knew exactly who he was.
Wei's only real friend. The only person Wei spoke to without hesitation. The only one who ever coaxed a real, unguarded smile from him. The only one who could make Wei lift his gaze completely, eyes soft and present.
Jian's stomach twisted—sharp, sour, sudden.
He hadn't meant to stop. His legs just… did.
He stood frozen a few metres back, hidden partly by the bend of lockers, watching as Chen turned toward Wei with that easy, familiar half-smile.
Wei's shoulders relaxed a fraction. Just that small shift felt like proof of something Jian couldn't touch.
His fingers curled at his sides.
He told himself to keep walking. To go to class. To pretend he hadn't seen.
But his feet refused.
Chen's face softened the moment he spotted Wei. "There you are," he said, voice low and gentle. "I waited."
Wei blinked once. A faint warmth flickered across his features—not a wide grin, not anything loud, just a quiet, private recognition. The kind that never appeared in their classroom, never reached his eyes when others were watching.
Jian's neck burned. He stayed half-hidden by the lockers, unable to look away.
Chen stepped closer, easy and unhurried. "I finished the painting I told you about—the new winter one."
Wei's gaze lifted completely, clear and present. "You finished it?" His voice came out soft, unmistakably warm, threaded with something gentle that Jian had never heard before.
Jian's breath caught. …He speaks like that…? With him…? He never—never talks like that with us. I didn't even know Wei could sound like that.
Chen nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "And the music piece… I added your lyric line. It fits perfectly."
Wei's cheeks warmed to a delicate pink—not embarrassment, just quiet glow. Jian felt it like a fist to the ribs.
"Really?" Wei asked, almost shy. "I just scribbled that line…"
"It was beautiful," Chen said with a soft laugh. "You always say you're not good with words, but everything you write sounds… gentle."
Wei dropped his eyes, the tiniest smile pressing at the corner of his mouth.
Jian's chest squeezed tight. …Wei smiles at him. He looks so calm with him. When did they get this close? Why does this feel so—wrong?
He didn't understand the ache spreading through him. He hated that he didn't understand. Hated how natural they looked together—a painter and a quiet boy who wrote soft lyrics—as if they'd shared this private language for years.
Chen reached out and gently adjusted Wei's collar, fingers careful and familiar. "Your sleeve is slipping again," he said softly. "It's cold today. Be careful."
Wei's breath caught—not from shock, not from discomfort, but from the simple strangeness of someone touching him so easily. He didn't pull back. He didn't flinch. He just stood there, letting Chen's hand linger near the edge of his sleeve, the bandage hidden beneath.
From the shadows of the lockers, Jian's entire body locked rigid. His jaw tightened until it ached. His pulse slammed against his ribs, loud in his ears. Something hot and bitter coiled deep in his chest—sharp, unfamiliar, unnamed.
He didn't move. He couldn't. All he could do was watch as Chen's quiet care wrapped around Wei like it had always belonged there.
And Jian felt it pierce him, wordless and raw.
Wei's voice came out barely above a whisper, soft and sincere. "…Thanks, Luoyang."
Chen's smile deepened, warm and effortless. "Always."
The single word landed like a quiet hammer in Jian's chest. His fingers clamped around the strap of his bag—harder than he meant to. His knuckles bleached white before he even noticed the strain.
Always. Chen said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But inside Jian, something fragile cracked.
…Always? What does that even mean?
Without thinking, he eased back into the shadow of the wall, half-hidden, breath shallow.
Wei and Chen bent closer over the open sketchbook. Wei's shoulder brushed lightly against Chen's arm—small, unthinking contact. The kind of ease that spoke of habit, of trust.
Jian's heartbeat turned thick and feverish, pounding behind his eyes.
…Why does it feel like something is being taken from me?…What is this feeling?…Why do I want to pull Wei away from him?…What is wrong with me?
He stayed rooted there, watching, unable to look away, the ache spreading wider with every second they stood so comfortably together.
Chen flipped open his sketchbook, revealing a delicate winter scene: soft snow blanketing bare trees, pale sunlight filtering through branches, and a small, solitary figure standing in the quiet glow.
Wei let out a gentle exhale. "This is… really pretty."
Chen's smile was quiet, almost tender. "It reminded me of you."
Wei blinked, caught off guard. Then a shy laugh escaped him—soft, rare, unguarded. "You're weird," he murmured.
"Maybe," Chen replied easily. "But you inspire half my work, so I'm allowed."
The words struck Jian like winter wind—sharp, sudden, freezing. Wei inspiring someone. Wei laughing like that. Wei opening up, soft and real, in a way Jian had never witnessed. Not once. Not with anyone. Especially not with him.
…Why does he open up to him but not to us?…Not to me?
The questions clawed at Jian's chest, stealing his breath. Why did he care so much? Why did he suddenly want—need—Wei to look at him that way? To share that quiet warmth? Why this tightness, this ache, this hollow ache spreading under his ribs?
He had no answers. Only the pain of watching something he hadn't even known he craved slip further out of reach.
Chen turned the page of his sketchbook, revealing another soft painting—muted blues and silvers, a frozen lake under moonlight. Wei leaned in closer to see, his dark hair brushing lightly against Chen's shoulder. Neither of them moved away. They stayed like that, shoulders almost touching, heads tilted together in quiet focus.
Jian's stomach lurched. He stepped back so sharply his shoulder grazed the wall behind him. His heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out everything else.
…I can't watch this.
He turned on instinct, ready to flee down the corridor— but at that exact second, Wei looked up.
His gaze drifted toward the hallway, straight to the spot where Jian had stood moments before. Wei blinked once. His brows furrowed faintly, a small crease of confusion—or recognition. Like he felt a tug. Like something invisible had brushed against him. Like he sensed eyes on him.
But when his eyes settled there— nothing. Jian was already gone. Or at least, he made himself disappear.
He ducked behind the nearest column, pressing his back to the cold stone. One hand flattened against his chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm. Breath came in short, uneven pulls.
From the windows, Chen's voice drifted over, calm and easy. "Ready for next break? We can go over the new melody."
Wei's reply was soft, almost immediate. "Mm. I'll come."
Jian squeezed his eyes shut. The words landed like stones in his throat.
Why did his lungs feel so tight? Why did every breath hurt? Why did watching them—watching Wei so comfortable, so open with someone else—feel like losing something he never knew he had?
He stayed hidden, silent, chest aching with questions he couldn't name. And the hallway stretched empty around him.