"Ethan Moore!"
Clara Vaughn's chest rose and fell sharply. She was clearly furious.
Meanwhile, after delivering what he clearly believed to be the most heroic strike of his life, Ethan collapsed—again—onto the floor. Eyes closed. Expression peaceful. Completely asleep.
"Snore… snore…"
Clara took several deep breaths, lecturing herself internally.
Calm down.
Calm down.
He's still just a kid.
Yelling won't help.
And he's drunk. It's not like he's doing this on purpose.
Suppressing the urge to drag him outside and leave him there, Clara hauled Ethan into the guest bedroom. She didn't even bother taking off his shoes or jacket. She was exhausted from dealing with him tonight.
She glanced at the time.
11:30 p.m.
After washing up, Clara brought a foot basin into the living room. She soaked her feet and scrolled through her phone, trying to unwind.
Then—movement.
She looked up.
Ethan was standing in the doorway of the guest room in an absurdly dramatic pose, the kind only a middle-schooler going through a phase would think was cool. He muttered something under his breath as he shuffled toward her.
She couldn't hear what he was saying.
But instinct screamed at her.
Something was very wrong.
She hurriedly pulled her feet out of the basin.
Too late.
Ethan had already reached her.
"Ethan Moore, what are you doing?" she demanded coldly.
To be blunt, she could probably take down ten skinny college kids like him without breaking a sweat.
Ethan, fully immersed in his own world, shouted:
"Night—Kai!"
Splash—!
He kicked.
The foot basin flipped over, water sloshing across the floor and flooding half the living room.
Clara froze.
Ethan struck a dramatic finishing pose.
"My youth will never fade—!"
That was it.
Clara snapped.
"ETHAN. MOORE."
She didn't even bother drying her feet. She shoved them into her slippers, grabbed Ethan by the arm with one hand, and dragged him toward the door.
"You want to talk about youth? About passion?" she ground out. "Kick over my foot bath one more time and see if I fail you at finals."
She yanked the door open and shoved him straight out.
Bang.
The door slammed shut.
Clara finally felt a little better.
Then she looked at the soaked floor.
…Why did she ever think bringing him home was a good idea?
She really should've listened to Liu Rong and dumped him at an internet café for the night.
And yet—
If she were forced to choose again…
She would probably still do the same.
She was his teacher. She couldn't just abandon a student.
Even if that student was an absolute menace.
With a sigh, she grabbed a mop and spent nearly ten minutes cleaning up the mess.
Midnight.
Clara lay on her bed, staring up at the soft glow of the chandelier. She tossed and turned for half an hour, unable to sleep.
Every time she thought about Ethan curled up outside her door—
She pictured him shivering miserably in the cold.
Eventually, she got up.
She changed into a black silk nightgown and stepped into the living room.
Against the dark fabric, her skin looked even paler. Her collarbones were sharply defined, elegant and delicate. The neckline hugged her figure just enough to outline soft curves without being excessive. Her waist was slender, the skirt swaying lightly as she walked, stopping above her knees and revealing long, well-shaped legs.
She opened the door.
Ethan was sitting against the wall, curled in on himself.
He looked… genuinely pitiful.
With a quiet sigh, Clara bent down and helped him back inside.
She hadn't even taken two steps when—
Their eyes met.
Clara immediately let go, bracing herself for the next wave of chaos.
"Mom!"
She froze.
"…What?"
Before she could react, Ethan staggered past her, calling "Mom!" the entire way, and collapsed onto the sofa.
Then, in front of her stunned gaze, he wrapped his arms around a throw pillow and burst into tears.
"Mom, I missed you so much," he sobbed. "You finally came to see me…"
Clara walked over and yanked the pillow away.
"This is not your mother," she said flatly. "This is my sofa."
Ethan didn't argue.
He just cried louder.
"Mooooom—!"
Panicking, Clara shoved the pillow back into his arms.
"Alright, alright, here," she said quickly. "Your mom's back. Stop crying."
The moment he had the pillow again, Ethan stopped crying and started grinning like an idiot.
Clara couldn't help but recall her college days. One of her classmates had once gotten drunk like this—crying, shouting, making a scene.
The real horror, though, was the next morning—when someone helped her "remember" everything she'd done.
Drinking wasn't the scary part.
The memories were.
After a moment's thought, Clara pulled out her phone and started recording.
"Ethan," she asked calmly, "what are you holding?"
"My mom," he replied tearfully. "I haven't seen her in a long time. I didn't think she'd come looking for me."
"Oh," Clara nodded in satisfaction. "Your mother, huh."
Then she smiled slightly.
"Do you want to go sleep with your mom?"
"Of course!" Ethan said immediately. "I'm sleeping with my mom!"
"You're a bit old for that, don't you think?" Clara teased. "Isn't that embarrassing?"
"I'm only seven!" Ethan protested. "I have to sleep with my mom!"
"Ooooh," Clara drawled. "Then why don't you take your mom and go back to the bedroom?"
Ethan nodded obediently.
Clara escorted him back to the guest room, tucked him in, and only then stopped the recording.
—
The next day.
Ethan Moore felt like he'd had a ridiculously long dream.
In it, he ran into Professor Vaughn.
Dream-Professor Vaughn was a blood-drinking demon. Just as she leaned in to bite him, he started chanting some half-remembered exorcism. Then he pulled out a holy sword and swung.
She dodged.
Stubborn as hell.
So he powered up, went full final-boss mode, and kicked her straight across the room, blood spraying everywhere.
Weirdly enough, her blood felt… hot on his foot.
After finally defeating her, Ethan saw his mother—the one who'd left when he was seven.
He clung to her and cried like a kid while she listened quietly.
Tap.
"Stop messing around."
Ethan mumbled, half asleep.
That had to be Sam Reed trying to wake him up. The hand on his face felt cool, and there was a faint, unfamiliar scent.
Five more minutes. Just five.
College life meant no morning assembly. As long as you made it to the early class roll call, you were fine.
He could wash up in under a minute. Get dressed, get to class… waking up at 7:50 would still work.
…Huh.
Why did the bed feel this comfortable?
And wait—had he slept in his clothes? Were his shoes still on? His head felt kind of dizzy too.
"…."
Professor Vaughn stared at him, expression flat.
Look at him. Sleeping like a baby.
She'd barely slept all night, and he looked like he'd just had the best dream of his life—drool soaking half the pillow.
Annoyed, she yanked the pillow out and smacked him square on the forehead.
Ethan jolted awake.
"Hell—who the hell is it?! Mike?!" he snapped.
Dragged out of a good dream by brute force, anyone would be pissed.
Only Mike Turner ever woke people up like this.
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, head still spinning. He cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes, and turned to politely complain—
And froze.
Crisp white button-down. Perfectly fastened.
His gaze traveled up… and landed on a stunningly cold, terrifyingly beautiful face.
He blinked. Hard.
Then rubbed his eyes again.
Was he still dreaming?
Why was Professor Vaughn standing in his bedroom?
He hesitantly reached out and pinched—
Smack.
Another pillow hit him in the face.
Last night came rushing back in pieces.
The umbrella.
The "holy sword."
Kicking her foot bath clear across the room.
And—
Ethan looked at the sofa cushion by the pillow.
…He was done for.
"Professor Vaughn," he said, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Any chance I can at least keep a body?"
"Three minutes," she said flatly.
"Not up by then, and you won't."
She turned to leave.
A second later, there was a crash behind her.
Ethan hadn't even taken off his clothes or shoes. Getting up took exactly one second.
"Wait for me in the parking garage."
"Professor—"
"I said, wait downstairs."
"Yes, ma'am."
He bolted for the door.
"Hold it."
She glanced back at the wrecked bed.
"Yes?" Ethan froze, standing straighter than he ever had in his life.
"Make the bed," she said, pointing. "And take the pillowcase with you. Wash it."
"Got it."
He moved fast, muscle memory kicking in. The bed ended up neat and sharp-cornered.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Ugly," she said, leaning against the doorframe.
Ugly?
This was textbook-perfect.
"Take the pillow," she added. "And take your 'mom' with you too."
Ethan said nothing.
Ten minutes later.
Ethan sat in the passenger seat, hugging a pillow and a sofa cushion, staring out the window.
Gray sky. Same as his mood.
His phone was full of missed calls from his sister. Her messages said her phone had died last night and asked what happened.
He gave a vague reply. As long as she was safe, that was enough.
"Professor Vaughn… where are we going?" he asked.
No answer.
His stomach dropped. Was she about to bury him somewhere?
"I'm sorry," he rushed out. "Last night was my fault. I shouldn't have smashed your picture frame, shouldn't have kicked over your foot bath—everything's on me. Please don't hold a grudge."
Silence.
"Professor—"
"Quiet."
He shut up instantly.
They stopped by a small street-corner breakfast spot.
She got out, came back with a paper bag, and handed him a cup of coffee and a simple breakfast sandwich.
"Eat."
He stared, stunned, then took it.
His head still hurt, but his thoughts were unusually clear.
This… wasn't how things were supposed to go.
According to the story he remembered, she should've snapped. Lost control.
But she hadn't.
She'd kicked him out—then brought him back.
Woke him up rough—but bought him breakfast.
Maybe he'd been wrong all along.
Maybe Professor Vaughn wasn't some unstable monster.
"Eat," she said again, frowning.
Why did this kid look like he was about to cry over breakfast?
"Thank you, Professor Vaughn," Ethan said quietly.
Then she pulled out her phone and opened a video.
Audio filled the car.
"Ethan, what are you holding?"
"My mom."
"…How old are you?"
"I'm seven. I sleep with my mom."
Ethan lunged for the phone.
She pulled it away effortlessly.
"This is motivation," she said coolly. "Be on time. Don't skip. Practice properly. Score over eighty on your final, and this gets deleted."
Ethan smiled stiffly.
Over eighty?
If he got sixty, he'd throw a party.
"Hands back."
"…Yes."
She drove them toward campus.
Ethan messaged Sam Reed, asking him to cover attendance.
The replies were exactly what he expected.
By the time they arrived, his head still hurt—but one thing was clear.
Professor Vaughn wasn't what he thought.
Cold, sure.
But not cruel.
And that realization changed everything.