The evening self‑study bell rang across the dusk‑gray campus. Shan Jiqiu walked straight in through the back door. She looked up—and saw that the classmate in front of her new seat had been replaced. Now, sitting there, was someone with unsmiling peach‑blossom eyes, openly following her every move. His gaze didn’t waver, locked on her.
Shan Jiqiu didn’t know why—she was annoyed with him, yet under that stare, a sudden guilty flutter rose in her chest. But why should she feel guilty? She hadn’t drunk two bottles of soda at once.
“What are you doing?” She pulled out her chair, sat down, and finally couldn’t hold back, snapping at those deep black eyes.
“What are you doing?” Lu Yun drawled back.
“What could I possibly be doing?” Shan Jiqiu found it ridiculous.
“I think you’re quite capable of doing plenty.”
“?”
Her lips twitched, pressing tight as she scoffed inwardly. So he’d come over just to play tongue‑twisters with her? Well, of course—after all, he’d drunk two bottles. How could he not be acting smug?
Teacher Chen entered from the front, papers in hand, stepping onto the podium. He set them down and lifted his gaze to the class.
Behind his glasses, his eyes paused on Lu Yun and Shan Jiqiu for two seconds before he said: “Switch back to your original seats. Exam tonight.”
The classroom filled with the scrape of desks and chairs.
Lu Yun stood, picked up his bag, turned, and tapped twice on Shan Jiqiu’s desk with his knuckles. “After the exam, we’ll talk,” he said.
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Fine then. Forever. Don’t say anything at all.”
At that, Shan Jiqiu’s anger spiked, her eyes clashing with his cold gaze—like swords crossing at Huashan.
In the end, under Teacher Chen the referee’s urging, the two failed to decide a winner. After one last glance at each other, they tacitly shouldered their schoolbags, each taking a separate aisle, walking forward with identical steps yet without connection.
Shan Jiqiu sat down and pulled out her pen. During the pause before the papers were handed out, her nails scratched absently at the pen barrel. She felt stifled. Her mouth said she shouldn’t like him anymore, but the moment she saw him, her heart betrayed her. Scenes that left her aching and bitter kept flashing one after another. She hated herself for it too—like some resentful woman.
Clearly, like every secret admirer, she had no right to be angry. Why not just quietly harbor her crush? Why pick fights with him? It was like punching cotton. At least cotton knows it’s being hit. But him? He knew nothing at all. How had she suddenly turned into someone practicing cold violence, unreasonable, hiding a jealous heart?
After the exam, during the break before the last evening class, Shan Jiqiu went to the restroom.
Tan Junhao and Lu Yun leaned side by side against the corridor railing, gazing at the opposite building.
The red walls, swallowed by darkness, had lost their brilliance.
They quietly watched the square windows spilling light, each framing classmates in their own little worlds. Behind them, the glow spilling from the classroom stretched their shadows long—an image of walking toward the light, and the light following in return.
Tan Junhao glanced at Lu Yun beside him, silent, and remembered joking earlier about him being jealous. At the time, he had tossed it out casually. But Lu Yun froze for several seconds, then let out a sudden “pfft” laugh, before his face hardened into resolve.
Honestly, Tan Junhao rarely saw such a range of expressions on Lu Yun’s face.
Then Lu Yun said: “Jealous of her? You’ve got it wrong. Isn’t that the biggest joke? I’m just helping her grandmother keep an eye on her—worried that early romance will affect her studies. If she gets eliminated from the competition class by Teacher Xu, crying won’t help then.”
When those words came out, he understood.
After all, everyone at school knew Lu Yun treated Shan Jiqiu like a younger sister. Ever since Grandpa Lu passed away, it was always Shan Jiqiu’s grandmother who attended both of their parent‑teacher meetings.
So with that kind of bond, Lu Yun being jealous was only natural. If he had a little sister being courted by other boys, his reaction would probably be even bigger than Lu Yun’s. And Lu Yun’s reasoning wasn’t wrong either. Everyone in the competition class had the same goal—Tsinghua or Peking University. Their dreams were aligned.
Don’t be fooled by Shan Jiqiu’s quiet demeanor; deep down, she was fiercely competitive.
He still remembered back in eighth grade when Lu Yun got lucky and scored first place, pushing her down. Her gloomy mood could have frozen anyone to death. If early romance distracted her and she got eliminated?
Unthinkable. Unspeakable.
But Tan Junhao picked out one detail from Lu Yun’s words and asked curiously: “Has she ever cried? Since I’ve known her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry.”
Such a steel‑hearted girl.
“No.” Lu Yun acted as if he hadn’t heard Tan Junhao at all. With his long legs, he strode off, slinging his bag over his shoulder, grabbing the things on his desk, and heading straight to the back.
Before leaving, he tossed out: “That little girl—at this age she wants to play rebellious with me? Absolutely useless.”
Tan Junhao stared at Lu Yun’s imposing back and muttered inwardly:
You’re just the neighbor’s older brother without blood ties, so why do I always feel like you’re trying to be her father?
At that moment, Lu Yun’s eyes—deeper than the night itself—were fixed on the windows across the building, silent, unreadable.
What was he thinking? He was thinking about Tan Junhao’s words: “Jealous.”
When had things started to feel off? He had no clue. All along, he believed his care for Shan Jiqiu was brotherly affection, friendship. He looked after her because of childhood promises and the closeness of their families—part friendship, part kinship.
If that was true, then why jealousy? He didn’t mind her laughing with Zhou An or Tan Junhao, didn’t care when she discussed assignments with classmates.
But the moment boys with obvious intentions appeared, his heart soured instantly. Like those who once slipped her love letters and gifts. Or now—Duàn Boyi.
The worst part was that she seemed to have some kind of feeling toward Duan Boyi, too.
You deny it, but I see it clearly with my sharp eyes.
No, no. Lu Yun shook his head, rejecting his own immature thought.
This wasn’t romantic jealousy. This was the jealousy between siblings or close friends. Same word, different meaning.
He had no experience in romance, but he knew liking someone meant blushing, heart racing, and nerves whenever you saw them.
Shan Jiqiu? Not at all. He had hugged her before, held her hand before—never once nervous.
“Right. Absolutely none.” Lu Yun slapped the railing, smiling with confidence.
“None what?” Tan Junhao was startled by the sudden declaration.
Clear‑headed, sharp, and precise in judgment, he felt his gloom ease. Just as he was about to speak to Tan Junhao, his eyes flicked—and there she was, walking toward them from not far away.
He froze.
The corridor lights were dimmer than the classroom’s, yet somehow they shimmered with a strange romance of the night. It was as if someone had suddenly taken control of the scene—background, lighting, atmosphere, all painted to perfection.
And the girl approaching, every step seemed to land directly on Lu Yun’s heart. Everything around him slowed, like the opening of an old film.
The “whoosh” of the wind sounded like a midnight love song—haunting, stirring. A fine drizzle began to fall, the wind carrying the scent of rain, wrapping the girl in his gaze and rushing into his breath.
His breathing grew rapid, uncontrollable.
The rain came and went, leaving only her fragrance lingering at his nose.
And the boy’s heart—one he thought immune to irregular beats—was now pounding far above normal. This sudden rush of feeling caught him off guard, igniting the true heart he thought long buried.
Shan Jiqiu, returning from the restroom with a classmate, spotted the two by the railing. One smiled at her, the other stared blankly. When her eyes met that blank stare, its owner quickly shifted away, feigning indifference as he looked into the darkness beyond the railing.
Then he pointed outward and said to Tan Junhao: “It’s raining. Did you bring an umbrella?”
After two exam sessions, Shan Jiqiu’s mind had cleared. A trip to the restroom seemed to have helped, too.
She made a firm decision—not just idle talk this time, but real. She would begin, from this moment, to accept the ending: that he would eventually be with someone else. From the start, her crush had been doomed. Since she couldn’t stop liking him instantly, she would slowly, step by step, free herself from his hold.
The process might be long, and each effort might cut to the bone. But it was better than falling endlessly into a bottomless pit, letting her soul be tormented. Besides, she had noticed—Lu Yun seemed to have changed.
She felt there was something wrong with him now. How could he accept the goodwill of two girls at once?
He knew their intentions weren’t pure, yet in front of everyone, he accepted it as if it were only right. How was that any different from two‑timing? Even if he chose one, she could accept it. But instead, he refused no one. That was clearly an attitude problem—a matter of character.
Yes, maybe it wasn’t just jealousy. She felt chilled.
Because this Lu Yun was no longer the Lu Yun she knew. People change, the moon waxes and wanes—he had changed.
Fine. I won’t like this version of you anymore.
Once she accepted that answer, Shan Jiqiu felt a sudden breath of relief.
But seeing Lu Yun ignore her now, a faint melancholy rose again. So annoying. I said I don’t like him anymore—what do you want from me?
Forget it. Enough thinking. Whoever he likes, let him.
She turned back toward the classroom, but Tan Junhao called out:
“Autumn God, come chat for a bit.”
She glanced at Lu Yun—he still wasn’t looking at her. She said to Tan Junhao, “Class is starting.”
Tan Junhao strode over and pulled her toward him. “What’s the rush? Wait for the bell.”
Pulled too quickly, Shan Jiqiu stumbled. A large hand, lit by the corridor’s glow, reached out. Long, defined fingers gripped her elbow through layers of fabric, steadying her.
Lu Yun had caught her. As soon as she regained balance, he shoved his hand into his pocket and looked away. No glance at her, no teasing remark.
Oh, right. She almost forgot—they’d quarreled before the exam.
And she had started it. But she misunderstood. Lu Yun wasn’t cold because of that. It was because he’d realized something was wrong with himself—palpitations, shortness of breath, irregular heartbeat, even… heat spreading.
When Shan Jiqiu looked at him just now, not only had his heart raced, his ears burned, and the flush was creeping across his face. That was why he had deflected with nonsense about rain and umbrellas.
Moments earlier, when he saw her stumble, his reflex was to reach out. But even that brief touch through her clothes made his heart skip a beat, and his fingertips and ears tingled. Holding his breath, nearly suffocating, he had to let go quickly to steady himself.
Tan Junhao noticed the two weren’t acting like usual—still sulking. So he decided to play peacemaker. “Autumn God.” He reached to put an arm around her shoulder, but Lu Yun subtly pulled him aside, blocking the gesture.
Neither of them noticed.
Shan Jiqiu looked at Tan Junhao. He leaned against the railing and asked: “So, our school’s new heartthrob, Duan Boyi—does he like you?”
Shan Jiqiu: “?”
Lu Yun: “?”