The air was thick with tension as Lin Yichen stepped into the marble-floored library wing of the university. It wasn't just the atmosphere; it was the weight of her own thoughts pressing on her ribs like wet cloth.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall lattice-patterned windows of Professor Jian Mazhir's private library wing; an elegant, almost hidden space tucked behind the east side of the main academic hall.
Shelves of leather-bound volumes towered overhead, casting long shadows across the polished floors. The scent of aged paper clung to the walls, softened by the faint lavender polish that the janitorial staff used religiously every Friday. It was a space that demanded silence. Reflection. Discipline. And today, her full attention.
But Yichen's mind was loud.
She had a lot on her mind; things she didn't want to unpack. Not here. Not now. She couldn't afford to.
Not when Professor Jian Mazhir was already waiting for her upstairs.
The private study session wasn't her idea. It had been Aaliyah's doing, her ever-persistent roommate who believed academic excellence could solve almost everything.
"Come on, Yichen! You practically live in those books. He's offering extra credit. You need that GPA to keep your scholarship."
She wasn't wrong. The scholarship wasn't just a safety net—it was survival. But what Aaliyah didn't know, or perhaps pretended not to notice, was the subtle pull Yichen felt every time Dr. Jian Mazhir spoke.
It wasn't infatuation. Not really.
It was the way he could slice through her ideas, push her thinking to the brink, then leave her to collect the pieces. His presence was like a sharp winter wind...bracing, biting, but strangely clarifying.
And now, as she approached the long reading table beneath the mezzanine, she could already feel his presence, like a light hum under her skin.
She cast a glance around to confirm: the only other person present was the elderly librarian, comfortably nestled behind the curved circulation desk. Her glasses dangled at the tip of her nose as she read a thick biography, only occasionally peering up at them.
Yichen released a quiet breath.
Good. She wasn't completely alone with him. Boundaries mattered.
"As-salaamu 'alaykum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh, sir," she greeted, her voice calm and clear.
"Wa 'alaykumus salaam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh," he responded after a moment, eyes still fixed on the laptop in front of him. "Punctual. Good. I hate wasting time."
"I won't waste yours, Professor."
Only then did he lift his gaze. Sharp. Intentional. Almost calculating.
"I know."
She walked forward, placed her bag down, and took her seat across from him. The desk between them was sturdy, hand-carved mahogany and it formed a polite but unmistakable boundary. Still, the air felt charged.
This room… it was masculine in every detail. From the muted navy rugs to the brass lamp fixed on the professor's desk. Framed Arabic calligraphy adorned the walls, paired with vintage maps and annotated academic journals. It was the kind of space where ideas were meant to clash, sharpen, and evolve.
"I read your paper," he began. His fingers steepled in front of him, elbows resting lightly on the desk. "Your analysis on comparative market strategy…"
He paused.
"...was far above your peers. You're not writing like an undergrad."
"I read a lot," Yichen said carefully. "And I've seen... things."
His brow lifted slightly. "You mean poverty?"
Yichen's spine stiffened, but her voice remained level. "I mean experience."
For a moment, Jian Mazhir simply watched her. Then he gave the smallest nod. A breath of amusement escaped him,not quite a smile. "Fair."
The next forty-five minutes unfolded like an academic duel. They dissected regional economic models, contested data sources, and challenged one another over sociopolitical theory. He never softened his tone. Never hesitated to correct her. But he never dismissed her either.
Every time she challenged him, his eyes gleamed, like a blade drawn not in threat, but recognition. The respect was sharp. Intellectual. Unspoken.
When the session finally wound down, silence stretched between them like cooling embers.
"You've been quiet lately," Jian said abruptly, tapping his pen against the desk.
"I didn't know I was supposed to entertain you," Yichen replied, keeping her tone measured.
His lips curved;just barely. "You don't need to. You just exist in a way that's... distracting."
Her heart stuttered, but she didn't respond. Didn't even look up. She didn't trust herself to.
A knock sounded at the door before she could formulate a reply.
Then it opened…without waiting.
Chen Wei.
He filled the threshold in a storm-grey suit, dark tie knotted with clinical precision, and a stare that drained the oxygen from the room.
Yichen stood quickly, her throat tightening. "Chen Wei?"
"Aaliyah's worried. Your phone's off," he said, eyes not leaving hers. "I told her I'd pick you up."
Her phone. Right,dead battery. She hadn't even noticed.
But what startled her more than his arrival… was that she couldn't decipher what she felt about it. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Annoyance?
A storm brewed behind Chen Wei's eyes as he stepped further inside.
Jian Mazhir rose slowly from his seat, every movement controlled. His gaze flicked between them, unreadable. "Mr. Chen."
"Professor." Chen Wei's voice was smooth—almost polite. But the chill underneath was unmistakable. "Is it usual to have private sessions with undergraduates after hours?"
Jian didn't flinch. "It's well within academic policy. But I imagine your concern has little to do with policy."
"Then let me make my concern clearer," Chen Wei said, now fully in the room. His presence was absolute. The atmosphere cracked like glass under pressure.
"I know you're not just her professor," he said quietly. "And I don't like people watching what I want as mine."
The words dropped like thunder.
Yichen's breath caught.
Jian didn't back down. His voice was calm, but laced with fire. "Then you should've moved faster," he replied, eyes narrowing. "Because you're not the only one with a claim."
Yichen blinked. Once. Twice.
What is this?
"I'm not a prize," she said softly, but firmly. "And I don't belong to either of you."
The silence that followed felt like the air had been vacuumed out of the room.
Then Jian gave the faintest nod. "She's right."
Chen Wei's jaw tightened, but he stepped back, saying nothing more.
Yichen didn't wait for further commentary. She picked up her bag, brushed past both men with a steady gait, and didn't stop until she was outside the building.
The cool evening air wrapped around her like a scolding elder, sharp against her cheeks. She paused on the stone steps, breathing deeply.
This wasn't what she wanted.
Not the attention.
Not the drama.
Not the claim.
She had come to this university to learn. To grow. To survive. Not to become the object of anyone's power play.
And yet...
She knew, deep down, that she was no longer just a quiet student with a high GPA.
She had become the epicenter of a storm.
And both men…
Both were just getting started.
---
Next chapter peek:
Whispers begin to circulate on campus; soft, sticky, and relentless. The rumor mill spins tales of favoritism, scandal, and influence.
Chen Wei, ever protective, begins to take drastic steps to preserve Yichen's name...even if it means confronting the university board... or making a claim that changes everything.
Meanwhile, Yichen receives a package she didn't expect.
Inside: a rare economics journal.
Tucked between its pages?
A handwritten note.
"A storm is only dangerous to those without shelter. Consider this a roof, Lin Yichen."
— J.M.