Ivy didn't stop. Her shoes splashed through puddles left by the morning rain—each step a protest, a heartbeat, a desperate attempt to outrun the weight of his gaze. The whispers from the students faded behind her as she turned down a quiet street, away from the school.
Away from him.
Away from the man who claimed he wanted to protect her—but whose presence felt like a storm she couldn't escape.
Her breath came in shallow bursts. Why won't he just leave me alone? He didn't know her. He couldn't. That night on the rooftop was supposed to be forgotten—a secret buried with the darkness. But somehow, he'd followed her light into the day.
"Ivy."
His voice stopped her cold.
She turned. He stood a few meters away, rain dripping from his dark hair, coat unbuttoned, expression unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were unrelenting.
"You shouldn't walk home alone," he said quietly. "Not after what happened."
Ivy clenched her jaw. "You don't get to say that," she shot back, her voice trembling. "You don't know me. You don't own me."
"I never said I did." His tone was maddeningly calm. "But I can't forget what I saw. You were standing on that edge, Ivy. And if I hadn't been there—"
"Stop!" she snapped, her voice echoing down the empty street. "You don't have to remind me! I didn't ask for your help then, and I don't need it now!"
For a moment, only the city's distant hum answered.
Qin Jingze's jaw tightened. "Maybe not. But I helped anyway."
Her breath caught—half fury, half confusion. "Why? Why do you care so much?"
He stepped closer. Then another. "Because I've seen too many people fall," he said softly. "And I wasn't able to save them."
The words hit like stones—heavy with something unspoken: regret. Loss.
Ivy blinked, startled by the crack in his voice. "You talk like… you've been through it."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "You could say that. You remind me of someone I couldn't save."
Her heart twisted despite herself. For a moment, she forgot to be angry.
"I'm not them," she whispered.
"I know," he said, voice low. "But you're standing in the same place she once did."
He stopped just a step away, close enough for her to see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes—the quiet ache behind his calm.
"I don't need saving," she said again, though her voice softened.
Qin Jingze's smile was faint, almost wistful. "Maybe not. But even the strongest people deserve someone to make sure they don't fall again."
Rain began to fall harder—fine, cold drops that blurred the world into gray. Ivy shivered, hugging her bag tighter. His coat was soaked through, yet he didn't move, didn't flinch.
Finally, she sighed. "You're impossible."
"Persistent," he corrected, a trace of humor flickering in his tone.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "That's one word for it."
He was supposed to be gone. That night—the rooftop, his hand catching hers before the fall—should have been the end. Not the beginning of this.
She turned away and walked on without another word. Qin Jingze stood still, rain dripping from his hair, watching her disappear down the Street
The Bus Stop
Her reflection ghosted faintly in the bus stop glass. Her hair clung damply to her cheeks. She looked tired—too tired for eighteen.
A sleek black limousine rolled to a stop across the street.
Her stomach dropped. Not again.
The tinted window lowered, revealing one of Qin Jingze's bodyguards—short-haired, expression hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. He gave a curt nod, respectful.
"Miss Ivy," he said through the rain. "Mr. Qin requests that you accept this."
He extended a small envelope—deep red, embossed with a dragon intertwined with a crown.
Ivy stared. "No," she said quickly. "Tell him to stop following me."
The man didn't argue. He placed the envelope on the bench beside her, tipped his head once, and the car pulled away—smooth, silent, leaving only the faint scent of leather and rain.
Ivy hesitated before picking it up. The envelope was cool under her fingers. Against her better judgment, she opened it.
Inside was a single card, white and heavy, edged with gold.
You shouldn't walk home in the rain alone. Q.J.
Her grip tightened. Anger, confusion, and something dangerously close to warmth churned in her chest.
She tried to tear it in half—but the paper didn't rip. Instead, faint golden lines shimmered across its surface, like circuitry, glowing briefly before fading.
"What the…" she whispered, stepping back.
The bus arrived with a hiss. She stuffed the card deep into her bag, slammed the flap shut, and climbed aboard without looking back.
But even as the city blurred past the rain-streaked windows, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was still watching.
That Night
Rain whispered against her bedroom window. The city lights outside shimmered in pools of gold.
Ivy sat at her desk, the half-torn card lying in front of her. Under the lamplight, faint traces of gold still pulsed across it.
She shouldn't have brought it home. She should've thrown it away.
But curiosity… it gnawed at her.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Sleep well, Ivy. I love you.
She froze. Then scowled. "What the hell?" she muttered, tossing the phone onto her bed.
Lying back, she stared at the ceiling. His words. His voice. That impossible, infuriating day.
Why won't he just leave me alone?
Elsewhere
Rain slicked the driveway of a luxury hotel, lights gleaming on the wet pavement. A black limousine glided to a stop beside a marble fountain.
Qin Jingze stepped out. The rain seemed to avoid him, parting as he closed the door. He handed the keys to the valet without a glance.
Inside, the lobby glowed with muted grandeur—marble, bronze, and the faint scent of cedar. Staff bowed as he passed. He didn't slow.
To anyone watching, he was the image of control—composed, immaculate, untouchable.
But as the elevator doors slid shut, something in his eyes faltered.
Ivy.
Even surrounded by silence and wealth, her name lingered like a heartbeat. The rain on her shoulders. The tremor in her voice. The defiance in her eyes.
The elevator chimed. His suite opened onto a panorama of city lights.
He loosened his tie, exhaled, and for the first time that night allowed himself a dangerous thought:
She's still running.
His lips curved—not quite a smile.
But not forever.