Chapter 7

The rainy night was still.

Zhou Lang’s eyes were bright, her breath pleasant, her voice lovely.

Her words carried a light mischief and a thread of teasing—yet in the silence of the night, there was an intimacy in them, a familiar tenderness.

For one instant, Ji Xiunian drifted.

She lowered her head and said quietly, “Don’t joke. Zhou… Dean Zhou.”

The instant that polite, distant form of address left her mouth, the frozen stillness shattered.

Zhou Lang’s smile deepened, though her eyes cooled a shade. “Fine. Then you’ll owe me.”

Ji Xiunian: “What did you say?”

Zhou Lang hopped down from the desk. “A joke. You took it seriously?”

Ji Xiunian: “…”

Zhou Lang picked up the documents from the desk. “It’s late. I’m heading back. You should go too.”

Ji Xiunian didn’t move. “I have one more file to finish.”

Zhou Lang said nothing more and left first.

Ji Xiunian stood, shut down the computer, switched off the power strip, and only when she stood at the door turning off the light did she see the coffee Zhou Lang had casually left on her desk.

—The cup was still full. And cold.

Tuesday. Zhou Lang had Le Cheng contact the equipment company to test the dance studio’s systems.

Once the new building’s site was settled, the campus dance studios, music rooms, and the like would all move over, size and layout essentially unchanged; this test was for procuring the supporting equipment.

Dean Hao had assigned Fang Xun to the task. After greeting Zhou Lang, she prepared to lead the people over.

Zhou Lang stopped her. “Is anyone using the dance studio right now?”

“There is—Teacher Ji is teaching in there right now.”

“Good. I’ll come along.”

Fang Xun: “…”

If the Dean and Teacher Ji started fighting in the dance studio, wouldn’t she be the culprit who brought them together?!

“You’re going to…” Fang Xun probed her expression carefully, “check the equipment? I’ll follow up on that, so you…”

“I just want to have a look,” Zhou Lang said, seeing straight through her, smiling. “Relax. Let’s go.”

Fang Xun touched her ear and resigned herself.

By the time they reached the dance studio, Ji Xiunian was mid-class.

Her classes ran two hours each and were always packed. Her range was broad too—Chinese classical dance, ballet, Latin.

Fang Xun found an empty studio for the technicians testing the sound system, and coming back out, saw Zhou Lang standing in the corridor outside the transparent glass door, quietly watching the dance studio.

She was a little nervous. “Dean Zhou, everything here is arranged. If you’d like…”

“Is her schedule really that tight?”

Zhou Lang cut her off. “I remember she teaches mornings. It’s only one o’clock—class already?”

Thrown by the interruption, Fang Xun faltered. “Teacher Ji’s always like this.”

Zhou Lang asked, very gently, “Mm. Always how?”

Hearing the tone—mild as small talk—Fang Xun relaxed. “You wouldn’t know, but we all say Professor Ji is a genuine workaholic.”

Zhou Lang nodded, smiling. “She does seem a bit like that.”

She remembered—she’d been like this before, too.

This person’s life ran on strict order, everything sorted into place, every unknowable contingency refused.

Perhaps… she had been the first uncontrollable contingency in her life.

Fang Xun hadn’t expected her to be so mild. “Right. Teacher Ji puts her whole heart into teaching and guiding students, though she does little administrative work.”

Zhou Lang gave a soft “mm.”

Her gaze never left the room—never left the woman dancing within—and the corner of her eye twitched.

A world apart from the gentle elegance of the Chinese classical dance last time: today’s class was the far more sensual Latin.

Ji Xiunian wore a black, close-fitting Latin dance dress. The front was simple; the V-cut back was the eye-catcher, baring a broad sweep of snow-white back and the long line of her spine.

“She’s good to her students, isn’t she?”

“Good? Teacher Ji is wonderful to her students. Outside class hours she comes in to coach them too. My guess is she hasn’t eaten lunch today either.”

Zhou Lang’s voice was flat. “Oh.”

Break time arrived in the studio.

Zhou Lang and Fang Xun stepped back a few paces, out of the way of the students pushing out the door.

But she still heard, with perfect clarity, what they were saying.

“Professor Ji’s back is lethal! I can’t—I’m done for!”

“Forget the back—that waist! I’m starting my diet tonight, I swear.”

“You two, enough. You never pay attention in class, just coveting that gorgeous body. Shameless.”

“Look who’s talking, Miss Face-Connoisseur. You’re always drooling over her—you can’t even remember the moves, how are you any better?”

“…”

Zhou Lang’s lips pressed into a thin, taut line.

An unaccountable irritation rose in her chest.

More than half the students were still inside, sitting cross-legged on the floor, resting.

Ji Xiunian, not noticing them, had walked to the rest room across the way.

From this angle, Zhou Lang could see her standing at the window, gazing out.

Her hand, though, was kneading her waist—now and then, haltingly, but never stopping.

She seemed in real discomfort.

Zhou Lang stared at the motion, remembering: when Ji Xiunian used to dance, she had injured her lumbar spine.

Back then she’d hidden it, sneaking off to rehabilitation sessions—until Zhou Lang found out.

Whenever it flared, if it was mild she rubbed in medicated oil at home; if severe, she saw a doctor for rehab massage.

That suffocating feeling deepened, making it hard to breathe.

Zhou Lang lifted her chin at Fang Xun. “Go in. Tell the students class ends here for today.”

Fang Xun: “Huh?”

“Send them home.”

“But… isn’t that a bit much?”

“As for Ji Xiunian,” Zhou Lang’s tone was flat but immovable, “I’ll handle it. Now, get the students to leave.”

Fang Xun: “…”

She never should have come!

She didn’t want to go—feared provoking Ji Xiunian—but Zhou Lang looked so serious… she couldn’t hold out.

“Then… I’ll go?”

Zhou Lang nodded, saying nothing.

Fang Xun silently lit two candles for herself and darted into the dance studio, saying a few words to the students.

She was Ji Xiunian’s teaching assistant; the students all knew her, and hearing that class was canceled, none questioned it, packing up and leaving in a stream.

When the studio had emptied, Fang Xun came back out. “Dean Zhou, I…”

Zhou Lang’s lashes lowered. “You can go.”

Fang Xun, operating on the principle of flee-first-survive, wanted maximum distance from the battlefield—halfway off, she remembered the technicians hadn’t come out yet and had to double back.

She’d taken only a few steps when she noticed the rest room door open.

Ji Xiunian walked out.

Fang Xun sucked in a cold breath and rooted to the spot.

Ji Xiunian, seeing the deserted studio, glanced around instinctively—and saw Zhou Lang leaning against the windowsill. “Dean Zhou?”

Zhou Lang met her gaze and said nothing.

Fang Xun, a short distance off: “…”

Wait, hold on—weren’t they supposed to fight? Why are they just staring at each other… why is this kind of gay?

Ji Xiunian saw Fang Xun too and waved a hand, signaling her to leave first.

She looked at Zhou Lang and asked, very quietly, “Dean Zhou. Where are my students?”

Zhou Lang’s expression was cold. “Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. Gone.”

Ji Xiunian pressed her lips together. A woman always so delicate and gentle, her face now taut, brows lightly drawn.

She was angry.

But even the way her brows knitted in anger was so refined, so gentle.

As if a faint, unspoken sorrow hung about her—such cultured grace that one wanted to smooth the crease between her brows.

Zhou Lang turned her head away. “We were testing the sound equipment today, Professor Ji. Did you not know?”

Ji Xiunian restrained her emotions as best she could. “Even so. Before dismissing my students, shouldn’t Dean Zhou have informed me first?”

Zhou Lang nodded as if in agreement, her tone feather-light. “Oh. Forgot.”

Ji Xiunian’s face was cold. “Zhou Lang.”

Zhou Lang’s tone remained unhurried. “Your instructions?”

“What’s past is past. Could you please stop wasting both our time?”

The words stung.

Zhou Lang laughed. “You say it’s over, so it’s over? Ji Xiunian, you should have seen this day coming—the moment you abandoned me. Why don’t you think back instead, to how I begged you.”

That bitterly cold winter.

She had stood in the snow, waiting the whole night through.

The lamp had been lit. But the room’s owner refused to spare her a single glance—wouldn’t grant her even one word.

Ji Xiunian’s breath caught.

Zhou Lang brushed past her, walking on.

Passing her, her steps halted.

Her gaze fell on those faintly trembling lashes—like a butterfly’s delicate wings, needlessly pitiable.

Zhou Lang’s lips parted.

The barbed words suddenly wouldn’t come. She swallowed them all.

Then something occurred to her, and she strode out.

On the way back to the college, Ji Xiunian realized her back hurt worse than it had in ages. Climbing the stairs, her legs wouldn’t move; half an hour resting in the office brought no relief. Out of options, she called Fang Xun to ask where she was.

Fang Xun, still fretting over the earlier fiasco, came at once. “Teacher Ji, just now—”

“Mm, another day. I called to ask a favor. Could you go to the Third Hospital and buy me a bottle of medicated oil?”

Fang Xun was startled. “Teacher Ji, you’re hurt?”

Ji Xiunian smiled. “Nothing serious. My back—old trouble.”

“I’ll head over now… oh, wait, no need—Cen Yao lives right by there. I’ll call her to buy it. Round trip’s about an hour. You can’t reach it yourself, right? Do you need help applying it after?”

Ji Xiunian hesitated, wanting to refuse.

She had never liked physical contact with anyone.

Fang Xun thought she hadn’t heard and asked again. “Do you need help applying the oil?”

“No need. I can manage.”

A different voice answered her.

Zhou Lang pushed the door open and came in, her breathing still uneven, as if she’d hurried over.

She looked at Fang Xun. “You go out first.”

Fang Xun froze. “Huh?”

“No need to call Cen Yao. I had someone fetch the medicine.”

“Dean Zhou,” Ji Xiunian called to her, “thank you, but don’t trouble yourself.”

Only then did Zhou Lang look at her, beads of sweat glimmering on her forehead, her dark gaze deep. “I said—it’s no trouble.”