Chapter 9

Lou Yixuan entered the room first and turned on the light, her heart full of eager anticipation for Lin Huayan’s second ambiguous answer of the night—which was also a “yes.”

However, Lin Huayan stopped at the doorway, her gaze sweeping past her to the window before settling on the door lock.

“Close the doors and windows before bed. And it’s best if you don’t go out again.”

Even her words of concern came out utterly devoid of warmth from Lin Huayan. “I approved your trip up the mountain, so I’m responsible for your personal safety.”

Just minutes ago, the surging emotions had been like the sea in a storm, waves crashing fiercely against the dam Lou Yixuan had painstakingly built over eight long years.

It had nearly toppled it.

But as the sadness and disappointment turned to rain, pouring down in sheets, the dam miraculously reinforced itself, and the massive waves subsided.

Her heart no longer churned; it gradually calmed and settled.

Like the sea after a storm—still rippling with waves, but no longer wild, no longer capable of whipping up tempests.

Expectations and hopes sank to the ocean floor, transforming into a profound silence.

This silence was the peace after breaking free from the emotional whirlpool, the self-healing of her soul after extreme turmoil. It admonished her and taught her not to harbor improper fantasies about the woman before her.

Time could easily alter a person’s appearance, but changing a person’s heart was far more difficult.

If Lin Huayan cared about her, why had she left her alone that afternoon on the unfamiliar playground? If Lin Huayan couldn’t let her go, why wouldn’t she even cross this room’s threshold now?

She could go upstairs for a look, but not enter the room to sit.

The office door was open to her, but the homestay room door was not.

The line between them was this very door.

A door symbolizing…”private territory.”

Rather than a boundary between her and Lin Huayan, it was Lin Huayan’s bottom line.

Within that line was acceptable—like public conversations or meals. Beyond it was not—like right now.

Separated by just one door.

This time, Lou Yixuan truly understood. She got it.

The casual help serving food in the cafeteria, the sense of duty in escorting her late at night—they stemmed merely from Lin Huayan’s kind heart.

She shouldn’t have let herself get so flustered.

She had nearly ruined everything.

“It’s too much trouble for Teacher Lin. I’m starting to feel bad about it,” Lou Yixuan said, glancing at the time on her wristwatch. “You should head back. Drive safely, take it slow.”

“Mm. Get some early sleep. See you at the base tomorrow.”

“You too. See you tomorrow.”

Lou Yixuan didn’t see Lin Huayan off downstairs—not even with polite formalities.

So naturally, she didn’t see how long Lin Huayan stood in the courtyard afterward, looking up at her room door.

It wasn’t actually that long. It was just that time dragged in Lin Huayan’s heart.

So slowly that she felt the star-filled night sky overhead would never be lit by the sun. So slowly that she thought the road ahead, once she started the car, would stretch on forever without end.

No tomorrow.

And thus, no “see you tomorrow” for them.

…

On the sixth day of military training, after coordinating with Lin Huayan and the instructor, Lou Yixuan set up her easel outside the training field.

Lin Huayan had seen Lou Yixuan paint with focus and confidence many times before.

But none of those “many times” had stirred her heart like this moment eight years later—making it race and ache all at once.

Golden light fell like fine gold dust, gently blanketing every corner of the playground and sprinkling over the “artist,” her easel.

In this warm glow, the summer breeze tousled the artist’s hair. Stray strands danced wildly across her face, but she seemed oblivious, utterly absorbed in the paper before her.

She gripped a charcoal pencil, its tip whispering across the page with her wrist’s fluid motion. Lines of varying thickness flowed rhythmically, each stroke perfectly placed, like magic.

Sunlight cast dappled shadows over her, adding mystery and elegance. Everything around blurred into the background; only she and her painting were the stars.

The absolute stars.

“Teacher Lin, don’t you think Little Lou sitting out in the sun like that might get heatstroke? Should I go hold an umbrella for her?”

In Du Heming’s eyes, Lou Yixuan was a “little fairy” to be cradled and cherished.

The mountain temperature wasn’t high enough for heatstroke.

Getting close to the “little fairy” was the real motive.

Du Heming pleaded with wide eyes. “I’ll be super quiet, just holding the umbrella, no talking. Okay?”

Heaven knew how badly she wanted to play flower guardian to the “little fairy,” but Lin Huayan had pulled her aside before Lou Yixuan even finished setting up.

“If you stand next to her the whole time, she can’t focus on painting. Don’t artists need that?”

Lin Huayan removed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose, then put them back on. “Do you have an extra hair tie? Take one over to her. Windy spots like this, hair gets in the way too.”

“Hair tie? Oh, yeah. Teacher Lin knows her stuff. I’ll take one over.”

Du Heming had mid-length hair that was anything but obedient, so she always carried ties.

Lou Yixuan smiled gratefully at the hair tie from Du Heming, then gathered her hair over her right shoulder and tied it into a loose braid.

Lin Huayan fiddled with the hair tie on her own right wrist, watching Lou Yixuan’s every move.

How’d she tie it so messily?

Hm? Is it messy?

Very messy.

Oh. I was painting on the balcony earlier, wind blew my hair into a wild frenzy. I tamed it.

Oh. And that’s how you tamed it?

Yeah. How else? Got a better way, Teacher Lin?

No.

I thought you’d say, just cut it short.

Don’t. Long hair looks good.

Mm, won’t cut it. Teacher Lin’s long hair looks good too. Don’t cut yours.

Come here a bit. Let me redo it for you.

Okay.

There. Your hair’s long and soft—next time, gather it in front like this for a braid. Easy, quick, doesn’t pull the scalp.

This is a “braid”? Isn’t it a “fishbone braid”?

Fishbone’s more complicated. Probably no time for that while painting.

True. How do you know all this, Teacher Lin? I’ve never seen you tie your hair.

I have a friend who loves fussing with hair. I was her model a few times, picked it up along the way.

Teacher Lin’s “along the way” is impressive.

Yeah, convenient for you. Practice it yourself, see if you learned.

No way. Teacher Lin tied it—I won’t undo it. Next time.

Lou Yixuan’s braiding technique was one Lin Huayan had taught her personally. It took three tries before she got it.

…

Over the day, Lou Yixuan sketched nine quick studies of Class 9 kids in military training—group scenes and solos alike.

She chose the most representative moments.

During the afternoon break, she laid the works out on the playground and had Class 9 students sit in a circle around her.

She showed them the captivating instants she’d captured, explained quick portrait techniques, and praised how great they’d been in training, sparking her inspiration.

She wasn’t overstepping to teach sketching; it was more like sharing.

Lin Huayan, Du Heming, He Huan, and even other grade-level homeroom teachers watched from the crowd. Students from other classes watched enviously.

“Sigh, Teacher Lin, I wanna join your class too, hear Teacher Lou call us ‘babies,'” Du Heming sighed.

He Huan smirked, mimicking her tone. “Sigh, so that’s the kind of Teacher Du you are.”

Caught off guard, Du Heming blushed furiously.

She stomped her foot and glared at He Huan. “Teacher He! What are you thinking!”

“What am I thinking?”

“You tell me!”

“No idea.”

He Huan looked perfectly innocent, not faking it.

Du Heming puffed her cheeks like a pufferfish, glaring in “warning.”

He Huan laughed. “Teacher Lou was right—Teacher Du is ‘refreshingly straightforward and cute.’ Totally cute.”

Time ticked by. Most students headed to dinner, but a few from Class 9 lingered, asking Lou Yixuan questions.

As break time neared its end, Lin Huayan approached and cut in. “Go eat, everyone. Save questions for Wednesday’s art class.”

With the students dispersed by Lin Huayan, the area cleared. Lou Yixuan began packing her paints and bag.

“Let me help.”

Du Heming stepped up, carefully gathering the scattered drawings from the ground. “These are amazing. No wonder your babies all look at you with hero worship.”

“Thanks.” Lou Yixuan took them and stowed them in her bag.

Lin Huayan stood just a few steps away, stock-still, watching coldly from the sidelines.

Lou Yixuan acted like she wasn’t there—no interaction, no need for her help.

Once things were packed, Lou Yixuan reached up to undo her braid, intending to return the hair tie to Du Heming.

Halfway through, she accidentally knocked off the Bluetooth earbud from her right ear—small and pure white.

Du Heming was whispering with He Huan and didn’t notice.

But Lin Huayan did.

“Your earbud fell.”

Lin Huayan stepped forward, about to bend and pick it up for her—but Lou Yixuan snatched it first. “I saw it. No need to trouble Teacher Lin.”