Wei disappeared through the dining-hall doors first.
Jian waited exactly one minute—long enough for the rain to drum harder on the roof tiles, long enough for the warmth of their earlier conversation to cool into something damp and clinging.
Not long enough to erase it.
He stepped inside.
The doors had been propped wide to let the night air circulate, but now the wind slanted rain across the threshold in fine silver sheets.
Droplets caught the bare bulbs overhead and shattered into tiny sparks of light.
Most students had already migrated toward the corridor for roll call, forming loose, restless clusters rather than proper lines.
The energy was frayed—full stomachs, tired limbs, the sudden promise of no early-morning hike tomorrow.
Yanyan stood in the brightest pocket of noise, flanked by Lian, Mei, and two of Jian's usual friends.
Their laughter rolled out in uneven bursts, the kind that came easiest when everyone was too full and too damp to care about volume.
She spotted him the second he crossed under the overhang.
"Jian!" She lifted her hand in a quick, bright wave.
He walked toward them at his normal pace.
Not hurried.
Not dragging.
Just ordinary enough to pretend nothing had tilted in the last twenty minutes.
As though he hadn't stood under a flickering yellow bulb with rain soaking through his collar, breathing the same charged air as Wei.
Yanyan closed the last step, nudging his stomach lightly with her elbow and leaning in until her shoulder brushed his.
"This is going to be you soon," she whispered, one eyebrow arched in playful suggestion.
He blinked. "What?"
She tipped her chin toward Lian and Mei,
who were doubled over reenacting some exaggerated story about couples sneaking out during school trips—whispered plans,
stolen kisses behind equipment sheds, dramatic getaways in the rain.
Before Jian could form a reply, one of his friends—Kai, always the loudest—cut in with theatrical volume.
"Why did our Jian-ge take so long in the bathroom, huh?" He drew the words out like taffy. "Is this… suspicious behavior we're witnessing?"
The other friend, Hao, leaned in and squinted dramatically at Jian's hands. "Look at him. Fingers look a little… tired. Overworked, maybe."
The group detonated.
Laughter crashed over them like the rain outside. Yanyan covered her mouth with both hands—half mortified, half delighted—shoulders shaking.
Jian stared at them with flat, unimpressed eyes.
"Shut up," he said, voice slicing clean through the noise. "I have a girlfriend. Not needed."
He let the silence hang for half a beat.
"But for you two?" he added, deadpan. "I doubt it. Oh wait—sorry. I confirm. Zero interest."
"Savage!" Kai howled, slapping Hao on the back.
"Jian-ge coming for blood tonight!"
Yanyan shook her head, still smiling, cheeks flushed from secondhand embarrassment and genuine amusement.
Then she reached up without warning and touched his hair.
"Why is it wet?"
Jian stiffened—just a flicker, gone in an instant.
Before he could answer, someone near the entrance shouted, "Hey! It's actually pouring now!"
Every head turned.
Rain hammered the tiled roof in earnest, streaking past the open doorway in shimmering curtains. The wind carried the clean, metallic scent inside.
"Out of nowhere," Rui exhaled, dramatic as ever.
One of the boys—probably the same idiot who'd started the rain-master nonsense earlier—threw both hands toward the ceiling.
"Oh, rain master, thank you for showering your love and support upon us humble mortals!"
"What love and support?" Dev shot back.
"Because if it keeps raining like this, no hike tomorrow, genius!"
A stunned beat.
Then—
"Oh hell. You're right. Thank you, rain master! Thank you,! We bow to your wet wisdom!"
The group collapsed again, laughter folding over itself until someone wheezed.
Yanyan turned back to Jian, her expression softening.
"Did you go outside?" she asked, quieter now, concern threading through the playfulness.
Jian rubbed the back of his neck in that casual way he knew looked believable. "Nah. Just came in from the washroom halfway. The dining hall's basically open-air tonight. Got splashed."
She studied his face a second longer than felt comfortable—eyes searching for cracks he hoped weren't visible.
Then she smiled, small and fond.
"Don't catch a cold, okay? After roll call, go dry your hair properly."
Jian dipped his head in mock obedience. "As you command, madam."
She rolled her eyes, but the fondness stayed.
When he lifted his head again—
He saw him.
Wei stood maybe eight meters away, near Chen and a handful of quieter students.
The rain-light slanting through the doorway cut sharp across his face, highlighting the line of his jaw, the faint shadow under his eyes.
He wasn't laughing. Wasn't speaking. He was simply looking at Jian.
Direct.
Unblinking.
And in Jian's head, uninvited, the echo returned.
Jian.
The way Wei had said it earlier—quiet, steady, stripped of everything dramatic or pleading. Just his name, spoken after months of careful distance.
Something under Jian's ribs clenched hard.
"Oh no," he muttered under his breath. "Not again. Fuck."
"Hmm?" Yanyan tilted her head.
"Nothing."
The homeroom teacher stepped forward then, clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield.
"Roll call, everyone! Settle down!"
The chatter dimmed into a lazy hum of attention. Students shifted, half-raising hands, some not bothering at all.
Names rolled out one by one.
When "Cheng Wei" was called, Wei's voice came calm and even.
"Here."
Jian kept his eyes on the teacher's clipboard. Didn't look.
When "Sen Jian " followed, he answered just as level.
"Here."
Rain kept falling. Steady. Inescapable.
Roll call ended quickly.
The teacher delivered the usual reminders—curfew at ten sharp, no wandering after lights-out, early activity tomorrow weather permitting (a chorus of hopeful groans answered that last part).
Then she waved them off.
Students dispersed in slow, uneven waves toward the dormitories.
The energy had shifted—quieter, heavier, dampened by the rain and the long day. Someone was still muttering grateful prayers to the "rain master."
Another group debated whether the bonfire would be moved indoors or canceled entirely.
Jian walked with his cluster toward the covered wooden walkway.
Yanyan stayed close beside him, still talking—something about how indoor games might be fun, how they could raid the kitchen for snacks if the teachers looked the other way.
Behind them Kai was still performing his rain-master routine to anyone who would listen.
And yet—
Jian felt it.
Not the rain tapping the roof overhead.
Not the laughter fading behind them.
Something finer. Thinner. Like an invisible thread pulled taut between two fixed points, no matter how much space they tried to put between them.
Ahead, Wei walked beside Chen.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
But not far apart either.
Their strides matched without effort—same measured rhythm, same contained posture. Rain dripped from the eaves in steady plinks beside them.
Jian slowed without deciding to.
His group pulled a little ahead; Yanyan glanced back once, curious, but kept walking when he waved her on vaguely.
Fate didn't rush.
It didn't shout.
It simply pulled—quietly, persistently—even when every part of you wanted to let go.
Wei didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
The thread stayed tight.
Jian exhaled once, sharp and quiet, and followed the others toward the dorms.
The rain kept falling.
Somewhere in the dark fields beyond the lights, thunder rolled—low, distant, patient.
Waiting.