The instant the girl's words fell, the whole world seemed to stop.
The noise from the hallway, the wind outside the window—everything, in that moment, seemed to fall silent in unspoken agreement, waiting alongside Mary for the answer.
Russell stood there, looking at the girl before him, at those eyes that seemed unusually clear in the sunlight, yet veiled in a thin sheen of water.
He didn't know how to answer this question.
What kind of answer could possibly be worthy of such expectation?
The wind outside suddenly picked up, lifting a strand of the girl's hair and brushing it across her cheek, before she tucked it behind her ear out of reflex.
The motion was light, natural—but Russell saw that her hand was trembling.
Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but was afraid that speaking would shatter whatever this was.
So those eyes simply stayed fixed on him.
Russell suddenly remembered something Mary had said in class.
—Habit really is a terrifying thing.
Getting used to having someone nearby. Getting used to taking care of someone. Getting used to knowing, the moment you open your eyes each morning, exactly who you'll see that day.
So used to it that the mind had already come to treat it all as a given.
And then, it was impossible to quit.
He realized that he, too, seemed to have grown used to it.
Used to the anticipation of walking into the classroom on school days. Used to that faint scent of white camellia. Used to those blue eyes that always carried warmth and doting fondness.
Used to the days with her by his side.
In that instant, his mind raced through countless possibilities—refusal, acceptance, or perhaps deflecting with a joke.
He suddenly felt that, in this moment, all his accumulated knowledge wasn't enough.
His extraordinary reason seemed unable to solve the problem in front of him.
But in the end, Russell gave his answer.
He gave up thinking, and answered on pure instinct and feeling alone.
He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said, because after those words left his mouth, all he could remember was the smile that slowly bloomed on her face—glistening with tears like something out of a poem.
Mary smiled.
She smiled like a child whose Christmas wish had just come true.
She took a step forward, crossing the line that had, until now, maintained the barest restraint, and stood right in front of Russell.
She stood at a distance that could no longer be defined as merely "good friends."
Then, suddenly, she lunged forward—throwing herself into his arms.
The motion was so quick that Russell didn't even have time to react.
He felt the scent of white camellia wash over him, and then there was a warm, softly trembling body in his arms.
Her face was buried against his chest, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
The scene from that afternoon in the classroom replayed itself now, in reverse.
He wasn't sure how much time passed.
Finally, Mary's voice rose, muffled against his chest.
"From today on..."
She lifted her head, gazing into Russell's eyes, and spoke each word as though making a solemn declaration.
"We're not friends anymore."
Even if they weren't yet lovers, even if there was still a step or two of distance left to cross—
That didn't matter.
If she could take this step here today, then there was hope she could take the second and third steps in the days to come.
Until she reached the destination she wanted.
For that, she had to tear off, with her own hands, the label that would keep her rooted in place.
No longer friends meant no longer needing to maintain that friendly distance.
More than friendship, not quite lovers.
Hearing this, Russell looked at the girl in his arms.
He suddenly felt he had never really looked at her properly before.
No—he had.
He'd looked at her countless times.
In the morning light of the lecture hall, by the cafeteria window in the afternoon, at the school gate in the glow of sunset.
But never like this—this close, this unreserved, seeing what lay in the very depths of her eyes.
What was in there was him.
Only him.
So he raised his hand.
It paused in midair, as if hesitating, or perhaps confirming something.
Then it settled gently on top of Mary's head.
His palm rested against her soft silver hair, stroking it lightly.
The girl's body stiffened for a moment.
"You—"
She spoke without thinking, her voice trembling slightly. "What are you doing?"
Russell didn't answer.
He just kept stroking her head, slow and gentle, like soothing a startled kitten.
A few seconds later, he finally spoke.
"I was thinking."
His voice came from above her. "We've known each other so long, and I don't think I've ever touched your head like this before."
Russell said.
"Would friends do this?"
Mary blinked.
Then she suddenly felt her face grow hot.
"...Idiot."
She buried her face against his chest again, muttering.
The bell announcing the end of lunch break rang, signaling that this warm moment had to come to an end.
Mary slowly let go of Russell.
She raised her eyes to look at him again—still with the same gentle smile in them, but with something else added now.
"Let's go, it's time for class."
the girl said.
"Mm." Russell nodded.
Just as he was about to walk out of the classroom the way he usually did, he felt a tug at the hem of his jacket.
He turned back to find Mary smiling at him.
Then, before Russell could figure out what was happening, she pressed close to him again and, without giving him a chance to refuse, took his hand.
Friends don't hold hands.
But they weren't friends anymore, so it was fine.
"Let's go." She smiled and took the lead, stepping out of the classroom.
The moment they stepped through the door, something between them had changed—and yet, somehow, nothing had.
The hallway was still full of people coming and going.
Students who hadn't gone far after class, students heading to their next lecture, students who might have just happened to be passing by.
The moment the two of them stepped out, every gaze in the hallway turned toward them at once.
Mary didn't shy away.
Her hand stayed clasped in Russell's, fingers interlaced, tight and unyielding.
There wasn't a trace of hesitation in the gesture, not a trace of guilt—only a kind of proud claim of ownership.
Russell walked beside her, led by the hand, silently feeling the weight of every gaze that landed on him.
Along with the Malice Points that kept climbing to an exhausting degree.
The two of them strode back to the classroom, quite unbothered by it all.
By this time, the classroom already had quite a few students in it.
The moment the two of them appeared, the room, which had been somewhat noisy, fell instantly silent.
That silence was brief.
Brief enough to last only two or three seconds.
But in those two or three seconds, every eye was fixed on their interlocked hands.
Mary still didn't let go.
She led Russell through the rows of desks and chairs to their usual seat by the window.
Only then did she finally release his hand, and sit down.
Russell sat down beside her.
Sunlight streamed through the window, spilling a warm patch of gold onto the desk between them.
Mary didn't look at him.
She simply took her textbook out of her bag, opened it, picked up her pen, and began writing something in her notebook.
Everything looked the same as always.
But everything was different.
The classroom gradually filled with noise again.
But glances still drifted over toward the two of them now and then, before quickly darting away.
Russell couldn't remember how he'd spent the rest of the afternoon.
He didn't think he'd fallen asleep, but he wasn't sure he'd stayed awake, either.
One thing was certain—he hadn't taken in a single word of that class.
When the bell rang, announcing the end of the school day, the Professor finally dismissed the class.
Students rose one by one, gathering their things and leaving.
Nearly everyone, before they left, glanced toward the two figures in the back row.
Russell remained leaning against the wall, lost in thought, while Mary sat there unhurried, even offering a smile to those glances that landed on her.
Gradually the classroom emptied, until only the two of them remained.
Only then did Russell snap out of his daze.
He turned to meet the girl's smiling blue eyes.
"School's out?" he asked.
"Mm." Mary nodded.
"Well... let's go, then." Russell said, and began packing up his things, ready to leave.
Just then, Mary's voice rang out beside him.
"Russell."
"Mm?" Russell paused mid-motion, turning back on reflex.
"What is it?"
Mary sat beside him, her gaze drifting, as if gathering her courage.
"Starting today..."
She paused.
"I'll work hard to make you get used to it."
Russell blinked. "Get used to what?"
At that, the corner of the girl's mouth curled up slightly. She reached out and took hold of his hand.
"This, of course."
She said, and with a slight tug of her arm, pulled the unsuspecting Russell toward her, wrapping her arms around his neck without a word and pulling him against her.
Just like that afternoon in the empty classroom, when she had done the same thing to him.
"And also—this."
The scent of white camellia enveloped Russell once again, without warning.
The soft touch, the warmth of her body, and the heartbeat so close he could feel it—all of it filled his senses in that instant.
Russell froze.
His mind went blank for the second time, because of the same person, the same situation.
Mary just held him like that, her chin resting lightly atop his head, as if cradling a treasure once lost and now regained.
Her arms wrapped around his head, her fingers running through his hair, slowly, gently.
"Hey..."
Russell's voice came out muffled from within her embrace, tinged with helplessness.
"We're in a classroom."
"I know." Mary's voice came from above, laced with a smile.
"But there's no one here right now, is there?"
As she spoke, her arms around his neck tightened a little more, as if declaring something.
"This is how it'll be from now on, too," she said.
"Every day, until you get used to it."
Until you take all of this for granted.
Until the day I don't do it, and you're the one who feels off without it.
"..." Russell fell silent.
What was this, some new kind of PDA?
"So," he tried, "can we maybe—"
"No."
Mary cut him off without hesitation, then held him even tighter.
"It's allowed when I say it's allowed."
The girl's voice carried an unyielding domineering tone, but more than that, a kind of willful pouting.
At that, Russell sighed and gave up struggling.
Fine, then.
When it rains, it rains—there's nothing to be done about it.
Let her have her way.
It's not like he was losing anything by it.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed.
Long enough for the sunlight outside to shift from gold to orange, long enough that not a single footstep or voice could be heard in the hallway anymore.
The whole lecture building had gone quiet, save for the faint whistle of wind slipping through the gaps in the windows.
Mary finally let go.
She drew back a little, putting some distance between them, and looked down at Russell in her arms.
Russell tilted his face up to look at her, his eyes full of helplessness.
"Had enough hugging?" he asked.
At that, the girl tilted her head, thinking it over seriously.
"If I said not yet, could we keep going?"
"Just kidding." Mary laughed softly. "If I kept going, someone here would start protesting."
"Actually, I've been wanting to protest for a while now." Russell sighed, straightening up out of her embrace and smoothing down his mussed hair.
"I think I finally understand what you meant earlier, when you said we weren't friends anymore.
"Oh?"
Mary raised an eyebrow. "And what do you think it means?"
Russell looked up, meeting her eyes, then asked, with a note of genuine, probing seriousness:
"Are you trying to be my mother?"
A deathly silence spread through the empty classroom.
The smile on Mary's face froze the instant Russell's words fell.
For a moment, she had no idea how to answer.
Those eyes, always so composed and assured, now held nothing but blank shock.
What had he just said?
Mother?
Once the word was fully processed by her brain, Mary's cheeks flushed red at a visibly rapid pace.
A scalding red that burned from her neck all the way up to the tips of her ears.
"You... you..."
She pointed at Russell, her lips trembling, unable to get out a single complete word.
The face that always wore a poised, proper smile was now painted with fury and disbelief.
"You... I..."
She had worked up the courage, taken that step, carefully built that atmosphere so tender it was almost dripping—
And what did he mean, she wanted to be his mother?
What mother had she ever heard of holding her own son the way she just had?
What mother's heart raced and cheeks burned while hugging her own son?
That damn Chameleon!
Mary screamed the words inside her head, but her face stayed burning red, and not a single word came out of her mouth.
All she could do was glare fiercely at him with those watery eyes, as if accusing him, through sheer force of stare, of the crime of being utterly clueless about romance.
Russell looked at her—at her body trembling faintly with fury and embarrassment, at her ears that looked ready to bleed—and finally, unable to hold it in, let out a soft laugh.
"You're still laughing!" Mary finally found her voice again.
"I'm leaving!"
She stood up angrily, as if about to storm off and leave Russell behind.
Russell watched the girl's resolute retreating figure, listened to those determined footsteps—only for them to stop short after just a few steps.
Mary halted at the doorway.
Then, she took a deep breath, turned her head back, and gave Russell a resentful look, her face still tinged with the last traces of red.
"What are you doing just standing there?"
Her hand rested on the doorframe, her slender fingers curling slightly, as if waiting for something.
Russell smiled, stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked toward her, unhurried.
"Coming."
He walked up beside her.
Mary glanced at him, then turned her face away, pushed open the classroom door, and walked out first.
Russell followed behind her.
The hallway was quiet, with only the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty space.
When they reached the landing at the stairwell, Mary suddenly stopped.
Russell nearly walked into her.
"What's wrong?"
Mary didn't turn around.
She just stood there, her back to him, on the landing at the stairwell turn.
Sunlight slanted in through the window at the side, wrapping her entirely in a warm glow.
Two seconds passed.
She reached her hand back behind her.
The hand moved slowly, as if hesitant, or as if giving him time to react.
Her fingers were slightly spread, the tips tinged faintly pink in the sunset light.
"Hand."
Her voice came from ahead of him, soft, carrying a deliberate calm.
"Hold it."
Russell blinked.
He looked at the hand reaching back toward him, then smiled.
He stepped forward and took it.
Mary's hand moved slightly in his grip.
Then her fingers slid through his, locking together.
Fingers interlaced.
Just like at noon.
Just like in the classroom just now.
She didn't turn around, but he saw the tips of her ears redden again.
"Let's go," she said.
Her voice was still soft, but carried something more now—something like contentment, or perhaps the quiet delight of getting exactly what she wanted.
The two of them walked down the stairs and out of the lecture building, hand in hand.
The setting sun stretched their shadows long, overlapping so that it was hard to tell whose was whose.
At the school gate, where the carriages waited.
Mary finally came to a stop.
She turned to face him.
The setting sun fell on her face, making those blue eyes shine especially bright.
A faint blush still lingered on her cheeks, the corners of her lips curved slightly upward.
"See you tomorrow." she said.
"Mm." Russell nodded. "See you tomorrow."
The girl let go of his hand and stepped forward.
Just as Russell was about to watch her leave, he saw Mary turn back toward him.
Then she took a step forward.
Very close.
Close enough that Russell could see the curve of her lashes, could catch the scent of white camellia on her, could feel the faint rise and fall of her breath.
She rose up on her toes, leaning toward the side of his face.
And then—
Her lips brushed lightly against his cheek.
Only for an instant.
As light as a feather touching down on water.
Then she pulled away.
She pulled back quickly—so quickly Russell didn't have time to react.
A warm trace still lingered on his cheek, like the faint touch of a soap bubble.
Mary let out a soft laugh, then stepped back again, lifting the hem of her skirt and dipping into a slight bow.
It was a proper, ladylike curtsy—but coming from her, it carried a playful mischief.
"Well then," she straightened up, giving him a wink, "see you tomorrow, Russell."
With that, she turned and walked toward the waiting carriage.
Her steps were light, almost like dancing.
Before the carriage door closed, she leaned her head out and waved to him.
Russell waved back.
The carriage rattled off into the distance, vanishing around the corner.
He stood there, watching the direction it had gone, watching the sky stained red by the setting sun.
A long moment passed.
He raised a hand and touched his own cheek.
A trace of warmth still lingered there.
"Does this count as a sneak attack?"
he muttered to himself, his voice scattered by the wind, before he laughed helplessly.
"Guess I'll have to get used to this too."
In the carriage, Mary leaned against the soft cushion and buried her face in her hands.
Her ears were still burning, her cheeks still hot, even her heartbeat still faster than usual.
She'd kissed him.
She'd really kissed him.
It was only on the cheek, only for an instant—but it still counted as a kiss.
The corners of the girl's mouth kept curling upward, into a shape she couldn't press down no matter how hard she tried.
She couldn't help laughing out loud.
"Miss, are you all right?"
the driver asked from outside.
"I'm fine." Mary quickly composed herself, though her mouth was still curved. "I'm fine."
She leaned back against the cushion again, gazing out the window at the streets rushing past.
Life was starting to feel like something worth looking forward to.
By the time Russell got back to Baker Street, the sky had gone completely dark.
He'd just pushed the door open, about to greet Mrs. Hudson as usual, when he heard the sound of conversation from upstairs.
It sounded like Charlotte was talking with someone.
"Who's here, Mrs. Hudson?" Russell asked curiously.
"Oh, Mycroft's here." Mrs. Hudson said. "Seems like Charlotte called him over."
At that, Russell raised an eyebrow, glanced once more toward Charlotte's room, and headed up.
He pushed the door open, and there was the familiar man, sitting in the armchair beside Charlotte, dressed in an impeccable suit, a cup of black tea in hand.
Charlotte sat in her usual seat on the couch, also holding a cup of black tea, her expression indifferent.
At the sound of the door, both of them turned their heads at once.
"Good evening, Russell." Mycroft smiled at him.
"Good evening, Mr. Mycroft." Russell replied with a smile. "What brings you here today?"
"Charlotte asked me to come," Mycroft said, without hiding it. "And it just so happens I wanted to try Mrs. Hudson's cooking again."
"That's good to hear," Russell said, nodding, and walked into the room.
As he looked for a place to sit, he realized the only remaining spot was squeezed right between the two of them.
For some reason, it felt oddly awkward.
But Russell sat down there anyway.
Just as he was about to open his mouth, Charlotte's voice beat him to it.
"You're later than usual today."
She said, her gaze landing on Russell, before adding, "Quite a bit later."
"Yeah," Russell said, nodding casually. "Something came up at school, and I missed the tram on the way back, so I walked."
"What kind of thing?" Charlotte asked idly.
"Nothing much," Russell shrugged. "An interview for the student magazine."
"Another interview?"
"No, the magazine got printed, and it sold like crazy at school..." Russell said, with a helpless expression.
"And then, you know—or maybe Mr. Mycroft would understand better."
"I can understand that," Mycroft said with a faint smile. "After all, you're quite the celebrity in London these days."
He said, his gaze lingering on Russell for a moment.
Then the smile at the corner of his mouth deepened.
A chill ran through Russell for no discernible reason.
Charlotte didn't seem inclined to let the matter drop. She set down her teacup, looked him over carefully, and gave a faint sniff.
"You have a faint scent on you," she said. "White camellia. Were you with Mary Morstan?"
"We... always walk home from school together," Russell said. "Is there a problem with that?"
At that, Charlotte's brows drew together slightly.
"No, no problem." She withdrew her gaze and picked up her teacup again.
Seeing this, Mycroft's eyebrow twitched, and the look he gave Russell grew even more meaningful.
"Ahem, speaking of which," Russell cleared his throat, trying to change the subject.
"Charlotte, why did you call Mr. Mycroft over?"
"It's about the Professor." Mycroft said.
"Charlotte's told me everything—what happened to you two on Clement Street."
He paused.
"Honestly, your behavior surprised me somewhat—though not entirely.
It's fairly consistent with the impression I already had of Charlotte."
At that, Russell laughed awkwardly, while Charlotte, beside him, scoffed dismissively:
"I didn't ask you here to say things like that, Mycroft."
"Don't get worked up, little sister." Mycroft shrugged, his tone unhurried.
"This is just a reminder—don't let a moment of impulsiveness lead you to a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life."
"You don't need to remind me of that."
"Good to hear."
Mycroft took a sip of his tea.
"Now, back to the matter at hand."
He looked at Russell.
"As the first witness on the scene that night, I'll need your testimony, Russell.
Tell me everything you saw that night, without leaving anything out."
____
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