starlitunicorn

[starlitunicorn]

Scar Tissue, Chapter 2

Zayne x Reader. University AU. Reader is not MC. Slow-burn. Angst!

When you begin your university year with an accidental collision with her new professor, Dr. Zayne, your world is thrown into awkward chaos. What starts as a simple mishap spirals into a tense dynamic between you and the former surgeon. Word count - 7k Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks, everyone, for reading the first chapter and taking it so well. All the feedback was a huge push and inspiration for me to write the second chapter way faster! I hope you will like it as much as I do! ♡

Playlist for immersion~

Tags: @nm4565natty ♡

Since the successful apology, the storm in your head had finally quieted. You could breathe again—study, focus, even enjoy the rhythm of university life. Things were going well. You’d made a few friends through group projects, and the unfamiliar halls no longer felt so cold.

Another day arrived, draped in the crisp breath of fall. During your break, you claimed a quiet bench beneath a canopy of amber-tipped trees. With calming music humming in your earphones, you felt blissfully detached from the world around you. 

Sleep had once again been borrowed from the night—as if the day needed more hours than it could offer. You hunched over your book, eyes skimming lines you barely had the energy to digest, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Your hand reached to the side pocket of your backpack, grabbing a small bottle of Coke. With one effortless twist, the cap popped open, and you took a sip. The sweet, fizzy burn danced across your tongue, and you licked your lips to chase away the lingering sugar.

Then—darkness. A shadow fell over your pages, cutting off the sunlight like a sudden eclipse. Slowly, you tugged out an earbud and turned. The first thing you saw was the paper cup. Steam curled from the lid. Coffee.

“Do you know how much sugar is in that little thing?” Zayne’s voice came low, almost conversational. “It’s going to kill your teeth. And your stomach.” 

His hazel gaze flicked towards the Coke bottle, making the point without ever lifting his hand from his coat pocket.

You quietly chuckle, eyes dropping to the paper cup of coffee in his grasp. “Says someone who can’t survive a day without coffee. Shouldn’t you be following your own ‘Doctor's Order’? Too much coffee is bad for your health.” 

Your head turns back into the book, slowly turning the page, signaling that the conversation might be over. 

He hummed under his breath. “Judging by those dark circles under your eyes,” he muttered, ”you could use some caffeine yourself.” A pause. Then, almost like a bitter afterthought: “Besides, I’m not a doctor anymore. Just a slightly unhinged teacher.” 

You nearly choke on your breath, caught off guard, but quickly collect yourself. A slight smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. You hadn’t expected a comeback. Looks like your sharp remarks won’t go unnoticed.

“Is that the anatomy book?” he asks, squinting with mock scrutiny. “Don’t tell me you’re unprepared for my class.” 

You were just about to pop your earbud back in when it slipped, dangling mid-air. “Well,” you sigh with playful innocence, “I was too busy reading all the ‘additional’ research you recommended. I didn’t exactly have time for the actual assigned literature.” 

When you turn to face him, expecting another remark, you catch something entirely different—his expression, distant and lost. He’s drifting again, those sharp green eyes tracing the contours of your face, studying the way you fidget with the page between your fingers, the furrow in your brow as confusion slowly takes hold. Zayne is looking. Too long. Too intently.

And then—like a camera lens snapping back into focus—he blinks, breaks the gaze, and takes a long sip from his cup. A silent reset. He steps past you, his tall frame brushing against the edges of your world. “Don’t be late,” he tosses over his shoulder, voice casual, already swallowed by the tide of students flowing through the courtyard. 

You linger for a moment, lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. Victory. With a deep breath, you turn back to your book, the world around you settling once more into the calming beats of the lo-fi in your earphones. 

After staying outside a little too long, a numbing chill starts to settle on the tip of your nose. The air itself isn't freezing, but the wind cuts with a sharpness that bites deeper with every passing gust. You tuck your scarf closer, pack your things in haste, and head inside—just as the bell rings.

Crap. Scanning the hall for the class number. Without hesitation, you slip into the classroom, breath catching slightly in your throat. Relief washes over you when you see the desk at the front still empty—Dr. Zayne hasn’t arrived yet. 

You make your way to your usual spot in the back corner, the one that gives you a perfect view of the room, and a little bit of distance from everything else. Just as you sink into your seat, the door clicks shut behind you.

He enters with quiet precision, papers in hand, his movements deliberate. Zayne places his materials on the desk and arranges them with meticulous care—books stacked just so, edges aligned, like a tower of silent order. Perfectionist. 

Today’s reading is still fresh in your mind, and when he begins asking questions, your hand rises instinctively, again and again. Every answer draws his gaze. Steady. Measuring. Too long. Too often. You can't tell if it’s a silent compliment for your effort—or a subtle reprimand, a warning that you’ve drawn too much attention by reading ahead during the break.

Zayne remains unreadable. Unlike other professors who slip into storytelling, weaving their past glories into lectures with the familiar cadence of “Back in my day… I remember once…” he offers nothing personal. No anecdotes. No boasts.

Dr. Li doesn’t speak of his research unless asked, and even then, his answers are short. He carries his past like a sealed folder—classified. And somehow, that mystery makes him almost impossible to ignore. 

Your thoughts carried you back to your room, to that quiet evening spent fruitlessly searching for traces of your teacher’s past. You decide to ask some questions about his scientific works, hoping to get some answers or at least some hints. 

As the bell signaled the end of the lecture, you rushed towards the front desk before Zayne has a chance to begin his signature ritual of aligning books and stacking papers, you make your move. Slipping between the rows, you reach the front desk just as his hand hovers above a thick volume.

You place your fingers on the cover, halting him.

“I read this one. This was the piece you got awarded for,” you say, trying to sound casual despite the pulse quickening in your neck. “They said you wrote it in a couple of months. Isn’t that, like… insanely fast? Doesn’t it usually take years to gather that kind of data?”

Zayne’s brow rises slightly, his gaze flicking from the book to your face, then back again. For a moment, he looks almost surprised. Then, with a slow inhale, he adjusts his glasses and folds his arms across his chest.

“I spent years collecting the data. Once I had it all, writing it came quickly.” His tone is calm, practiced. “So technically, yes, months. But that doesn’t make it any less of a decade’s worth of work.” 

He turns back to his books, carefully returning to his methodical packing. But then, with the faintest smirk:

“So, the work of my life took you one night to read? Should I take that as a compliment—or are you trying to say I’m a terribly dull writer?”

You almost laugh. His counter-question is sharp. Classic deflection. You don’t let it rattle you. You quickly brush it off, ignoring the lingering question mark in the air. “That’s not what I meant. I just… found it fascinating. Did you work alone on it? Were there any, I don’t know—secret experiments involved?” Not giving the man a break, you keep showering him with questions, in hopes that he will give some clues on where to look to figure out more. 

You watch for a reaction, even just a flicker. But he doesn’t look up, merely clicks his tongue quietly in thought.

“You sound like someone fishing for extra reading,” he mutters, brushing imaginary dust from the table. “Most students beg me not to assign more work.”

But despite his words, you catch the subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. Suddenly, he extends a hand toward you, fingers curling in a silent beckon.

“Give me your phone.”

You hesitate for a moment, then reach into your pocket and hand it over. His nimble fingers quickly type something before returning the device to you.

“You can text me if you have more questions about my work while you’re reading it,” he hums low. “Might help you come up with better questions while it’s still fresh.” 

You stare at the screen— a new contact saved as “Dr. Zayne.” Again. No answers. Nothing. Lifting your head, ready to fire off another question, you realize he’s already gone— vanished from the classroom like a shadow.

Your eyebrows knit together, a silent frustration tightening your features. You… Muttering a curse under your breath, you adjust the strap of your backpack and step out. Is he avoiding you? Or just your questions?

As you strolled through the corridor, lost in thought, the unexpected weight of an arm slung around your shoulders jolted you slightly. A short figure matched your pace beside you, her brown hair curled neatly at the ends, framing familiar, soft features. Tara.

Her usual sunny grin was replaced with a dramatic pout, and she leaned her full weight on you like she was on the verge of collapse.

"Gooosh, I’m so tired and starving. Can we please go to the buffet already?" she moaned, dragging her feet for effect. "I had to skip lunch last break because someone forgot to do their homework.” 

Tara was chaos and comfort in one—an energetic, talkative whirlwind who never failed to pull you out of your own head. She was odd, but in the best possible way. Her obsession with tarot cards, her endless tangents about random facts, the way she bounced between topics like a pinball—it all somehow made sense in her orbit.

She was taking the same courses as you, though in a different group. Luckily, a few overlapping classes and a shared group project with her and her friend Andrew—meant you'd been spending more and more time together. When Simone was out, the apartment felt a little less empty thanks to their company. Weekends were no longer just for catching up on sleep, but also to get out and do something fun.

"Fine, fine," you sighed, finally giving in. "We can get something to eat."

You glanced around the hallway. “Is it just the two of us? You lose Andrew on the way?”

You gently shrugged off Tara’s weight of your shoulder, barely catching your backpack, before she managed to drag it with her. 

“He stayed behind to talk to the professor,” Tara said with a shrug, already digging into her coat pockets in search of change. “Something about being a ‘student representative’ for the biology museum trip. Big-boy stuff.”

She gave her bag a theatrical shake and fished out a handful of crumpled bills.

“They’re inviting anyone who wants to tag along—biology students get priority, but other departments can go too. Are you joining?”

You paused, weighing the idea in your head. It wasn’t the worst plan—especially if Tara and Andrew were going. But it also meant giving up a perfectly good day of doing absolutely nothing. Your eyes drifted down the corridor, thoughts wandering as you chewed over your options. 

“Are we getting extra credit for going?” you asked eventually. “And who���s the professor tagging along? Because if it’s one of the old, grumpy ones, I’m out. I’m not signing up for a field trip just to be babysat.”

You sighed, already picturing someone with a monotone voice and a clipboard, breathing down everyone's neck. It will feel like another lesson, just outside the university.

Tara’s laugh echoed off the corridor walls as she looped her arm around your shoulder again. Absolutely no regard for personal space. Not that you minded. Not with her.

“Is that really all you care about?” she teased. “You just wanna sneak off and ditch the museum tour?” 

She gave you a mock-serious look, lips twitching into a sly smirk. “Well… what if I told you two young teachers are coming along?” Her tone was conspiratorial, and her brows wiggled for effect.

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. There weren’t many young professors in your department, at least, not ones you’d actually crossed paths with. You swallowed the questions perched on your tongue, forcing a neutral expression. No point in feeding Tara’s fire. She’d sniff out your interest the moment you gave her anything to work with. 

Tara leaned in closer, voice lowering into a playful whisper. “One of them wears tailored suits and broods in the hallway.” 

You groaned and gave her a gentle shove, putting a bit of space between the two of you.

Your expression tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. “My God, Tara. Not this again. That’s exactly why I’m not going.”

She threw her hand to her forehead like a tragic heroine mid-faint and took an exaggerated breath. “Oh, come on!” Her fingers clamped onto your shoulders, giving them a small shake. “I’m not dumb, you know. Why else would you be reading all that academic crap?” She jabbed a finger at the stack of research books nestled in your arms—every one of them with Zayne’s name on the cover. 

You pulled the books closer to your chest, shielding them from Tara’s sticky, snack-seeking fingers. With a dramatic pout, puffing out your cheeks, you shot her a warning look.

“He freaks me out,” you muttered, voice low, as if afraid Zayne might materialize behind you. “That’s why I’m reading all this. Just trying not to fail.” Your eyes dropped to your shoes as the two of you neared the buffet. “He’s always watching. Feels like he knows everything about everyone. Like… if he catches you slacking, you’ll be executed on the spot.”

Tara was already distracted, her eyes dancing over the pastries behind the glass counter. She fidgeted with a few crumpled bills in her hand, clearly more focused on sugar than survival.

“Oh reeeally?” she drawled, her tone full of mock innocence. “Can’t say I’ve noticed that. Our group’s classes with him are super boring. He barely talks. Just reads from his notes like some kind of academic Roomba.” She stiffened her arms, mimicking a rusty robot with jerky movements. “He walks in, powers up, monologues about muscle groups, and shuts down at the bell. Not exactly terrifying.”

She waved a bill in front of your face and pointed at a cinnamon roll with enough icing to kill a diabetic. “Want one?”

You smirked, nudging Tara further down the line, steering her away from the sugary graveyard behind the glass. She opened her mouth to protest, but you were already slipping ahead of her.

“Do you know how much sugar is in that little thing? It’s going to kill your teeth. And your stomach,” you said, casually. 

The words left your lips before you could stop them. The moment they hung in the air, realization hit—you’d just quoted him. Morning coffee. That voice. That gaze. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, brushing the thought away as you reached the real food section. Sandwiches, salad bowls, hot dogs. Something solid.

“Get something that won’t send you into a sugar coma by noon,” you said, patting Tara’s shoulder. “I’d prefer not to have to drag your unconscious body to class.” With an exaggerated sigh, she still grabbed a sandwich, following your lead toward the tables. “Speak of the devil,” she murmured, her tone stretching into a tease. Her eyes locked on something—or someone—behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know. She peeled off quickly, abandoning you like a traitor in the night.

You silently cursed her name as you stepped up to the counter, pasting on your most nonchalant face while handing over your bills.

Then—a hum. You didn't dare lift your head. Maybe it wasn’t for you. A shadow moved beside you, commanding the air like only one person could. A hand reached past yours. The next thing you saw was your bottle of Coke being plucked away, replaced by ice-cold, transparent water.  

“Doctor’s orders,” Zayne said, voice smooth and quiet.

He didn’t look at you—just took a salad bowl topped with nuts and honey from the hands of the lady behind the counter. But the corners of his lips tugged with the ghost of a smirk.

“You’re not my doctor. You’re not even a doctor anymore,” you say, reaching out and catching the edge of his sleeve, tugging just slightly—as if claiming back what’s yours. “You said so yourself, didn’t you?”

He turns slowly, deliberately, like a page being turned on a chapter you’re not sure you’re ready to read. His hazel eyes, sharp and unreadable, drag over you from head to toe. The kind of look that doesn’t miss a thing.

His fingers reach for the water bottle again, brushing lightly across yours—cold and clinical, like metal instruments freshly lifted from a sterile tray. The contact makes your hand twitch before you can stop it. Despite the constant coat, he’s always freezing, like he carries winter in his bloodstream.

Zayne shifts, placing his lunch aside with surgical care. Then, without looking at you, he untwists the bottle cap with a soft pop. The sound slices through the moment. And just as smoothly, he places the now-open bottle into your palm—wordless. Inevitable.

He gathers his food without a single glance back and walks away, his coat flaring behind him, leaving you standing there with nothing but silence… and a bottle of water cooling your hand.

You stare at it.

Did he just… open the bottle for you?

The thought settles slowly, like a snowflake landing and refusing to melt. Out of everything he could’ve said—everything you expected him to say—he simply… opened it. Quiet. Unbothered. As if that small gesture wasn’t laced with a strange kind of intimacy. Not flirtation. Not kindness. Something quieter. Stranger. 

You blink, the condensation from the bottle already clings to your skin. Was this his version of an apology? Or a warning? Either way, your soda’s long gone, and now—apparently—you drink water.

You slowly glance over to Tara, who’s already settled at the nearest empty table. Her cheeks are puffed out with a sandwich, and her wide brown eyes are locked onto you—unblinking, gleaming with unshed laughter.

She doesn’t say a word, not yet. Just chews slowly. Like she’s giving you time to process before she pounces. And you already know what’s coming.

You take a deep breath and walk over, clutching your tray and your pride, the cold water still cooling your palm like a reminder. With every step, you prepare for impact.

The moment you sit down, Tara swallows and raises a single eyebrow. “Soooo…” she sings, dragging the vowel, “…did he just open your bottle for you? Or am I hallucinating from hunger?”

You avoid her stare, grabbing your sandwich with unnecessary aggression. “He took my drink.”

“And replaced it with water,” she gasps dramatically, placing her palm over her heart. “Cold. Refreshing. Metaphorically loaded water.”

You glare at her. Eyes flashing lightning. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late—her grin is already spreading. “You’ve officially become hydration buddies. This is serious.”

You groan and drop your forehead onto the table. “What are you on about, he doesn’t drink water, he has coffee in his veins.” She pats your head like a proud older sister.

“He opened it silently, didn’t he?” completely ignoring your remark, she muses dreamily. “That's practically Victorian-era flirting.” “Ew..” your finger brushes over the hard crust of the sandwich bread, “I lost my appetite now.” You hated Tara for feeding into that little fantasy of yours. You weren’t exactly interested in relationships, you were not looking for them intentionally, but it doesn’t mean you never wanted one. 

But what even are you doing? Overanalyzing every glance, every word, every tiny flick of his gaze, like it’s a hidden message. 

You lean back in your chair, letting your head tilt toward the ceiling. The faint fluorescent lights buzz lightly, unlike your spiralling thoughts. So loud. So chaotic. Zayne wasn’t just closed off. He was sealed. And still…there were cracks in the silence, in those moments that lasted too long. That was the problem. It was not an idea or a fantasy. It was maybe. And maybe was a poison for you. 

You sighed, the breath heavy with the weight of unanswered questions. It was wrong. That was the truth you kept circling back to. The kind of wrong that had rules and consequences and made your stomach twist in guilt the moment your thoughts drifted too far. But university tales of forbidden romances didn’t come from nowhere. They came from sparks. From glances. From exactly this. 

Tara’s voice turned into a quiet mumble that you didn’t exactly hear, but had playing in the background. What should’ve been a peaceful lunch had become another silent round of self-inflicted frustration, a mental war you were too tired to win.

The days stretched on, thin and sticky, like old chewing gum losing its flavor. Every hour blurred into the next, colored by the same maddening anticipation. You caught yourself waiting for those fleeting, unscheduled encounters with Zayne. A passing glance. A brief comment. 

You threw yourself into anatomy with a kind of feverish devotion, ignoring other assignments just to keep up, just to stay sharp, just in case he called on you again. It wasn’t about grades anymore. Somewhere along the way, it had shifted. Morphed into something more obsessive. You craved his approval—not in a way you could explain, but in a way that kept you up at night, rereading passages and reviewing diagrams long past exhaustion.

You needed that “Good work” the way an addict needs a fix. And Zayne had become the high you kept chasing. 

Was it bad? Maybe. Probably. But you refused to see the problem in it—not clearly, not yet. What was so wrong with admiring someone who had earned it? Lifting someone onto a pedestal wasn’t always about romance or delusion. Sometimes, it was just awe. Respect. A hunger to understand something—or someone—you couldn’t quite reach.

Because Zayne wasn’t just a teacher with sharp eyes and colder hands. He was more than the brooding figure in tailored suits. He was a brilliant surgeon. Someone who’d once held lives in the palm of his hand and saved them. A person who had seen more than most, done more than anyone here even dared to imagine. 

And you… you were just trying to touch a piece of that brilliance. To earn a fragment of his attention. To matter, even in the smallest way, to someone like him. And if that made you a little obsessive? Well. There were worse things to be.

Another day slipped by unnoticed, lost somewhere between thick textbook pages and the droning rhythm of lectures. The classroom had emptied long ago, leaving you behind to gather your things in silence.

Outside the door, the echo of footsteps stirred the quiet—two distinct patterns. One light and quick, like a bouncing rhythm. The other, steady, composed, almost lazy in its cadence.

You didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to.

A breath of laughter escaped you just as Tara’s petite frame burst into the room, practically buzzing with energy. She hopped toward you like she was bouncing off invisible springs. 

“We were waiting for you! What are you still doing in here all alone?” Her low heels clicked across the wooden floor as she reached for one of your books, unceremoniously stuffing it into your backpack. It was her way to help you move. 

You glanced up at her, blinking in surprise. “What’s got you so excited?”

Right on cue, Andrew appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with practiced nonchalance. He ran a hand through his hair and gave you both a look.

“We got the tickets for the museum trip,” he announced calmly. A beat passed before his lips curled into a grin. “Aaaand, completely by accident... we got three.”

Tara whipped around, her expression shattering like glass. “Hey! I wanted to say that! You ruined the moment!” she whined, dramatically throwing her hands up.

Andrew just shrugged, smug. “I like stealing the spotlight.”

Like nothing had happened, Tara slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out three paper slips, fanning them out in front of your face, like a magician with new tricks.

“Surpri-i-ise!” she sang, beaming with a smile, leaving you staring at tickets in her hand.

“You were taking way too long to answer,” she said, voice bright and unapologetic, “so we decided not to wait. Hopefully, you have no plans. And if you do…” She handed you one of the tickets, pressing it into your palm, “you should cancel them.”

A slow breath filled your chest as you looked down at the printed date and destination. It was clear they’d made up your mind for you—and truthfully, you didn’t mind. You weren’t angry. If anything, you were oddly grateful.

Maybe a change of pace was exactly what you needed. A brief pause from all the reading, the constant analysis, the daily dance around your thoughts. Still, your fingers tightened around the ticket. It would be hard to forget that Zayne would be there too. 

Perhaps this was just a chance to breathe. A day in a different setting. One that didn’t smell like textbooks or the classroom. For once. In months. 

“I hate you,” you muttered, though the soft smile tugging at your lips betrayed you as you tucked the ticket into your pocket.

Tara didn’t even blink. She smacked your arm with the back of her hand, her smirk smug and satisfied. “No, you don’t.”

You didn’t bother answering. Just rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth still curved in amusement, and finally slung your backpack over your shoulder. It was all the response she needed. 

The three of you exited the classroom together, voices rising and falling with casual chatter that melted the last remnants of tension from your body. Being with them—Tara’s dramatic flair, Andrew’s quiet sarcasm—had become your safe place. 

Without those between-class rambles, the shared lunches full of laughter and debates about nothing, you were sure you’d have already spiraled. Down into that quiet obsession that crept into your thoughts more often than it should.

But now, for a moment, the sound of their voices made everything feel normal again. 

You paused at the university’s front steps, the cold air brushing your cheeks as you raised a hand in a lazy wave.

“I’ll stay for a bit,” you said, glancing toward the shadowed outline of the campus. “Need to grab something from the library… maybe read a little.”

Tara’s groan was dramatic. She shook her head, but didn’t protest.

“Wow, we’re losing her. Someone call the ambulance—she’s being consumed by books, no-o-o!”

You could hear both her and Andrew laughing as they started off, their silhouettes shrinking against the blur of headlights and the slow turn of evening.

A faint smile lingered on your lips as you watched them cross the street. You lifted your hand again in a small, silent wave—pointless, since they weren’t looking anymore. But it wasn’t for them. It was for you.

You turned on your heel, the wind catching the hem of your coat as you slipped back inside the building. The quiet wrapped around you like a familiar blanket, and you let it.

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor as you headed toward the library, humming to yourself, each note low and soft, bouncing off the halls. 

The large glass doors of the library groaned softly as you pushed them open. The familiar scent of old pages and silence greeted you like an old friend. Without thinking, your hand reached for the small slip of paper by the entrance—your ritual. You’d been here so often that your body moved on autopilot, each motion smooth and practiced. The library had become your cathedral.

Later, with your bag a little heavier and your mind a little lighter, you slipped out through the university’s back exit. The door clicked shut behind you, and in front of you, the open stretch of grass. The campus greeted you with unexpected life.

Though classes had ended, no one seemed eager to leave.

A few students were scattered across the lawn, some sprawled with books open in their laps, pens scrawling quick notes on the paper. Others sat in small clusters, their laughter rising above the hush of wind, light and effortless.

Off to one side, a circle had formed around a student with a guitar, his fingers coaxing soft, meandering chords from the strings. The group around him listened, still and attentive, their shoulders brushing as they leaned in, sharing the warmth of music and presence.

Despite the occasional bite of the wind, the atmosphere buzzed with something gentle and golden. It wasn’t just the sunlight slanting through the trees—it was the rare magic of a moment unhurried, unforced, and quietly full. 

You found a quiet patch beneath a sprawling tree, its bare branches clawing gently at the darkening sky. The grass beneath was still damp from morning dew, but you didn’t mind. You sat down carefully, setting your bag under you, and pulled out the stack of newly borrowed books. With practiced fingers, you spread them out around you like a private little fortress, scanning each title before choosing your first companion.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, brushed over the cover of one of the thicker volumes. With a soft, reluctant crack, the spine yielded, the glue creaking as though waking from slumber. You opened the book gently, as if afraid to disturb something sacred resting within.

And then—silence.

Not the silence of a quiet place, but the kind that floods your ears when the world fades into the background. The cold, the distant laughter, even the faint chords of a guitar strummed somewhere on the field—all of it dimmed to nothing. You were no longer just sitting beneath a tree. You had slipped somewhere else entirely.

It wasn’t a fantasy novel, nor some tragic love story. Just another dry, clinical research record from Akso Hospital—case studies, surgical notes, observations stitched together with facts and cold ink. But that was the thing. These weren’t stories of dragons or heartbreaks. These were real people, real cuts, real chances taken and sometimes lost. And you were hooked.

You always had a way of vanishing into the pages, letting the world blur at the edges. 

You were so deeply absorbed in the words on the page that you didn’t notice the wind dying down around you. It wasn’t until a sudden, rich scent—bitter and warm—hit your nose and you looked up. Coffee.

The familiar silhouette of Zayne stood just beside you, his coat billowing gently in the breeze. The fabric shields you from the sharp gusts, casting a quiet, unexpected warmth over your little corner beneath the tree.

His eyes weren’t on you. They were cast toward the horizon, watching the cluster of students in the distance as if trying to read something in their laughter. You blinked up at him, unsure how long he’d been standing there. His hands cradled two paper cups.

Two?

The moment your gaze reached him, he finally moved. Noticing your attention, he shifted a step to the side and spoke, calm and low.

“May I?”

He didn’t wait for permission. Zayne sank down onto the cold grass beside you, the sweep of his coat folding beneath him. Even seated, there was an elegance to him, like gravity moved more gently around his frame.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, his voice edged with dry concern. “You’ve been sitting here without moving for twenty minutes. Thought you might want something hot.”

He held out one of the cups, wiggling it slightly in front of your book. You blinked at it. Your surprise must have gone unnoticed. He didn’t comment, just waited with that unreadable stillness. 

Hesitantly, your fingers closed around the warm paper cup. The heat bled into your skin, a soothing contrast to the chill nibbling at your knuckles. You brought it to your lips and took a cautious sip. The burn was immediate—your tongue, your throat—but it was welcome, chasing the cold from your bones like a slow flame. “Thank you,” you murmured, eyes half-closed as you soaked in the warmth. There was a pause. Not awkward, just thick with the kind of silence that follows a kind gesture.

Then you asked—quieter still, almost hesitant, “Were you… Watching?”

Zayne didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained ahead, fixed somewhere beyond the students—far beyond, perhaps. His silence wasn’t cold. It was thoughtful. You were beginning to learn that he only spoke when his words meant something. 

“I noticed,” he finally said, “that you’ve been carrying the same stack of hospital records for days. Heavy reading. Not the kind most students volunteer for.”

His tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was laced with something more… curious. Maybe even cautious. 

You swallowed, the warmth of the coffee still trailing down your throat. “I just don’t want to fall behind,” you replied, eyes on the steam curling from your cup.

The wind picked up again, but softer now—less biting. His shoulder slightly touching yours. You didn’t know whether he noticed, or if he had done it on purpose. But it felt intentional. It felt like safety.

Zayne leaned back slightly, one hand braced behind him in the grass, the other nursing his own cup. “Do you know why I stopped practicing medicine?” he asked suddenly, his voice low.

The question hit you like a soft thud in the chest. That’s it. Maybe he will finally tell you all the secrets you were so eager to unpack.

You turned your head to look at him, brows slightly raised. “You didn’t exactly mention that before… You said once it wasn’t your path anymore.”

“That’s the polite version.” His jaw tightened subtly, his eyes still distant. “The truth is, there’s a moment every surgeon fears. The moment when your hands don’t listen. When the body beneath your scalpel reminds you it’s human—and so are you.”

You watched him closely. His voice didn’t waver, but there was a heaviness behind it, something long buried clawing at the surface.

“I still remember the last patient I lost,” he continued. “Not because I did something wrong. But because I couldn’t do anything right in time. That day… I realized I’d stopped sleeping. Stopped breathing properly. So I left. Before I lost more than just sleep.”

You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that didn’t feel small. What were you even supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry’? ‘It wasn’t your fault?’ Everything felt wrong, so you decided to remain silent. 

A moment passed.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Zayne glanced sideways at you. “But then I started teaching. And I saw you.”

You blinked, as your breath hitched.

He looked down at his scarred hands, wrapped around his cup. “You remind me of someone I knew. Before.”

The silence returned. Not empty. Full.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say. But something about his presence, his openness, made your heart beat faster in a way you didn’t understand—and didn’t want to fight.

“I… don’t know what to say. Should I take that as a compliment, or…?” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended.

He didn’t answer. His hazel eyes drifted somewhere distant, far beyond the open field, beyond the present moment. Searching for something lost in time. As though he was looking through old ruins, piecing together something he hadn’t dared touch in years.

“They were a colleague of mine,” he finally said, voice low and deep, warm with nostalgia, yet carrying something painful and stinging. “We started together.”

“The research you were asking about a couple of weeks ago. They helped me with writing.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. The steam curled around his face like smoke from a long-dead fire.

“Are you still talking?” you asked gently, the question slipping from your lips before your mind could catch it. Immediate regret followed. You’d pushed too far again with your nosy questions. You could feel it.

But instead of shutting down, his eyes returned to yours, slow and steady, like a tide pulling in. There was no sharpness in them. Just the weight of your question, hovering between you like fog that refused to lift. 

“No,” he said quietly. And then—the smile. The first time you’d seen it. It came slowly, as though it had to crawl its way out from behind the walls he’d built. It wasn’t a bright, fleeting grin, or the kind of smile meant to charm. No, this one was different.

It was warm. Deep. Etched with the weight of too many lived moments. But it carried agony too, unspoken sorrow that clung to the corners of his mouth like ice refusing to thaw. You weren’t sure you were ready to see him like this. Not like this.

Your gaze dropped, almost instinctively, to the coffee cup in your hands. The heat no longer warmed you. It merely gave you something to focus on. Something to hold. 

“They were sick,” he said, the words measured and quiet, his voice drawing you back in despite yourself. He didn’t look at you. His eyes followed yours instead, fixed now on the cup between your fingers. 

“Such a selfless gesture,” he continued, as if reading a eulogy he’d never been able to give. “To become a surgeon, knowing you don’t have much time yourself.”

The breeze carried a faint chill, but it couldn’t reach you—not with the weight of his words anchoring everything around. Not with his shoulder, seemingly pressing harder into yours. There was something so cruelly noble in the story he’d just begun to unravel. It made your heart ache. 

You parted your lips, trying to measure your words, but you gave up. The pause didn’t last. The thoughts spilled out unfiltered, raw.  

“Maybe... maybe they were trying to make it easier for themselves,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the trembling cup in your hands. Whether it was from cold or nerves, you couldn’t quite tell. “By saving as many people as they could.”  

Your fingers tightened around the paper. Just a little more pressure and it would fold, spilling heat and regret into your lap.

A sharp breath caught in your throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You dared a glance at him, looking for a frown, a cold retreat—anything. But Zayne remained still, calm. He simply closed his eyes, his head tipping back until it touched the tree behind him. The movement was slow, like he would collapse without an anchor.

“That’s why you remind me of them,” he finally replied, with a heavy sigh, carrying so much pain, but also hope. 

For a brief second, your eyes lingered on his hands. The ones he always seemed to hide in pockets, behind books, when he thought no one was watching. You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now… the scars, faint but deep, mapped out a history you weren’t sure you had the right to understand. Not yet.

“Is that why you noticed me?” you asked gently, breaking the silence. “Because I reminded you of them?”

Zayne didn’t look at you. His eyes, half-lidded and veiled beneath a fan of long, dark lashes, hiding the depth of his hazel gaze, softened into something resembling fading sapphires. “At first,” he admitted. “But not anymore.” 

Your heart stuttered.

“You’re not them. You don’t carry the same shadows. You…” He exhaled through his nose, not breaking eye contact. “You carry your own. And yet, you still chase the light.”

His words pressed into you, slow and heavy, like a second heartbeat. But they didn’t bring comfort. In his voice, there was a quiet strain, as if he weren’t speaking for you, but for himself. Like each word was an attempt to convince himself to believe what he just said. 

A gust of wind blew through the field, rustling pages and tousling your hair, but you barely noticed it. Zayne’s voice broke the quiet once more, softer this time. “I haven’t spoken about them in a really long time.” 

“There’s this... idea,” he said after a moment, his voice roughened by something deeper than just memory, “that when you lose someone, you’re supposed to move on. Let them rest. But what no one tells you is that sometimes, they don’t let you.” 

You looked at him—really looked at him. The sharpness of his jaw softened. The coat draped between you like a bridge. His fingers, scarred and stiff, still curled around a cooling cup of coffee he hadn’t touched for a while now.

“I don’t think letting go means forgetting,” you said. “Maybe it just means… learning how to live with the echoes.” Trying to make it sound as gentle as you can, still afraid to break the trust or ruin the moment. The first moment, he didn’t brush off your questions.

That got his attention. He turned to you fully, and for a moment, the guarded look dropped, just enough for you to glimpse something raw. 

“Echoes,” he repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue. “That’s a kinder word than ghosts.”

You smiled, barely. “Ghosts usually haunt people. Echoes are… reminders.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed. Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed. Just a little.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

You weren’t even sure if those words were meant for you. Your mind was still trying to make sense of everything that had just unfolded.     

You didn’t reply. Just reached for the book at your side, setting it on your lap, unsure whether to read or stay suspended in this silence you’d somehow built together. This quiet moment of sharing something that you never thought he would.

And beside you, for the first time, Zayne stayed.

[starlitunicorn]

Scar Tissue, Chapter 1

Zayne x Reader. University AU. Reader is not MC. Slow-burn. Angst!

When you begin your university year with an accidental collision with her new professor, Dr. Zayne, your world is thrown into awkward chaos. What starts as a simple mishap spirals into a tense dynamic between you and the former surgeon. Word count - 4.3k Chapter 2

A/N: I was really inspired by the wonderful @eelliotss and their story "Borrowed Time". It made me want to try writing something, for the first time in my life. It was definitely a hard challenge, since English is not my first language, and I don't have a writing style, but I really wanted to create something as wonderful as them (please check out Borrowed Time, it's literally a masterpiece). I would be more than happy to hear criticism or suggestions, just be gentle, I'm really new to it. ♡

Throwing a playlist I used while writing, hopefully it will help you immerse yourself in the story.

The fresh, slightly cold air tossed fallen leaves, lifting them from the ground, forcing them into a bizarre dance mid-air. Slightly cold autumn air is pushing its way through the tops of the trees, carrying careless talks and laughs of the students, who are slowly approaching the big, towering building. 

The start of the new academic year is always worrying in anticipation of new acquaintances, new friendships, and new experiences. But the least exciting part here is probably the lectures, a bunch of homework, that will keep you away from going out with your friends, and tests. Fixing the loose strap of your backpack, you slowly walk along the stone pathway, tossing the golden leaves with your shoes. The lingering summer memories are flashing in your mind, making you miss hot sunny days and carefree time away from the town. Approaching the big, open glass door, you look up at the large building with the flashy name of your university. Covering your mouth with your hand, you yawn, stepping over the doorstep. Even though you promised to go to bed earlier last night, you stayed up too late, like usual, playing games. It will be hard to get back into the “normal” schedule after three long months of going to bed at sunrise. A loud laugh and hustle behind makes you turn your head. A group of students, walking inside the building, was laughing and talking loudly, sharing some funny moments from their summer vacation. They were so loud that it was hard not to hear what they talked about. You huffed, turning your head away, when suddenly, you bumped into something. Or someone. 

A strong smell of cologne and coffee enveloped you when your nose touched the soft fabric of a coffee-colored coat. Base notes of wet moss and amber with light heart notes of jasmine and pine hit your sense of smell, leaving a transparent cocoon around you. A loud gasp escaped the lips of the person you just walked into. You slowly looked up with your guilty gaze, but you underestimated how high you had to lift your head. Your gaze stopped first on the steaming brown blotch staining his chest: a fresh splash of coffee. Then, higher, to meet a pair of deep hazel eyes burning with irritation. 

His pale face looked irritated. His refined features were nicely framed by the dark, short hair, which looked shiny and well-styled. His thick eyebrows were furrowed, making his eyes appear even more piercing. Scarred fingers were clenching the half-empty cup of coffee as if waiting for something. An apology, perhaps. You quickly snap back from observing the man, nodding your head in a guilty gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Your hands searched your pocket, getting out a clean handkerchief, and handing it to the man in front. He swiftly grabbed the cloth from you, rubbing it on the wet spot, seemingly making it worse, smearing the coffee around the white shirt. Mortified, you murmured another apology and turned on your heel, rushing toward the stairs to escape the heat of his gaze—and the burning embarrassment tightening in your chest.

Swearing under your breath, you quickly move up the stairs, hoping this encounter won’t cause any trouble for you. Your palm slightly tapped your forehead, as if punishing yourself for not being careful enough. He didn’t look like a student. Maybe the way he wasn’t rushing anywhere, like other students, or the fact that he looked older than all the boys around, made you think he was the new lecturer, or someone with a higher position. What can make it worse? 

The morning encounter disappeared from your mind really fast, in the rush of the day. Running around the halls, trying to find the correct lecture hall, and meeting with classmates quickly took your thoughts to a different place. Your phone was exploding with new group chats and new contacts, trying to keep up with everything. The buzz already made you miss the quiet of your room and the comfort of your bed. Quickly unfolding the piece of paper with your schedule, you glance at the sign with the room number. Making sure it’s the correct one, you step inside, looking for an empty desk. Your gaze fell on the empty desk near the window in the room's far corner. You never liked sitting right in front of the teacher's face. If you took the front row, it always made you feel more supervised. This could take away the pleasure of doodling when the lecture gets too dull. Just as the bell rang, the door slowly opened, and the sound of footsteps echoed in the spacious room. Weirdly punctual, you thought, tapping the pen on the empty page of your notebook. The teacher's arrival time tells a lot about their teaching and their temper. Someone who is constantly late is usually laid back and a really easy-going teacher, letting students slack, or will try to blend in and joke around with them. As for someone who arrives with the bell.. It can be a tough one. Meaning, no relaxing in their lessons. 

It was enough for you to see the coffee-coloured coat that flashed in the doorframe, as your head sank into your shoulders. Soon, his tall figure was standing next to the teacher's desk, as he carefully put the cup of hot, fresh coffee on the table, next to the pile of files. He didn’t seem to rush, slowly taking off his coat and placing it on the back of the chair, exposing the faint coffee stain on the white shirt. 

Arms crossed, as the gaze of his hazel eyes carefully studied the room. It stopped on you for a second too long, forcing you to look away with a hint of guilt, once again reminding you of the incident in the morning. You slid down the chair, grabbing your notebook and hiding your face. It seems like he didn’t forget about the spilled coffee as fast as you did, since it ruined his outfit for the day. And it’s the first day of the new year, what a look to show up in a stained shirt. He finally stopped drilling your notebook with his eyes, slowly walking in front of his desk and leaning on it. “I hope you all had a nice summer, but it’s time to get serious and put a great start to your new academic year,” his voice, calm yet loud and clear, filled the room. It didn’t sound as you imagined it would, and there were no angry notes, so it made you relax and brush off the embarrassment once again. “I’m Zayne Li, a former awarded Cardiac Surgeon from Akso hospital, and now, your new anatomy teacher. You can call me Doctor Zayne. Hopefully, we can all work well together and achieve great results by the end of the year.”    

A wave of whispers rumbled across the class. Zayne Li was a well-known surgeon in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the town—the person who conducted tons of scientific research and was even awarded for one of them. Students seemed to wonder why he quit his job to teach at the university. Giving up something you've built for a long time isn't logical. “You have a lot of questions, I see. You can ask,” he lets out a quiet chuckle, turning around and grabbing the files from the table, opening them, and scanning through the text. The voice from the first row yelled out first, “Dr. Zayne, why did you quit your job as a surgeon at Akso hospital?” Zayne stopped, tapping his finger on the hardcover of the files. “You can ask anything not related to my dismissal.” Other students started asking questions about his work. Some had questions about his research, while others said he inspired them to enter this university. Zayne graduated as the best student from this exact university, which many think made the place special, and studying here could open many doors in the future. 

As for you, your inspiration to enter this university is your parents. They insisted, you didn’t complain, since at the time, you didn’t have any ideas for your future direction. The physical therapist wasn’t that bad, and your grades allowed you to get in. Still, his answer left you wondering. What could make such a successful doctor leave his position to be a teacher? You trailed deep in your thoughts, doodling some chaos on the pages of your notebook. You didn’t notice how the conversation shifted from questions to introductions. Your name was called twice, before you finally came back to reality, lifting your head up, and getting up. “Sorry. Uh, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Dr. Zayne.” Still struggling to keep eye contact with the man, you stare at the coffee stain on his shirt. He seems to notice, letting out a quiet hum and ticking your name in his journal. “You seem very windy today. Not the greatest first impression,” he murmured, looking down at his shirt. Some students turned their heads around to look at you. Annoyed, you don’t say anything, swiftly sitting back in your chair. Embarrassment burns in your chest, but it goes away fast. It must be the payback for his ruined outfit. Quickly wrapping up introductions, Zayne starts the lesson with some literature recommendations to get into the subject. Writing down the necessary books, you feel Zayne’s heavy gaze on you as you glance up. His unblinking hazel eyes, as if looking somewhere past you, make you feel cold shivers on your back. So much for wanting to stay “unnoticed”, that’s why you chose the furthest desk, but it seems like there’s no hiding in this class. 

After the bell rang, class ended. Everyone collected their scattered belongings, leaving the classroom. Zayne, on the other hand, wasn’t rushing to pack. His files were standing on the table in a really nice pile, placed on top of each other. He tried to be precise even in the way he put things on his desk. You were leaving last, since the way from the corner of the room to the exit door was the longest, but just as you prepared to step out of the class, you heard a clear call. “Hey. I think I should give this back to you.” Zayne reached into his pocket and handed you the handkerchief from earlier. Now, stained with coffee and shriveled, it was saturated with the smell of Zayne’s detergent, sitting in his pants pocket all day. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not mad. But you should be careful spilling someone’s hot drink like that. Others might not be as forgiving.” His strict tone echoed in your head, like a parent lecturing the child about putting on the hat before going outside. Your fingers slowly grab the handkerchief, shoving it into the open backpack. Your lips curve into a smile, which you usually give someone when you mess up, showing a barely visible dimple on your cheek. It seems that in that exact moment, Zayne froze on the spot. His fingers dug into the edge of the table, and his mind shifted somewhere far away from here, deep in his memories. Noticing that his consciousness left the walls of this room, you quietly smacked your lips, rocking back and forth. Maybe he tried to remember something, to tell you about an assignment, or something else, so you just decided to give him some time. But it didn’t look like he was about to return anytime soon, so you slowly started backing up from the class, looking all around the place in a silent embarrassment. “Soo-oo.. I think I will go, I need to find another lecture hall. Have a nice day, Dr. Zayne,” you murmured, quickly turning around and disappearing from the classroom, like the wind. You heard him say something in return, but you couldn’t understand it, since the sound of his voice was drowned in the crowded corridor. Blinking several times at a loss, you shake your head, trying to eliminate the feeling that your new teacher is a weirdo. After a tiresome first day, your next destination was the university library. You decided to grab all the literature needed for your new subjects while you were at it. The library hall was in the farthest corner of the building, so reaching a big room stacked with books took some time. A library assistant handed you a little piece of paper with blanks, so you could write down all the books you’re taking. You ran your fingers through sparkly clean shelves, which were polished before the start of the new year. Your hand stopped at the “scientific research” section for the correct title. You scoffed under your breath, fingers closing around a book with Zayne’s face staring back at you from the cover. “Recommending your own research as class literature,” you muttered. “What a braggart.” But the smug satisfaction barely had time to settle before a low hum sounded behind you. Your arms instinctively wrapped around the book, clutching it to your chest. You didn’t dare turn around. The scent of coffee hit your nose, sharp and unmistakable. A sigh slipped out of you, heavy with dread, as you slowly turned, already picturing the furious expression you’d seen that morning when you'd spilled his drink.

“I mean… that’s wonderful. You must be really proud of it.” The corners of your lips twitch as you force an awkward smile. He doesn’t react, just rolls his eyes and takes a slow sip of his caffeine-heavy drink. Your ears burn. No way you’ve embarrassed yourself twice in front of your new teacher on your very first day. And to top it off, insulted him to his face.

“I just wanted to see who would actually stop by the library to get the books,” he said, pausing to lick the bitter remnants from his lips, “so I could maybe point them out as dedicated students next time.” Then his gaze flicked toward you, sharper now. “But I wouldn’t mention you. Since you already think I’m bragging, you should go ahead and read all my research.” He tilted his head with clear irritation, then set his coffee cup on the nearby table. 

Zayne stepped forward, closing the distance between you in one long stride, never once meeting your eyes. Your fingers dug into the book’s hardcover, but your legs refused to move. His chest stopped just in front of your face when he finally closed his eyes and exhaled—a long, heavy breath, like the weight of the entire day had just dropped onto his shoulders.

“Move.” The word came low and calm, almost a whisper scraped from the back of his throat. It cuts through your trance like a blade. You jolted, stepping aside without a word. His hand brushed past you, reaching for the book you'd unknowingly been blocking. 

Finally, lowering the worn research in your hands, you feel another heavy weight pressing down on your arms. Zayne places a thick, glossy book on top of your little pile. He moves past you, calm and deliberate, retrieving his coffee from the table. He said nothing, leaving you in the quiet of a library, staring at his light smile from the book cover. You lift your head and furrow your eyebrows at his echoing presence. Shoving books in your backpack, you try to fit everything without damaging your belongings. You quickly fill in the book registration paper and leave it on the desk at the exit, sprinting out of the library and soon out of the building. In your thoughts, you are already home, leaving the heavy day behind the university doors. The trip home doesn’t take long. The bus ride almost lulls you to sleep, but you manage to jump out of your seat before missing your stop. Entering the small apartment building, you climb the stairs, dragging your feet behind you. Stopping in front of your apartment, you slowly open the door, yelling, “I’m home!” from the doorway. You hear the quiet hustle in the kitchen when a dark-haired girl peeks out of the corner. Seeing your exhausted face, she offers you a warm smile. “Oh, hi. How was the first day?”. She finally leaves the kitchen, wiping her hands with a stained towel. It’s been the second year you and your friend Simone have been renting an apartment together. Living with her was not draining. She was a great roommate, and it took some weight off your shoulders regarding payments.

“They already loaded us with a mountain of books to read, and I’ve managed to get on my new teacher’s bad side. Wouldn’t be surprised if he fails me.”  You flopped onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and pressing your face into it, trying to bury yourself in the soft, forgiving embrace and shut out the world. Simone laughed, perching on the armrest and promptly stealing the pillow, your only line of defense, exposing your face to the light. “No one’s going to fail you,” she said with a grin. “Just get your teacher something nice. A bottle of wine, some fancy chocolate—boom, apology accepted. Who wouldn’t love that?” She flashed that radiant smile again, the one that always, without fail, made you feel a little better. “I was just cooking. Food’ll be ready in ten. Go wash your hands.” But you were already sprung to your feet, yanking open your backpack and dumping the books onto the couch to make space for something else.

“You’re a genius! I’m getting an apology gift.” You were halfway out the door before you finished the sentence.

“You can start without me!” you shouted back. Simone didn’t say anything, but her smile lingered. Somehow, she always knew exactly what you needed—even when she didn’t realize it. 

The late afternoon air hit your face the moment you stepped outside—crisp, laced with the distant scent of city exhaust and someone grilling down the block. You didn’t slow your pace. You zigzagged past the corner store, dismissing the sad stack of mass-produced chocolate bars in the window. 

No, this needed to be thoughtful. Personal. Maybe even charming. If Zayne was the type to wear expensive cologne and carry himself like a walking thesis paper, he probably wasn’t a fan of cheap sweets or mugs that said #1 Professor.

A small boutique caught your eye, tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. Its window displayed neatly wrapped gift boxes, jars of imported honey, artisan teas, and a pyramid of dark chocolate truffles that looked sinfully expensive. 

A soft chime rang as you stepped inside. The place smelled like cinnamon, cedar, and vanilla—like December wrapped in tissue paper.

A woman behind the counter looked up with a warm smile. “Looking for something in particular?”

“Yeah,” you said, breathless. “Something for a… teacher. As an apology.”

Her smile widened knowingly. “Tough start to the year?”

You nodded, laughing a little under your breath. She guided you toward a velvet-lined shelf of truffles—dark, decadent, and neatly boxed with subtle gold accents. One label caught your eye: Dark Chocolate with Whiskey Ganache. You picked it up. Rich. A little bold. Slightly dangerous. Just like the man you were trying to appease.

“This one,” you said, nodding. “It feels… honest.”

“Excellent choice,” the woman said, ringing you up. “Strong enough to say sorry without groveling.”

You left the shop ten minutes later, the gift bag swinging gently at your side. In it was your olive branch—boozy, bittersweet, and slightly impulsive, just like you. Simone was right. You couldn’t undo the mess, but maybe you could sweeten the aftermath. 

Arriving back home, you realize that Simone has already vanished from the apartment. You notice a little note on the fridge, with her pretty, neat handwriting: I’ll be late, don’t forget to eat something. You look around to notice a small plate of pasta with meat sauce on the table, served with cheese, and even cutlery laid out for you, like a quiet invitation. 

A warmth spreads through your chest like a blanket. You didn’t need grand gestures. This was enough. This was Simone. Thoughtful even in something so simple as making dinner. 

You scooped up the plate and made your way to your small but clean room. It was lined with bookshelves, scattered with little figurines, and glowing softly from a tangle of LED lights. Nothing extravagant—just yours. 

Devouring the still-warm pasta, one hand already hovering over your laptop’s trackpad. The screen lit up as you opened your browser, fingers hesitating for only a second before typing: Zayne Li. The search bar flickered, loading results almost instantly. Articles. Publications. Academic praise. But nothing, nothing about his sudden departure from Akso Hospital. 

You leaned in, scanning the titles again. If someone like him, arguably one of the best surgeons in the country, had walked away from such a high position, shouldn’t that be front-page news? 

You even found his social media profile, though it felt sterile, curated, like a gallery where only the right parts of a life were displayed. Polished. Untouchable. Whatever happened… it was hidden. Intentionally. A soft sigh escaped you as you leaned back in your chair, pushing the empty plate aside. 

If the truth was hidden five feet deep, you weren’t curious enough to grab a shovel. At least, not yet. So you decided to get your mind off it by launching your favorite game, slightly glancing at the gift box, in anticipation of tomorrow.

The morning was quiet, cold but fresh and welcoming. You arrived earlier for the possibility of meeting up with Dr. Zayne and giving him your apology present, that you so thoughtfully prepared yesterday. The university halls are half-empty, still sleepy from the quiet night. Only the most dedicated students roamed these corridors at this hour. Those chasing scholarships, high honors, or simply the peace in the quiet of the library. 

You look through the schedule sheet, scanning the list of classrooms and lecture slots, stopping on the ones marked with his name. First period. It has to be the chance. But, arriving at the destination, you’re met with silent, empty walls. Your stomach twisted. What if you can’t find him before classes start? What if you lose the moment, or worse? What if the chocolate melts? You run around the halls, mind racing with possibilities. Where would Dr. Zayne go this early? What is the first thing he does in the morning? Then it hits you. Coffee. Of course. Without hesitation, you pivot towards the side exit to find a small coffee corner in the university garden. And there he is. Sitting alone on a bench, a paper cup cradled in his hands. He’s not on his phone. He’s not reading. Just sitting. His eyes are distant, as if he’s entertained by some unspoken deep thoughts. The rising steam curls around his face in soft spirals, making his glasses fog. He didn’t have those yesterday, but chose to wear them while drinking a hot drink. 

You slow your step, heart thudding from the sprint. Finally, taking a deep breath, you walk closer to the bench, figuring out how to start your heartfelt apology, since you didn’t think it through before. Your fingers clench around the pretty red box as you slowly nod, clearing your throat, trying to grab his attention, as he seemed not to notice you.       

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne.”

He glances up, brows faintly raised. You push through the knot forming in your throat.

“I know we had a… rough start.” You try to keep your tone light, but the words already feel like too much and not enough at the same time. “And I realize we’ll have to tolerate each other for the rest of the year, so—”

A pause. Your mind races ahead of your mouth, tripping over everything you didn’t rehearse.

“I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I wasn’t careful and didn’t mean to sound rude or disrespectful. Especially toward your work.”

You extend the box toward him, almost too fast, and squeeze your eyes shut the moment it leaves your hand, bracing for laughter, or worse, complete dismissal.

“I don’t like alcohol.” He cut as sharp as a blade, making you freeze on spot. Somewhere in your mind, you could almost see a black Game Over screen flashing across your vision. 

Of course, you managed to mess up again, and how did that even happen? There’d been no way to know his preference, but that didn’t make the sting any less brutal. Pulling your hands away, your face darkened. Your shoulders dropped, the heat rising in your cheeks, as you were already prepared to leave without saying a thing, because it seems like a silent retreat is better than taking the embarrassing hit in the gut. 

“But you put in the effort,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something unreadable. “I appreciate that.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I accept your apology. Though you should know. I was never mad to begin with.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“I’ve had worse from first-years. It takes more than spilled coffee and a stray comment to make me hate someone.” 

Zayne’s long fingers grasped the box, tucking it neatly under his arm as he rose from the bench in one smooth motion. His height loomed for a second before he gave a small, deliberate nod—an understated gesture of gratitude. Then, unexpectedly, his hand landed on your shoulder. Firm. Measured. His gaze locked onto yours, eyes scanning your expression with unsettling precision, making you feel like after a carrot, there will be a stick. “You really are.. windy.” 

It wasn’t quite an insult. Not quite praise either. But it lingered in the air, and for some reason, it felt like he wasn’t entirely wrong. With that, he disappeared from your view, behind your back, entering the building, leaving a somewhat bitter aftertaste of your failure. But at least you know your teacher is not holding a grudge, so there’s nothing to worry about. Right?