Growing up, Ethan Moore's grades were never impressive, but they weren't terrible either.
He always landed somewhere in the middle of the pack.
The same went for piano.
He had some talent, but not much.
Even getting into Starfall Conservatory of Music, he'd barely cleared the cutoff score.
When Clara Vaughn told him to play the piece he was best at, Ethan chose the one he had performed during his entrance exams.
Chopin Étude, Winter Wind.
He had practiced this piece countless times before. Muscle memory alone should have carried him through.
...
Clara took a notebook and pen out of her briefcase.
She uncapped the pen and flipped to the first page.
Before she could even write a single word—
A rapid string of wrong notes burst out.
"Start over," Clara said coldly.
"O—okay."
"Start over."
"…Okay."
"Start over."
"…Okay."
"Change pieces. Play No. 849."
"Yes."
"Start over."
"…Okay."
"Start over."
"…Okay."
After yet another cluster of chaotic notes, Ethan turned his head.
Whenever people were embarrassed, they tended to say something, anything, to ease the tension.
"Um… Professor Vaughn…"
He could swear this wasn't how he usually played.
He wasn't amazing, but he definitely didn't make this many mistakes.
Today was different.
His condition was terrible.
And the biggest reason?
He felt completely unsafe.
Clara raised an eyebrow. Holding the ruler, she pointed it at his awkward smile.
"Don't give me that grin in class."
"…Okay."
Ethan immediately straightened up, sitting rigidly upright.
"Stop."
Clara shook her head. She capped the pen and slipped the notebook back into her briefcase.
This was awful.
Wrong notes everywhere. Rhythm completely off.
She leaned forward, intending to demonstrate the correct technique herself.
But the moment she moved—
Ethan sprang up like a loaded spring, jumping back and staring at her with full alertness.
"?"
Clara frowned. "What are you doing?"
Ethan held his backpack in front of him like a shield and fired back:
"Professor Vaughn, what are you doing?"
Clara said nothing.
She stared straight at him.
Ethan didn't dare relax for even a second.
His hand had already slipped inside his bag, gripping the can of pepper spray.
Right now, Clara only had a ruler.
If she made a move, he'd spray first, then the chili spray, and if necessary, pull out the fruit knife.
With that combo, even if he didn't die, he'd at least cripple her—
Clara, meanwhile, was completely baffled.
Was there really that big of a generational gap between her and today's students?
"Ethan Moore," she said quietly, leaning back against the chair, resting the ruler across her thighs.
"You seem very afraid of me. Mind telling me why?"
She was aware her expression could be intimidating at times.
But this?
She looked like she was about to murder him.
Ethan stayed tense. "Afraid? No way, Professor. Don't make things up. Why would I be afraid of you?"
"Do you want to look at yourself right now?"
"Heh."
Ethan let out a dry laugh.
Nice try. Trying to distract him?
Not happening.
The afternoon sun between two and three o'clock was merciless.
The practice room grew stuffy.
Within minutes, sweat poured down Ethan's back.
Clara felt warm as well.
She reached into her briefcase and took out a folding fan.
Unhurriedly, she fanned herself while watching Ethan glare at her like she was an imminent threat.
Today, she was genuinely curious what kind of stunt this kid was planning.
The paper fan swayed back and forth, lifting a few strands of her long hair.
From about two body-lengths away, Ethan caught a whiff of warm sandalwood.
The two remained locked in this strange standoff for several minutes.
Finally, Ethan couldn't take it anymore.
"Professor Vaughn!"
"Yes?" Clara replied.
Ethan stood straight, his expression solemn.
"I was wrong!"
Clara nearly laughed.
Hearing that line delivered with such deadly seriousness was ridiculous.
"As long as you know you were wrong," she said. "You have fifteen minutes left. I'll demonstrate once. Then you play."
With that, she snapped the fan shut.
The moment she stood, Ethan scrambled back several steps.
Clara truly didn't understand what was going on in his head.
But her job was simple.
Teach.
—
The piano room filled with music.
Clear, smooth, precise.
A sharp contrast to the mess Ethan had just played.
She performed the piece in full.
When the final note faded, Clara turned her head—
And froze.
Ethan was still standing there, stiff, alert, battle-ready.
One hand behind his back.
The other holding the bouquet of white lilies.
"…Hmm?" Clara looked at him with interest. "Student Ethan Moore, what exactly are you preparing to do?"
"Professor Vaughn," Ethan said seriously, "I was wrong. Please forgive me."
"What were you wrong about?" she asked.
"The other day," Ethan said, "at the tea shop. I shouldn't have talked badly about you behind your back. Professor Vaughn, please forgive me."
Clara lowered her gaze slightly and studied his expression.
The apology seemed sincere.
But why did it feel like fear outweighed remorse?
Was she some kind of prehistoric beast?
Did he really need to be this scared?
All she'd done today was bring a ruler to class.
Were kids these days really this fragile?
Her thoughts drifted.
"Take the flowers back," Clara said at last. "I'm not angry."
"…You're not?"
Ethan genuinely couldn't believe it.
"Professor Vaughn, please accept the flowers," he insisted.
Clara raised her hand and picked up the card attached to the bouquet.
She read it aloud in silence.
Dear Miss Clara,
You are as pure and elegant as these white lilies.
Your presence makes my world brighter.
I love you deeply and hope you will accept my feelings.
"If you put this kind of effort into studying," Clara said flatly, holding the card up, "you'd be doing much better."
Ethan internally screamed.
"Wait—Professor Vaughn, listen! I swear I just saw this card now. You believe me, right?"
No wonder the florist had asked for the recipient's surname.
He hadn't said anything about confessing!
Were flower shops this proactive now?!
"Do you believe that?" Clara asked.
"I do," Ethan replied seriously.
"I don't."
Then why even ask?
Ethan thought silently, his mouth twitching.
"Were you just cursing me in your head?" Clara suddenly asked.
"No! Absolutely not!" Ethan waved his hands frantically.
"Professor Vaughn, I admire you endlessly. Truly. My respect for you has reached the point where it just keeps growing and growing, with absolutely no sign of stopping. At this rate, I'm starting to think it's a personal problem."
Clara sneered. "Smooth talker. Answer me this. Did you understand my demonstration just now?"
Ethan froze.
Demonstration?
What demonstration?
He'd been watching her back the entire time, ready to prevent a sudden attack to his skull.
Though… he had to admit.
Her figure was incredible.
Even in standard professional attire, her curves were—
Too much.
"Figures," Clara said calmly. "I demonstrated for nothing."
"Professor Vaughn, it's getting late," Ethan said, glancing at the clock on the wall.
"Class started at two. One session is forty-five minutes. It's already 2:44. We can wrap up now."
"In any case," he continued quickly, "I sincerely apologize for talking badly about you behind your back last time. These flowers are my way of making amends. You're generous and broad-minded, so please don't take it personally."
Before Clara could respond, Ethan placed the bouquet on the piano lid, scooped up his textbook from the music stand, and slipped out of the practice room as if his shoes were greased.
The pressure coming off that unhinged professor was unbearable. He didn't want to stay a second longer.
If it were possible, he genuinely wanted to petition the academic office to switch instructors.
"Ethan Moore."
Clara had barely spoken his name when the room was already empty.
She looked up at the clock on the wall.
So not only was he ten minutes late, he also dared to leave thirty seconds early.
Distracted in class, too.
Clara took out the attendance record, found Ethan's name, and deducted five points from his participation grade without hesitation.
She had three lessons scheduled that afternoon.
Aside from Ethan, there were two other female students.
Each lesson was separated by a ten-minute break.
During that interval, Clara picked up the bouquet of white lilies and headed downstairs without the slightest pause.
"Ma'am," she said to the cleaning lady mopping the floor.
"You've worked hard. These are for you."
Before the woman could even react, Clara set the flowers down and walked away.
—
Back in the Dorm.
Ethan returned triumphantly to his room.
As far as he was concerned, his performance today deserved a perfect score.
With how sincere his apology had been, he'd practically been one step away from kneeling.
And judging by Clara's reaction… no, really, he'd just been overthinking things from the start.
Of course she wouldn't hold a grudge against a kid like him.
"That's a relief. Still, I should probably take a detour whenever I see her in the future."
At least now, he didn't need to consider dropping out.
"I'll take a nap."
Ethan stripped off his shirt, climbed onto his bed, and rolled over.
He hadn't slept well these past two days.
Now he could finally catch up.
The only downside was that he was suddenly two hundred dollars poorer, which hurt a little.
He had fifteen hundred dollars for September.
Now he was down to thirteen hundred.
And it was only September second.
Twenty-eight days to go.
As these thoughts drifted through his mind, Ethan's eyes slowly closed, and he fell into a deep sleep.
He woke up to shouting voices and the clatter of mechanical keyboards.
Chris Nolan: "Damn it! Another miss! Genshin missed, Star Rail missed, Zenless Zero missed—Hoyoverse, I swear to—"
Sam Reed (in a sweet, soft voice): "Jungle brooo, can you come gank top lane?"
Mike Turner: "Holy shit, not this damn Hu Tao again! Stop throwing sword waves like a corpse! I tanked three executions for you again!"
Three different games.
Zero interference.
As for the mysterious extra female voice in the room, Ethan had already gotten used to it over the past month.
16:03
Ethan checked the time on his phone, then sprang out of bed in a dramatic, meteor-like leap.
Mike noticed and leaned over.
"So, Ethan, how was your class with Professor Vaughn today? Feeling any sparks?"
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Are you sick or something?"
Mike grinned. "Hey, admitting it doesn't cost you anything. Professor Vaughn's officially the most beautiful woman on campus right now. There's even a poll on the confession wall. She's miles ahead of the campus beauty."
"Don't worry," Mike added. "Your sister's still in second place."
Lena Moore was a well-known figure across campus herself. Thanks to candid no-makeup photos from the orientation week, she'd firmly claimed the title of freshman campus beauty.
Ever since people learned Ethan and Lena were siblings, students had been risking life and dignity to visit their Dorm and ask Ethan for her contact information.
Every single one of them had been rejected.
"Bullshit," Ethan shot back. "My sister's way prettier than Clara Vaughn. That ice-cold face of hers doesn't even come close."
Chris cut in calmly, "Ethan, that's bias. From an objective standpoint, your sister's still a fresh college student, while Professor Vaughn is a mature woman. Every gesture she makes radiates feminine charm. Maybe your sister will surpass her one day, but not yet."
Sam nodded in agreement. "That's true."
Mike slapped the desk. "Hear that, Ethan? The masses have spoken."
Ethan scoffed. "You guys just don't get it."
Mike laughed. "No, you don't get the appeal of a mature woman."
"Let me put it this way," Mike continued passionately.
"If Professor Vaughn slapped me right now, I'd smell the fragrance on her fingertips before it hit my face. And when the slap landed, it wouldn't be pain—it'd be pleasure."
Chris and Sam shouted in unison, "Pervert."
Ethan chuckled. "That slap would send you flying to the other side of the planet."
It was exaggerated, sure.
But in the original story, Clara Vaughn was literally the peak of combat strength. One slap from her might actually crack Mike's skull open.
Mike grinned. "Even if she slapped me to death, I'd die happy."
Ethan shook his head. "Idiot."