"Hey…"
He cupped my face, half annoyed, half amused, his voice absurdly gentle. "Do you remember who you are?"
"Cl-air… Claire Bennett."
I babbled, swaying my head, acting unnaturally obedient.
"And who am I?"
Why does he talk so much in my dreams today, like he’s different from usual…
"E-than Car—"
Before I could finish, the row of buttons that had been impossible to undo in every dream suddenly gave. His long fingers flicked the collar as if casually, and the intoxicating sweep of muscle was exposed.
Ethan Carter—my world’s shining presence.
When he leaned down and kissed me, it smelled like peach blossoms.
This dream is perfect. I could sleep forever.
1
When I woke up, I found myself in the same bed as the one person I always clashed with—the infuriating senior.
Ethan lay half-naked, like he’d had a good dream, face relaxed.
There was a steady pounding on the door. "Claire? Are you awake? We’re heading back."
I dared not get up. A hangover throbbed in my skull and wouldn’t let go.
Last night, to celebrate Ethan getting promoted to associate professor, students from the South and North Labs went out and rented a karaoke room. I drank too much and, as far as I remember, someone brought me home.
Looking around at the familiar decorations, my backpack on the nightstand, this had to be my room.
So why the hell was Ethan in my bed?!
"There’s a group meeting at ten—remember we said we’d have breakfast together? It’s almost nine-thirty. Has Senior Ethan’s phone been reached?"
"No… I’m still calling…"
Ethan’s phone on the nightstand flashed, but mercifully it was on vibrate.
If those people outside knew Ethan was in my bed… no. I couldn’t even think about it.
Play dead. I’m going to play dead and hope it passes!
Ethan, who’d been lying motionless, suddenly wriggled.
I shot forward and planted myself on his chest, clamping both hands over his mouth.
A muffled groan was cut off, "Mmm—"
"Did you hear any weird noises from Senior’s room?"
"Like…"
No. Absolutely not!
Ethan squirmed and bit into the web of my hand.
It hurt—God, it hurt—but I didn’t make a sound.
Hold it together, Claire Bennett, hold it in!
If anyone found out you were in bed with Ethan Carter, your reputation would be ruined forever.
Just then, "No movement—should we go?" sounded outside, and I was flung off the bed like a cannonball.
"…Claire Bennett!"
Ethan’s face flushed faintly. His arm, all elegant lines, braced against the headboard and boxed me into the corner.
I steadied a little, tilting my face up to confront him and purposely letting a few traces of disdain show. "How did you get into my room?"
"Does Dr. Claire Bennett practice any face-changing tricks?"
He snorted, amused.
I forced my eyes away from his biceps and the washboard of his abs, forcing a calm expression. "What did you say? I don’t understand."
"Dr. Claire usually looks so prim and proper—but turns out you have a lot of… variety."
Ethan sneered. "Last night you dragged me back to your room. Once there, it was ‘Senior’ this, ‘Senior’ that, trying to peel my clothes off—aren’t those all your doing?"
March sunshine made me shiver despite the warm room.
Ethan is my PhD senior. He generally acts indifferent toward the opposite sex and stayed on after graduating to focus on research—he’s practically the Department’s ascetic idol.
Public feuds aside, he wouldn’t be the type to sleep around.
And yet, the dark crescent marks on his neck were dramatic—like injuries from fingernails in a moment of passion.
Could… it actually have been me?
"Startled? Want a look at the back?"
He shifted, revealing a lattice of red marks across his shoulder blades.
I, trembling, pressed my hand to them.
They fit. The wounds aligned perfectly.
I yanked my hand back like I’d been shocked. "I—I—"
"Iron Claire…"
The normally cold Ethan leaned in, testosterone radiating, mocking, "So you practice the Nine Yin Bone-Claw now?"
My name is Claire Bennett, nicknamed Iron Claire for my stern, relentless reputation.
And now, here I was—bringing Ethan tea, rubbing his shoulders, doing the chores, acting like a bootlicking little lapdog.
Too bad Ethan remained insufferable.
Desperate, I spilled every bill in my wallet and presented them like an offering. "Ethan…"
"Call me Senior."
He folded his hands on his chest, serene and aloof.
"S-Senior."
Normally I’d never call him that willingly. But right now, I had to swallow my pride.
"Please, please don’t tell anyone."
He frowned at the stack of cash. "Claire Bennett, what is this? Trying to buy me off?"
As much as I wanted to retort that six hundred wasn’t going to cover a duck, I couldn’t afford to offend this living statue. I smiled a strained, forced smile. "Of course not."
"Keep the money. Come over this weekend and help me clean and cook."
He wanted me to cook for him?
I almost choked. My face darkened. Ethan cleared his throat coolly. "You don’t look very willing, Claire."
"Then I have no choice. I could always tell everyone how ‘Iron Claire’ coerced me into… doing things to Senior—how you groped me—"
Ethan put on a mock-dramatic expression, voice soft with faux sorrow. "I wonder how the students who admire Dr. Claire would react if they knew she behaved so indecently?"
Coerced into indecency, groping—Ethan, did you reincarnate as a thesaurus of scandal?
At that moment I realized: however shameless my moves, Ethan’s were always one step worse.
"Fine."
I clenched my fists and agreed in a defiant voice. "I’ll go."
2
Ethan and I are fellow labmates, but it’s obvious we don’t get along. Our advisor feared we’d bicker ourselves into breaking the gear, so he split us into the South and North Labs.
Ethan loves theory and publishing—South Lab pushes for academic conferences and journals. My work centers on national competitions and real-world applications—North Lab focuses on hands-on projects that win national awards.
No matter how many ribbons I collect, Ethan always sneers that my work is simple and lacks technical depth. I’m not exactly sweet either—I take digs at him, saying that if he keeps doing academic research for two more years, he’ll end up bald as a desert.
Since we met we’ve been at each other’s throats. Now that he had leverage over me, he walked ahead, practically humming as he went.
Ugh—grown adults humming kiddie tunes. Immature. So immature.
Despite the immaturity, he looked like a million bucks, and a female student came up to him. "Professor Carter, congratulations on your promotion!"
Ethan gave a slight nod, cool and distant.
He admires almost no one besides himself.
The student went on about her thesis progress. I pretended not to hear and headed toward the North wing when she interrupted, "By the way, what’s with your neck?"
Ethan hadn’t planned to go to South Lab today and had come up to the North. "Picked up a stray cat on the way. It scratched me."
A cold chill raced down my back.
I glared at him. "Aren’t you going back to your own lab?"
"Do I have to report to my junior in the faculty office too?"
Damn, I forgot he’d been promoted.
We glared at each other; sparks practically flew. The student quickly tried to smooth things over. "Um, Professor Carter, if you were scratched by a cat, maybe you should get a rabies shot?"
"Do you think I should, Claire?"
If he gets a shot and a dose of antibiotics with that whiskey, maybe next year I’ll go toast his grave.
"That cat was odd. Clung to me like glue."
Ethan—rarely smiling—looked almost fond. "Have you seen a cat like that, Claire?"
"No."
I said coldly.
"Oh… I haven’t seen such an affectionate cat either. Was it pretty?"
The student pressed.
"It was pretty, but bad-tempered."
He stopped beside me. His white shirt gaped at the collar, revealing the graceful sweep of his neck. His eyes curved in a mischievous smile. "Don’t you agree, Claire?"
Ethan’s comment didn’t make sense to the student, but the person it mattered to had already understood.
My face drained. I shivered again.
Watching him walk away, I wanted to burn a hole in his back with my gaze.
Ethan Carter.
3
"Claire—Senior, maybe you shouldn’t pin Senior Ethan’s photo on the dartboard bullseye."
I flicked my gaze. The lab fell silent; only the tap of keyboards filled the room.
I threw a dart and hit the bullseye.
After sticking him eighteen times, I finally felt vindicated.
"Liam, is the recent project wrapping up?"
"The core requirements are mostly done. We have time. After last night’s drinks, Zack came up with a new personalized idea—we’re organizing it now. We’ll send it to you in a bit."
"Okay."
"By the way, after the KTV last night—"
"Don’t you dare mention it!"
I slammed my pen on the table. Liam recoiled like someone expecting a blade to fall.
After a long pause, Liam finally spoke up in a whiny, put-upon voice, like a little wife who’d been wronged. “I mean… I paid for the drinks. Can’t we just split it A/B?”
I was honestly driven crazy by Ethan Carter—to react this way.
“Senior, are you upset?”
“It’s early and we couldn’t find you. You didn’t come to group meeting—did you and Senior Ethan fight again after he walked you home yesterday?!”
Liam was always nosy and he wasn’t missing this chance.
I meant to brush it off and, without thinking, muttered, “Mm.”
Of course it had been Ethan who walked me home.
But shouldn’t he have left after he’d dropped me off?
How could he possibly have stayed and slept until dawn?
“But when you were singing, you two seemed fine. You even dragged him to sing ‘The Mudskipper Song’ with you. He’s like twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and he’s still doing that—weren’t you not happy and dragged him into the circle dance…?”
My face went as white as a sheet. I turned toward Liam stiff and wooden, my throat tightening so I couldn’t get the words out. “W-what did you say?”
“You know, ‘Dolls and Bears Dance,’ dance, dance, one-two-one…” He started singing it, and heads bobbed behind cubicle dividers, pretending to work while shoulders trembled to hold back laughter. Then I remembered—when Ethan and I had come back together earlier, he’d been humming that exact song.
I… had dragged Ethan onto the dance floor in front of everyone?
I couldn’t accept it and asked again, “You mean… in front of… everyone? All of them?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “You even hugged Senior Ethan and said you admired him or something.”
Liam went on, impressed. “Even when you were drunk you insisted Ethan escort you back—you wouldn’t let anyone else. I was worried you two would fight every time you met; you guys seem to have such a bad relationship. Turns out you’re just bad at expressing yourself…”
What a crime against me.
All week I’d been avoiding Ethan like a mouse avoiding a cat—running whenever I saw him. We could bicker normally when we met; losing an argument wasn’t shameful.
But after doing so many mortifying things, just thinking about those embarrassing scenes made me want to crawl into a hole.
Because I’d been dodging him so much, he once left me a box of pills. I picked it up and read: treats urinary frequency, urgency, and incomplete voiding.
My face drained of color.
When someone came by, I immediately threw the box in the trash.
Liam patted my shoulder like he understood everything. “Senior, it’s fine—we all know.”
“Get treated properly and lift your head up and be a woman!”
Be a woman, my foot.
Even if I hid, the weekend fell on me like a nightmare.
I stared at the "death location" message Ethan had sent with the addendum: consequences if you don’t come. I was helplessly parked under his building.
Ethan—spoiled, handsome son of a well-off family—lived in a huge apartment, hands never getting dirty, always having meals brought to him. Me? Ethan’s put-upon maid—serving tea, mopping floors, cutting fruit, taking out trash.
He lived like a princely couch potato, butt glued to the sofa, studying journals on his iPad. He wanted something, he just said so and it was done.
His occasional jabs at me were barbed, “This junk even gets published? Maybe Claire should write a couple papers too.”
I hated those two shots of cheap whiskey he’d slipped me; they’d left me not only physically exhausted but also mentally tormented by him.
My fists clenched and loosened in a loop.
Life was like a play.
Ethan was the loud-mouthed bastard in the show—Claire Bennett, would you argue back? No. So we didn’t get mad.
I took care to present freshly brewed coffee; the master barely glanced. “Leave it there.”
Worked all afternoon and finally wanted to sit and rest, rubbing my tired wrists.
He snapped his iPad shut and looked at me coldly. “Who told you to sit?”
“This master asked for coffee; anything else?”
“I want to eat.” His clear eyes stared at me.
Then why are you drinking coffee?!
A vein throbbed at my temple. He ignored it and ordered, “Pepper stir-fry. No garlic, thanks.”
I chopped peppers with righteous fury.
“Claire’s so angry, she needs to take it out on the food.” He’d somehow come into the kitchen; the space was tight and he stood in the way so I couldn’t even grab a plate.
“Move.”
I snapped at him and squeezed past, but before I could stoop he looped an arm around me and pulled me into his chest.
The cramped kitchen suddenly felt suffocating. The dull lights flickered and my heart skipped. Between Ethan and me—there could be a moment named ambiguity.
His usual cold voice softened. “Are you mad?”
Like coaxing a child, warm lips brushed my ear. My left side tingled. I tried to pull away, but my feet felt rooted to the floor.
“You keep avoiding me.” Half jealous, half annoyed, he hesitated then sighed like surrendering. “Don’t be mad, okay?”
Okay.
His head rested lightly on my shoulder, arms sliding around me from behind. I braced, thinking he’d hug me, and stiffened like a board. My face heated to a boil; even swallowing nearly choked me.
Big brother—talk all you want, don’t touch.
Instead he slowly untied my apron. When he saw my face flushed bright as a shrimp, surprise flickered across his features, then he smiled. “What are you thinking about? Blushing like this?”
That smile—brighter than spring—overlapped with some past moment woven into dreams. If only I could save that frame forever.
“You thinking about something? Hm?” He asked again when I didn’t answer.
“N-no…” I fled in a cowardly scramble.
Half a minute later: the kitchen emitted a pained yelp.
Ethan stumbled out, holding one eye.
“What happened?” I tossed the remote and went to help. When he moved his hand away, the eye was slightly red and swollen.
“Accidentally rubbed my eye with hands that had cut chili…” He forced his lids open, and a stream of crystalline tears leaked out. The contrast on his usually aloof face—pouty and wronged—was unexpectedly funny.
I couldn’t help a snort, and he grabbed a soft patch of my waist and pinched hard. “Ow! That hurts!”
My flesh. He bared his teeth, both annoyed and in pain. “Blow on it for me.”
“No.”
He pinched to make me. “Blow.”
“No—” I resisted but then he softened, like a little dog on my shoulder begging.
“All right, I’ll blow.” Claire Bennett had no principles.
After a little, the redness faded. He squinted; long lashes trembled. He appraised me earnestly. “Do you remember what happened that night at the hotel?”
I froze and fumbled, “I blacked out that night. If I said stupid things or did something, don’t hold it against me.”
“…Is that so?” He teased, smile sharp as a blade. While I wasn’t paying attention, his free hand had crept up my back.
“I had to go to the bathroom—” I tried to make a getaway, but he caught me and pressed me against him.
I looked up into his sharp gaze. “Ethan… what are you—”
He sneered. “Trying to act innocent, Claire?”
I have a secret.
Though on the surface Ethan and I were always at odds—like fire and water, exploding whenever we were near—actually…
I’d been secretly in love with Ethan.
I talked theory—“Love is meaningless; study secures your life”—but at night I replayed every word he’d ever said to me.
He mocked my incompetence. His algorithms stumped me for days. I’d stay up, burning my brain to understand them just so I could drop a casual line the next day: “Who can’t understand this? I’m just finding your flaws.”
He published a paper; I’d rush to build two systems. He said I’d become some opportunist if I chased projects for profit. I’d retort about his old-school academic ways.
He was austere, always buttoning his shirt to the top, but when he smiled at me—how dare he?
Because he smiled, I dreamed of him a thousand ways, held him close, did things in dreams I wouldn’t dare in daylight.
So when I’d pulled him into my arms in my dream-substitute, I’d whisper coquettish things: “You came into my dream again.”
Because it was a dream, I could loop my leg around his waist and confess the long-kept secret in the safety of sleep. “Ethan, I like you.”
My Rival, My Secret Heart
But I remembered—he didn’t touch me then. He saw the mist in my eyes and, restraining himself, said each word carefully, “You’re not sober.”
Right—I wasn’t sober, otherwise I wouldn’t spill everything.
But now? Curled against him, he asked again, right over my head, “Claire Bennett, what do you really feel about me?”
What do I feel?
What would happen if confessing made things awkward, if we then lost even the right to quarrel?
Just imagining Ethan becoming someone unrelated to me made me miserable.
No strangers. No awkwardness. No taking chances.
“Senior…” I turned away and lied badly, “Just senior-junior feelings.”
He studied me a long time—so long I could have sworn the floor would split open. He scoffed once. “Is that so?”
Before I could react, he lifted me like I weighed nothing.
He loomed over me, his gaze cold.
"Junior, don't sit on senior."
My relationship with Ethan had dropped back to zero contact. For two or three days now, when we crossed paths he didn’t argue with me—he basically treated me like air.
Today was our project group's internal meeting. Usually South Lab sends two people to sit in, and Ethan is always one of them. Even when he’s there he rarely offers anything constructive, but his snide comments used to light a fire under me.
Now I felt listless, staring at the empty seat and tasting a hollow ache.
The juniors were still hashing out opinions about the new system.
"System notifications are just pushy spam, right? So low—those forced pop-ups making users accept info…"
"Isn't it meaningful as an added feature? Personalized needs—you're supposed to consider what most people want. You can't call it low just because you think so…"
"My point is, this extension isn't user-initiated interaction. Adding it will drag the system rating down. In short, I'm against it…"
"It’s ridiculous—you don't want the system to be proactive if users won't be? Come on."
Liam got heated, spittle flying. "If you don't take the initiative and I don't, where does a story even start?"
Right. Someone has to take initiative.
He won't talk to me—does that mean I can't go after him? Might as well steel myself and try.
I jumped out of my chair like I'd been shocked.
"Senior…" Liam poked me carefully, and I came back to myself. "Senior, you seem fired up. Any constructive points?"
"All this fuss about adding a settings option…" I grabbed the remote and shut off the projector, not wasting breath on niceties. "The system isn't for one person, fine. Personalization makes sense, fine. But personalization should be handled through maintaining a user's personal configuration list—basic common sense…"
I said coolly, "You guys have wasted your education."
One by one, heads dropped.
"Meeting dismissed."
I hurriedly gathered my things. "Liam, go buy some drinks for everyone. After a morning of meetings everyone's throat is shot."
"Senior, you said about ten sentences total, including opening and dismissing the meeting. How is your throat shot…" He started to argue.
I shot him a look—was he trying to pick a fight? He noticed my glare, immediately sulked and fell silent.
"Oh, and get a freshly brewed coffee to go." I paused at the door and said seriously, "Make sure it's freshly brewed."
…In the break room.
I looked for Ethan a long time before finally finding him. But he wasn't alone—there was a female student who'd earlier asked him about her graduation project.
"Professor, I'll make you a coffee." She took out a packet of instant coffee and reached for Ethan's cup.
All caution flew out of my head. Mouth outrunning thought, I blurted, "He doesn't drink instant."
"I do." He didn't even look at me—he smiled at the student with that warm, mentorly kindness.
That smile made my heart drop.
Holding the warm, freshly brewed coffee, I lost my grip; the lid popped off and the coffee splashed onto my white sneakers. I ignored it and stepped in front of him, stubbornly repeating, "You don't drink it."
You don't drink it.
You said you don't drink instant coffee—you said you only drink freshly brewed.
That afternoon I had ground beans until my wrist ached and you didn't have a single sip.
But he barely glanced at me, that look so distant it twisted something in my chest.
Then, as if to prove his words, he took the student's instant coffee and sipped it.
He signaled for the student to leave. As he brushed past me he dropped, "I drink instant too, but… it depends on the person."
My newly crushed cup—mangled in my hand—was ignored. I suddenly felt like a fool, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
I stood frozen until the figures were gone, then remembered the coffee in my hand. It was bought; wasting it would be a shame.
I took a sip. The bitterness churned in my stomach.
Who could like this stuff?
I felt stupid—why had I done something so silly?
"Hey, Liam, have you noticed Senior Claire has been down lately?"
"To be honest, Ethan's been snapping a lot too. South Lab's full of complaints. I don't even linger when I pass by—afraid he'll catch me and chew me out."
"Oh! Is it about the instrument allocation? I heard a lot of equipment funding got cut this semester. Tons of instruments haven't arrived!"
Someone shouted across the room and yanked my attention from the one reference I’d been staring at for a whole minute without reading.
Right—I expected the ordered instruments to arrive. I saw a delivery truck this morning. Ethan might ignore me, but we couldn't let experiments and projects be delayed.
I pulled myself together and grabbed two juniors to go to the advisor's office, and bumped right into Ethan in the hallway.
He put on an air of superiority, pretending not to see me, and strode into the office.
I bit down the greeting stuck in my throat.
Fine—no greeting. We'll see who blinks.
I lagged behind him. Our advisor, Dr. Morgan, was gently explaining, "Ethan is now an associate professor. He can apply for equipment on his own. Since this batch just arrived, let's let Claire's team use them for their experiment first."
Ethan hadn't replied yet when another student interjected, "The TZ101’s supply channels are overseas—during the pandemic procurement might be hard."
"Senior Claire, we also…" Liam mumbled.
I remembered we'd listed a TZ101 in our equipment request—key for the April project. Not urgent right now, but essential.
"Then I'll have my junior get it from the warehouse." Since the advisor said it, I wasn't going to play politics. I decided to act fast.
Ethan intercepted me. "I never said I'd hand it over to Dr. Claire."
Oh, so now I'm a doctor instead of a junior? He even called me Dr. Claire.
"Associate Professor Carter can apply for another instrument if he needs one. No need to fight with me, a regular student," I shot back reflexively.
He scoffed, "Dr. Claire isn't a regular student—she's got a dozen projects and money to burn. Just tell your investors and it's sorted."
He argued hard; I let my pride take over and matched him blow for blow. We went at it, point for point, until Dr. Morgan couldn't take it and waved us out. "If either of you wants it, go sign it out at the warehouse. Stop making my head buzz."
The office door slammed, leaving the two of us locked out.
"Hmph!" Ethan left with a swagger toward the north elevator.
"Hmph!" Who's afraid of who?
I took the stairs and beat him to the warehouse.
The old man who manages the university storeroom seemed off duty—the place was empty. The Department of Computer Science's instrument racks are deep inside; sweating, I scoured the high shelves until I found the big TZ101 box.
Determined to claim it, I circled the box with a ring of labels with my name on them.
Stick. Stick. Stick.
Let's see Ethan try to take it.
When I finished, I realized the box was too heavy to lift alone. I heard someone call my name and thought it was a junior, so I called back, "Here! Come help move it—don't let Ethan steal it!"
But it wasn't a junior. Ethan walked over at a relaxed pace.
He saw right through me. "Claire, how old are you? Why so childish?"
Calling me childish—Ethan, aren't we two of a kind?
I descended the ladder, smiling triumphantly. "I got here first, so it's mine."
"Putting your name on it makes it yours?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer, snatched the label and marker from my hand before I could react, and wrote one bold, elaborate syllable: 'Carter.'
How dare he.
A man, and the advisor had already said something, yet he was petty enough to try to steal it.
I spread my arms to block his path. "You're late. Anything posted later doesn't count!"
He ignored me and walked forward. I kept backing up until my toes hit his white shoes and my heels pressed the ladder leg. The narrow aisle left me nowhere.
He leaned down slightly. For a moment I thought he would threaten me. I braced myself, thinking today the sky itself had fallen—this instrument was mine.
Instead, he lifted his wrist and gently pressed the label against my forehead.
The sticker met my skin with his fingertips. It stuck perfectly to my brow. I looked up in shock and saw only his clear, jade-like eyes, an almost-delusional tenderness in them.
"If it's got my name, it's mine."
He smiled—gentle ripples like a lake.
I felt like I was losing my mind.
No—I'd already lost it. The want inside me, those midnight-longing feelings, grew like vines when I heard that ambiguous line. They unfurled shamelessly, begging me to pull him close, to spill every secret I kept in those night-swept fantasies.
He's my senior. He's someone I both respect and love and can’t afford to lose.
So what if that’s the case?
I like him so much—and maybe he likes me too.
Yes, he said I'm his.
If I'm his, then he's mine.
No—wait…
But he didn't drink the coffee I ground for him. He drank the instant coffee someone else made.
My thoughts unraveled. I blurted, incoherent, "Do you… do you drink instant coffee or not?"
He paused, his gaze briefly clouding with confusion.
Damn, what am I even saying? How could he possibly understand that.
I started to step away, and he yanked me into his arms. My ear pressed against his chest; I could hear his heartbeat, urgent and strong, clear as a drum.
Thump-thump, thump-thump— "I don't drink instant coffee."
His voice was low, coming from above me. "But I don't want to be just your senior either."
…Not be my senior? Do what then?
Not be my senior? Do what then?
I'm not stupid—how could I not get what he meant?!
The warehouse corridor was narrow; the dim light fell across his sharp features.
"Not be my senior?"
I needed to make sure.
"Not a senior."
He dropped his eyes slightly.
Fine. Then don't be.
When I looked up, my fingers trembled as they hooked his collar and pulled down hard; he had to bend lower.
His clear eyes held a smile, like he was pleased this was happening.
I rallied all the reckless courage I could muster.
Claire Bennett—right here, right now.
At the closest point, my lips were only 0.01 centimeters from his.
A flashlight beam suddenly flicked on behind Ethan Carter, blinding and sharp.
Old Mr. Dawson, the warehouse custodian, poked his head around like a second cavalry, barking, "Hey, what are you two doing? Stop lollygagging and come out—closing time."
"Such a shame."
Ethan's loose collar had been dragged down to his collarbone and further; he frowned, displeased.
"Ahem."
I cleared my throat to cover my embarrassment, but I couldn't help agreeing inside.
It really was a shame.
Outside, I tugged at his shirt sleeve to get his head to bend down.
"What's up?"
He understood immediately and bent to whisper, probably to keep Mr. Dawson from hearing.
"If you need the equipment now, go ahead and use it."
I copied his low tone. "We're not in a hurry. You can use it first."
"Claire, are you made of wood?"
He sounded both annoyed and amused, poking the label on my forehead harder with his fingertip. Through his teeth he ground out, "You say that now?"
The next day, thanks to old Mr. Dawson, the whole department knew a rumor: a male and female student had been getting cozy in the warehouse.
Ridiculous!
"What cozy? I didn't even kiss him—what cozy are you talking about?!"
"Want me to stop the car and give you a proper kiss right now?"
"Heh…"
I forced a laugh and felt suddenly foolish. "No, that's not necessary."
That morning Ethan texted he was taking me out for a nice dinner tonight. I spent half the day giddy, changing out of jeans and a tee into a haze-purple dress and sneaking out of the lab at the appointed time.
Ethan chose an upscale-looking Japanese place. A hostess greeted us as soon as we walked in.
"Are you two a couple? We have a couples' set—it's on special. Super cost-effective."
I peeked over the menu to see Ethan's expression.
No frown. He didn't seem angry.
A little smile tugged at his mouth, almost pleased.
Oh—he was looking at me.
I ducked back behind the menu, my heart stuttering.
Ethan brushed the menu away from my hands, exposing my flushed face to his gaze.
I pretended to study the room, refusing to meet his eyes, which only amused the server.
He asked, "Claire, are you a couple?"
"Tha—? Yes?"
I shot back a hesitant question as if testing him.
His grin nearly split his face; his ears were pink.
"We're a couple."
He nodded, sure of it. "Want the couples' set? Or do you want something else?"
"Couples—set."
I said it without hesitation!
Yep. Claire Bennett, proud couples-set enthusiast.
When we left, I glanced at the bill and sent him half.
"You want to split this?"
"Uh…yeah."
No, no—his expression shifted. I hurried to explain. "It's our first time eating together. This is probably better."
He ignored the transfer, screen off, phone in his pocket. "Claire, think about it. Either I pay, or from now on you pay every time…"
He said it coolly, "After all, Dr. Claire Bennett is a little rich project girl…"
Okay. He called me Dr. Claire. Associate Professor Carter was genuinely annoyed.
I looped my arm through his. "No splitting. Professor Carter has money—Professor Carter can pay."
At that, Ethan's clouded mood cleared and he smiled again.
He patted my arm like it was an affectionate tic—enough to make him seem a little awkward, a tiny lost look.
Then he took my hand, palms meeting, and that little hurt vanished in an instant.
He led me to the trunk of his car. As the taillight glowed, he reached to open it—and a familiar voice called from behind.
"Claire?"
Liam came up, all surprised. "Hey? Hey? What? Ethan and Claire together here?!"
No, no, no…my internal alarm bells screamed. My mouth moved faster than my brain. "Not what you think! Ethan and I—nothing going on!"
"A-A senior would ask another girl out and get me as his consultant!"
I tried desperately to distance myself from Ethan, then noticed Ethan's hand stalled on the raised trunk lid. Inside the trunk was a huge bouquet of red roses, baby's breath like tiny stars softening the arrangement.
Crap. Totally busted.
Liam blinked clueless; Ethan's face turned stone. He snapped the trunk closed, climbed in, and drove off.
It's over. Ethan would never forgive me.
The next day.
"Ethan…"
Come lunch, I ditched the crowd and waited outside his lab door all afternoon.
I hadn't slept since last night. I arrived at the lab before dawn and waited until finally his office door opened. I still didn't know what to say.
"Excuse me."
He carried a takeout box, expression cold. When I stubbornly blocked his path, he went straight to his faculty office.
I followed, shameless. "Ethan, I'm sorry."
"Dr. Claire, what are you saying."
Ethan's face was composed, but distant. "I don't understand."
I knew. I knew it was stupid to tell everyone we had nothing between us right in front of him.
But in that moment, I hadn't adjusted to the change in status. Old habits died hard—I instinctively tried to deny any connection to Ethan, to pretend I had no feelings for him.
"Ethan, tell me—what should I do?"
What could I do so you'd forgive me?
"Claire."
He set down his chopsticks, annoyed. His normally cool face showed thin anger. "You said it yourself: we have no relationship."
"Be my Iron Claire senior then, so when some junior comes up we'll be clear."
…
"Senior, the instrument sign-off sheet is in our advisor's name, not Ethan's."
Liam jabbed me and I snapped back to reality. "If you sign it like that, the South Lab can't move the TZ101 even if they want to."
Let them move it. Move me too for all I care.
I flopped back on the table, exhausted. "You sign it."
I skipped lunch and sank into another long sulk after setting down my pen.
Ethan really intended to ignore me. I tried to say more in person and when I couldn't, I sent him a long string of messages—only to find I'd been blocked.
Fair enough. I'd been awful.
I nudged Liam, who was mimicking the advisor's handwriting at the table, and asked, "What's up at the South Lab today?"
"I heard Ethan's in a bad mood—called the juniors in and chewed them out one by one. They joked they'd file a weather report for his moods—if they could predict when he'd be grumpy they'd just skip lab that day."
Those juniors—I'm sorry, guys.
"I'll buy the boys and girls in both labs some milk tea. My treat."
I handed my phone to Liam. "Also, get Professor Carter a—freshly brewed coffee."
I didn't know if he'd still drink it.
"Senior! Senior!"
A junior bounded over, excited. "The A contest results are out! Our team won gold!"
Liam jumped up when he heard, thrilled. He hugged me and danced around. "Yay! Thanks to you! Claire, you're amazing!"
My mood lifted a little.
Then a coldness rose up my spine.
Not good. I turned and there he was at the doorway, takeout box in hand.
Inside the room, laughter. He leaned in the frame and watched me and the juniors hugging, the sneer curling at one corner of his mouth like he thought, "Claire, you're something else."
I watched his retreating figure with nothing left but tears I couldn't shed.
Claire Bennett, look at you—you're ruthless even a bulldozer couldn't match.
My master's and PhD were both from this school.
I remembered when I started grad school, Ethan was already a campus name. He'd published a top conference paper in his first year—very impressive. By his second year resources and attention naturally tilted his way.
I've never liked losing. I'm ambitious. Watching him glide from opportunity to opportunity made me resentful. I thought if I had his advantages, I could do something big too.
But paper after paper, I kept getting rejections. The constant blows left me crushed.
I was hiding under the stairs, wiping my face, when he came back from basketball, sweat-soaked and he saw me. "Oh, crying?"
I turned my face away; he wouldn't leave.
"I mean—have you thought about taking a different route?"
At the time I thought he meant drop out.
"I'm finishing grad school. No matter what."
Not only finishing—I wanted to shine. I wasn't going to let the world belong to some lucky guy like Ethan.
"Mm, pretty determined."
He set down the basketball, crouched in front of me, and handed over a soda. "I know—you've been competing with me all along, aiming for the top conferences."
"But have you ever thought about taking a different path?"
He dodged my flailing hands and mussed my hair. "Do competitions. Put that stubborn, can't-lose energy into contests."
The bubbles in the soda gurgled out all at once as he twisted the cap open.
Somehow, after that, I don't really know why, I started doing projects and entering competitions.
First the campus contests, then regionals, nationals—every kind of event I could find. For a while my advisor thought I'd gone obsessed and tried to stop me from signing up. "Claire, take a break. Not that you're a girl, but who can keep up that non-stop pace?"
I always told myself I competed to prove something to Ethan Carter—to prove I wasn't weaker than him, that I could be better than him, better than most people.
But backstage at an awards ceremony, I overheard Ethan boasting to someone, and it landed differently than I'd imagined. "Wait and see that prize—my junior's the campus champ. Impressive, right?"
"Your junior?"
The other guy blinked. "You mean that girl who bailed on the basketball game with the lab next door because of some distraction?"
"Don't make it sound so crude."
Ethan slung an arm over the man's shoulder. "What can I do? My junior's so driven she was hiding and crying."
"Ooooh… Ethan actually has a soft spot."
"You little—"
Even now, four years later, I can still see it: me on the podium, and Ethan sitting in the audience, smiling at me genuinely.
I think I loved watching him smile too much.
I wanted, every single time I stood on a podium, for him to be down there watching and smiling.
"Claire?"
Senior… "Junior…"
The room spun. I could barely stay upright and fought to push through the weight in my skull to get outside. "Ethan…"
"Claire, Ethan didn't come today. You won't find him."
A junior steadied me.
"Liam, isn't it funny? Usually when senior and junior meet they poke and pick at each other, but when senior gets drunk, the first thing she thinks is to find her senior."
Ethan… wasn't here.
It was my victory party—why wasn't he here?
Why hadn't he come?
Oh, right… he was mad at me.
I stuck out my bottom lip, on the verge of tears. "Ethan, I'm sorry…"
Leaning on the junior, I kept muttering that into the air, hiccupping wine breath.
"Liam, hurry, help me steady her! I can't hold her up…"
Someone grabbed the nape of my neck like they were lifting a kitten, and suddenly I was turned around. The person in front of me wore the exact same white shirt Ethan always did, buttoned all the way to the top.
My blurry vision tracked upward, the overlapping image forming a familiar outline.
So familiar—like Ethan. But how could he be here? He was supposed to be mad.
"Ethan…?"
I asked uncertainly.
"What? Pretending you don't know me again?"
Yep, the way he snapped back—definitely him.
He pinched my cheek to check how drunk I was. Then, in a voice soft enough to drop the entire room's buzz, he said, "Didn't I tell you? No drinking at group dinners. Who let you drink, huh?"
Silence fell for a long beat.
Ethan's presence carried weight.
After a pause, Liam shuffled forward and mumbled an explanation. "We weren't going to drink, but my hometown sent some mare's milk wine. We usually treat it like a soft drink, who knew Claire's tolerance—"
He swallowed the rest when Ethan moved. There were the rustles of clothing and then, in front of everyone, Ethan gathered me up into his arms.
Knowing it was Ethan, I didn't think twice. Instinctively I curled my arm around his neck, found a comfortable spot, and let myself rest.
Half-glazed, I heard him instruct the juniors to call cars. I saw Liam crouch to take me from Ethan—no way was I getting down. I tightened my hold on Ethan's neck.
"Senior, let me take her home."
Liam, bless him, insisted.
Ethan was quiet for a moment. Old grievances and new frustrations tangled together, and then he lifted his foot and kicked Liam in the butt.
Clear as day, I saw it.
"Ouch, Ethan! Why'd you kick me?"
"Not me," Ethan lied without changing expression. "Claire kicked you."
What?! I was a puddle of drunk and Ethan said that—who would possibly believe it?
The moment I hit his bed I lunged at Ethan like muscle memory, my clumsy hands sliding up to his collar again.
He grunted softly, watching without stopping me or helping. Then with a single, flat observation he stripped my intention bare. "Undo the buttons?"
My cheeks burned with intoxicated color. I nodded like a woodpecker—very sure.
"And after you undo them, what then?"
What did I want to do after? Drink muddled my thoughts, and all I could stare at was Ethan.
He was cool and refined and beautiful; he appeared in my dreams nightly. One casual smile could topple me.
Fueled by wine and boldness, I said, almost reverent, "Sleep with you."
Wind-tousled hair fell across my brow. In Ethan's eyes—the always calm lake—little ripples named desire rose.
He said my name, then sighed helplessly. "If only you had this much courage when you're sober."
He eased me back a little and, while I was still dazed, tucked the blanket over my head.
I felt like a swollen, overwrapped spring roll, thrashing and failing to free myself, nearly in tears.
"Why are you crying? I'm not over it yet."
Buried under the blanket, I quieted and lowered my head to apologize. "Ethan, I'm sorry."
"I've heard that," he said. "Say something else."
He clarified, as if I might miss it: "Four words. Starts with 'I'. Ends with 'you.'"
"I like you."
The wine gave my tongue an edge; I spoke smoother than ever, and tossed in a bonus line: "Everything else is nothing compared to you."
"Such slick talk."
Ethan patted my head like a reward. "Then I like you too."
What did he just say…?
Fireworks exploded in my head, simultaneous and brilliant.
"Ethan—"
I dove at him.
Based on past experience, Ethan guarded himself, holding me back. I complained in protest.
"Claire Bennett, are you going to renege when sober?"
I shook my head like a maraca. "No."
"Not hiding it anymore? Tell people?"
"Yes."
Ethan smiled, pleased. "Claire, you're a grown woman. Be responsible for what you say and do."
"Yes."
I agreed compliantly. "Responsible."
"Okay, I'll let you out of the blanket. Can you be responsible for your actions?"
When I woke, I was in Ethan's apartment and daylight had already come.
Time overlapped—he walked past me shirtless again, but this time holding two plates.
One plate was bread. The other plate was also bread.
Youthful flesh made my heart flutter, but more arresting than muscle was the red mark at his neck—fresh, and still swollen where it had been tugged.
Ethan's low voice echoed: "Can you be responsible for your actions if I let you out?"
"I can—"
I could not.
We walked side by side to the lab building, his warm milk in my right hand, the bread he baked in my left.
"Claire, have you decided what you're going to say later?"
I kept my head down and ate, which only annoyed him.
"Claire, you're not going to play dumb again, are you?"
When I didn't answer for a long moment, he threatened coolly, "I recorded it. Try to back out once more."
"Don't, don't."
The bread I swallowed went down wrong and lodged in my throat. I couldn't swallow it or pull it up—coughing, gasping, "Cough—cough cough—"
"Thinking about something? Why so excited?"
Not excited! Don't say that!
The elevator dinged. The doors opened. Our juniors were all there in the doorway, faces stunned.
I pretended not to notice. "Why are you all on this floor?"
"Just finished the group meeting."
"Oh."
I turned away from their curious looks, silently begging them not to ask anything. Ethan—my frequent sparring partner—was now rubbing my back affectionately, smoothing me out. The juniors were frozen, clearly shocked.
"Senior Claire, you two…"
Ethan smiled at me with eyes like the sun.
I knew it was time to keep my promise.
Love be damned—grades matter.
"I…"
Words were on the tip of my tongue, but they jammed and refused to come out.
Ethan said lightly behind me, "We ran into each other on the way. You all coming in or not? If not, I'll close it."
They funneled past and pressed me next to Ethan.
My face flushed as I fought for words to apologize.
He leaned in and whispered in my ear with a smile, "It's okay."
"Claire, we have a long road ahead."
[Extra — Ethan's POV] My junior and secret girlfriend, Dr. Claire Bennett, is graduating today.
Saying I'm not a little sad would be a lie.
But her new research institute isn't far from school. Once she leaves, our long secret relationship can end, and I, Ethan Carter, can finally hold her hand in public.
Heh. That thought washed away most of the melancholy.
At nine, Claire was called to take graduation photos. She's so scatterbrained she'd forget flowers, so I'd already prepared—ordered the season's must-have bouquet of sunflowers.
Bright and sunny—perfect for her.
Who would’ve guessed—by the time I got to the photo shoot site, three or four of her juniors from the lab were clustered around her, handing her flowers.
And of all people, Liam—that jerk—had bought the exact same bouquet as me.
I take back what I said earlier.
Sunflower bouquets are not pretty. Not at all. They’re not lively or joyful.
I should have just gotten her roses.
I was furious.
Finally, after she’d sweated through the graduation photos, I stood under my umbrella, grinning, ready to go pick up my girlfriend. Of course, she was immediately pulled aside and summoned to a group dinner.
“Senior, why don’t you join us too? Even though you’ve graduated, you can come and pay the bill.”
While Liam was trying to be clever, Claire couldn’t help but laugh quietly on the side.
“Claire.”
You didn’t forget you have a boyfriend, did you?
Aren’t you going to eat this farewell dinner with your boyfriend?
The sunlight made her flushed cheeks look even better. When she smiled at me in that soft way, all my anger evaporated. I followed them willingly.
“Ethan, come along. I’ll pay.”
Of course you will. My debit card’s still with you.
At the table, Claire reached over and tried to put a shrimp on my plate. I was smug for a second—until she, politely, put a shrimp on everyone’s plate.
I quickly withdrew my hand from peeling the shrimp and sulked.
“Senior, if you’re not going to eat it I will.”
“You!”
Before I could protest, Liam snatched the shrimp from my bowl. “You… you guys are getting bolder.”
“Claire says Senior Ethan’s just a paper tiger. He looks aloof, but his behavior is actually very…”
“Ahem—”
Claire suddenly coughed a few times. I could tell it was fake—of course. She was the one who always egged the juniors on to badmouth me behind my back. “Liam, stop blaming everything on me.”
Liam put on a wheedling smile. “Oh, it’s just the juniors’ doing. Senior, the bill’s on you.”
Nice one, Claire.
She left me standing to chat with the juniors. I stayed quiet. After a little while, she slipped a peeled shrimp into my plate and, pink lips near my ear, whispered, “See? If Senior won’t pay, the girlfriend will.”
When did my girlfriend get this good at flirting?
“Senior, what’s the senior and the girl saying to you?”
I stuffed the shrimp in my mouth and thought: not telling anyone.
…Halfway through the meal, Claire took a call. She nodded and said yes a bunch of times, then finished with, “Okay, I’ll be there right away.”
After she hung up I asked, “What’s up?”
“It’s about the commencement ceremony. I need to get to the auditorium early to prepare. You guys keep eating.”
I took her hand and felt a small pang of disappointment.
“Ethan, you’ll come by later, right?”
Claire’s face flushed a little, like she’d thought of something. “I hope you do.”
“Okay.”
I answered simply, “I’ll be there.”
I believed, without doubt, that my future was Claire.
She was the only person I was willing to approach, step by careful step, without holding anything back—whether the sharp-edged, inexperienced version of her I first met, or the composed, capable woman she’d become.
To me she would always shine.
It was the same auditorium where she’d accepted so many awards. Maybe today was her last speech here. She seemed unusually nervous. “I’d like to thank my advisor, Dr. Morgan, and Senior Ethan Carter, Associate Professor, for teaching me so much about life and work, and for guiding me on my research path…”
I sat in the audience staring at her, inexplicably moved.
I really didn’t want her to leave the university. I just wanted her to keep sparkling in front of me.
“In the days ahead, I feel honored to become their colleague, to join the faculty team at the school…”
What?!
She’d been in touch with the institute before, but she’d never told me she was staying on at the school… I shot up to my feet. Her eyes landed on me.
“Senior Ethan.”
Claire smiled, her eyes curving like she’d pulled off a prank, and she winked at me. “We’ll have plenty of time.”
All right, Claire.
We will have plenty of time.
