The Arcane Academy

The corridor smelled faintly of old stone and pressed parchment.

Maomao walked quickly, a heavy herbology tome clutched to her chest, eyes fixed forward as if concentration alone could shield her from the world. Sunlight filtered through the arched windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air—an environment meant for contemplation, not interruption.

Unfortunately for her, Jinshi existed.

“Apprentice Maomao,” a smooth voice called from behind her, light and almost amused. “You’re going to trip if you keep walking like that.”

She stopped abruptly, shoulders stiffening.

“Administrator Jinshi,” she replied flatly, not turning around. “If you have disciplinary concerns, I haven’t violated any rules today.”

“That’s disappointing,” he said pleasantly. “I was hoping you had.”

She sighed and finally looked back.

Jinshi stood just behind her shoulder, tall and immaculate in the academy’s gold-trimmed robes. His long hair was tied neatly, his expression composed to the point of being unfair. Students passing by slowed, whispers blooming in his wake like a bad habit. He pretended not to notice.

Maomao noticed everything.

“You’re blocking the corridor,” she said. “If you’re here to inspect students, there are better candidates.”

“I’m here because Professor Lihaku mentioned you skipped lunch again.”

Her grip tightened on the book. “That’s not a rule violation.”

“No,” Jinshi agreed. “But fainting in the greenhouse last month wasn’t ideal either.”

Before she could respond, he reached out—not grabbing, not pulling—just resting his hand lightly on her shoulder, as if steadying her. The contact was brief, precise, and entirely inappropriate for someone of his rank.

She froze.

Others saw a beautiful administrator guiding a distracted student.

Maomao felt the weight of intent.

“You’re tense,” Jinshi said quietly, leaning closer so only she could hear. “Have you eaten?”

“That’s none of your—”

He gently slid something into the crook of her arm: a wrapped citrus, already peeled, segments separated neatly so the juice wouldn’t stain her sleeves.

She stared.

“…You did this yourself,” she said.

“I’ve seen how you struggle with peels,” he replied calmly. “You always end up cutting your fingers.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re observing me too closely.”

“Yes,” he said, without apology.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—the rustle of robes, the hush of the corridor, the way Jinshi’s expression softened when no one else was looking directly at him.

“Eat,” he added. “Then go back to your experiments. I’ll handle anyone who asks questions.”

Maomao hesitated, then picked up a slice. Sweet, clean, effortless.

She glanced at him sidelong. “You know, for someone who claims neutrality, you interfere a lot.”

Jinshi smiled faintly, that dangerous, angelic curve meant for courts and councils—and then let it fade, leaving something real underneath.

“Interference,” he said, “is simply another form of responsibility.”

He stepped back, restoring distance, authority settling over him like a veil. To the watching students, he was once again the untouchable administrator—beautiful, serene, unreachable.

But Maomao looked down at the orange in her hands and understood the truth.

This was how Jinshi cared.

Not loudly. Not safely.

But deliberately—and only for her.