Chapter 173: The Clumsy Scholar

The penthouse smelled like pancakes.

Bai Yue hadn’t expected that. She had braced herself for cold marble and sterile luxury, the kind of place where children weren’t allowed to touch things and everything was exactly where the interior designer had placed it.

Instead, she walked into warm vanilla and burnt edges and the sound of someone humming off-key.

“Cookie lady!”

Zhen launched herself across the living room like a tiny white-haired missile. Bai Yue barely had time to set down her bag before the five-year-old collided with her legs, wrapping her arms around Bai Yue’s knees.

“Hi, Zhen,” Bai Yue laughed, crouching down. “You smell like syrup.”

“I helped make breakfast. Papa let me flip the pancakes. I flipped one onto the floor.”

“I see.”

“The floor is clean though. Papa said we have standards.”

From somewhere in the kitchen, Han Shān’s voice drifted out, flat and dry. “I said we have standards because you flipped a pancake onto the floor.”

Zhen grinned, completely unrepentant. She grabbed Bai Yue’s hand and began dragging her toward the kitchen. “Come on, come on, come on. Papa made extra. For you. Because you’re the cookie lady and cookie ladies need fuel.”

Bai Yue glanced up as she was pulled through the doorway.

Han Shān stood at the stove in a simple grey sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His white hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He was flipping a pancake.

Their eyes met.

“Miss Bai,” he said.

“Mr. Shān.”

Zhen tugged impatiently. “Stop being boring. Sit. Eat. Papa makes the best pancakes. Rui Xuě says so, and Rui Xuě never says anything.”

Bai Yue let herself be guided to a stool at the kitchen island. Only then did she notice the boy sitting at the far end, a plate of pancakes untouched in front of him, his purple eyes fixed on her with quiet assessment.

Rui Xuě.

“Hello, Rui Xuě,” Bai Yue said softly.

He nodded once. “You came.”

“I said I would.”

“People say things. They don’t always mean them.”

Bai Yue held his gaze. “I mean this.”

A long moment. Then Rui Xuě picked up his fork and took a bite of pancake. It wasn’t a smile, not exactly, but something in his shoulders loosened. Zhen climbed onto the stool beside Bai Yue and immediately began constructing a tower of pancakes on her plate.

“Zhen, let her serve herself,” Han Shān said, carrying the skillet to the table.

“I am helping.”

“You are creating a structural hazard.”

“The hazard is delicious.”

Bai Yue bit her lip to keep from laughing. The pancakes were, in fact, delicious. Light and fluffy, with crispy edges and just a hint of cinnamon. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first bite hit her tongue.

“These are really good,” she said, surprised.

Han Shān’s ears went slightly pink. “It’s just a recipe.”

“Papa’s been practicing,” Zhen announced. “He made pancakes every day this week. The first batch was burned. The second batch was burned. The third batch was—”

“Zhen.”

“—less burned.”

Rui Xuě snorted. It was the smallest sound, barely audible, but Bai Yue caught it. Han Shān caught it too.

They ate in silence for a while. Zhen narrated her entire morning in exhausting detail. Rui Xuě occasionally added a correction. Han Shān watched them all with an expression Bai Yue couldn’t quite read.

After breakfast, Zhen demanded a tour of the apartment.

“Papa’s room is boring,” she announced, dragging Bai Yue down the hallway. “It’s just suits and shoes and a really big bed. Rui Xuě’s room is cool though. He has star stickers on the ceiling.”

“I have glow-in-the-dark star stickers,” Rui Xuě corrected, following at a more dignified pace. “They’re educational.”

“They’re pretty,” Zhen said. “Cookie lady, do you have star stickers?”

Bai Yue thought about the glow-in-the-dark stickers in her apartment, the ones she had bought on impulse years ago and never used. “I might,” she said. “I’ll bring some next time.”

Zhen beamed.

The tour ended in the living room, where a massive window wall looked out over the city. Bai Yue paused there, struck by the view. The sky was pale blue, scattered with clouds, and for a moment she could almost imagine she was somewhere else. Somewhere with trees instead of buildings. Somewhere with stars instead of streetlights.

“Mama used to stand here,” Rui Xuě said quietly.

Bai Yue turned. The boy was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, his purple eyes fixed on the window.

“She liked the light,” he continued. “In the mornings. She said it reminded her of something. She never said what.”

Zhen had gone still, her small face serious. “I don’t remember Mama,” she said. “I was too little. But Rui Xuě does.”

“I remember some things,” Rui Xuě said. “Not enough.”

Bai Yue’s chest ached. She didn’t know what to say. She barely knew these children. She had no right to their grief, to their memories. But something in her wanted to gather them both up and hold them close.

“Tell me about her,” she said instead. “If you want.”

Rui Xuě looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he began to talk.

~

The morning passed faster than Bai Yue expected.

Zhen taught her a clapping game that involved a lot of shouting and at least one near-miss with a vase. Rui Xuě showed her his collection of pressed leaves, each one labeled with its scientific name in careful, precise handwriting. Han Shān worked in his home office, but every time she glanced toward the hallway, he seemed to be standing in the doorway, watching.

She didn’t mention Zhao Yàn’s call. She didn’t mention the dream.

By the time lunch was over and the children were settled with a movie, Bai Yue found herself standing by the window again, staring out at the city.

“Miss Bai.”

She turned. Han Shān was there, a cup of coffee in each hand.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, offering her one. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I just…” She hesitated. “I was thinking about something I need to look up. Research, sort of.”

“Research?”

“Personal. Nothing work-related.” She took a sip of coffee. It was perfect. “I used to spend a lot of time in the university library, back when I was in school. I miss it sometimes. The quiet. The smell of old books.”

Han Shān was quiet for a moment. “There’s a good library near here. The Westbrook branch. It’s small, but they have an extensive reference section.”

Bai Yue blinked. “You know about libraries?”

“Zhen likes the picture books. Rui Xuě likes the science section.” He paused. “I like the quiet.”

She smiled. “I’ll have to check it out.”

“I can drive you. If you want. After the movie ends.”

The offer was casual, almost careless. But Bai Yue saw the way his fingers tightened on his coffee cup.

“I’d like that,” she said.

~

The Westbrook library was exactly as Han Shān had described. Small, quiet, with tall windows that let in the afternoon light and shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Bai Yue breathed in the smell of old paper and felt her chest unclench.

“I’ll be in the reference section,” she said. “If you need me.”

Han Shān nodded. “I’ll wait here.”

She wandered through the stacks, trailing her fingers along the spines. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Something about dreams, maybe. Something about the strange sense of familiarity that had been following her since the café.

The reference section was at the back, tucked away in a corner where the light was dimmer. Bai Yue scanned the shelves, pulling out a book here, a journal there. Nothing caught her eye.

She turned a corner.

And walked directly into someone’s chest.

“Oof—!”

Books went flying. Glasses went skittering across the floor. Bai Yue stumbled backward, arms flailing, and would have fallen if the person hadn’t grabbed her wrist.

“I’m so sorry—” she started.

“I wasn’t looking—” he said at the same time.

They both stopped.

The man in front of her was tall, lanky, with messy hair and round glasses that were now hopelessly askew. He was wearing a cardigan with elbow patches, because of course he was, and his expression was a mixture of horror and apology and something else.

Something that looked like recognition.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, releasing her wrist and immediately crouching to gather the scattered books. “I was reading and walking. I always read and walk. My mother says it’s going to be the death of me. She’s probably right. Statistically speaking, the probability of—”

He stopped and looked up at her.

His eyes were brown. Warm. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Bai Yue blinked. “I… yes. I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine. Clumsy, but fine.” He stood, clutching the books to his chest. One of them was titled Folklore of the Southern Jungles. Another was Dream Interpretation Across Cultures.

Bai Yue’s heart skipped.

“I’m Yàn Shū,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I’m a researcher. Well, a grad student. Well, a grad student who does research. Technically. If you count—”

“Bai Yue,” she interrupted.

He stopped. His eyes widened.

“Bai Yue,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.”

They stood there for a moment, surrounded by scattered books and afternoon light.

“I should—” she started.

“I have to—” he said at the same time.

They both laughed.

“You go first,” Yàn Shū said.

“I was just… looking for something. In the reference section. I’m not sure what.”

He tilted his head. “That’s vague.”

“I know.” She hesitated. “Have you ever had a dream that felt like a memory? Something you couldn’t explain?”

Yàn Shū went very still. His grip tightened on the books.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have.”

Bai Yue’s breath caught.

“What do you dream about?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he smiled, small and tentative and somehow heartbreaking.

“Stars,” he said. “And forests. And a woman with amethyst eyes.”

Bai Yue’s hand flew to her chest.

“I should go,” she said, backing away. “My… my ride is waiting.”

“Of course.” Yàn Shū stepped aside, clearing the aisle. “It was nice to meet you, Bai Yue.”

“You too,” she said.

She walked away quickly, heart pounding, and didn’t look back.

But she could feel his eyes on her the whole way.

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