The old law building hadn’t seen a renovation in years, but its charm lay exactly in that. Grand neoclassical architecture, solid structure, and surprisingly well-preserved interior gave the place a sense of gravitas. The hallways were broad and filled with natural light, and the first floor -home to the grand auditorium and just a handful of classrooms - boasted a row of elegant Ionic columns. The walls, painted in a warm, sun-faded beige, bore the subtle scars of age and half-hearted repairs. Along the windows, heavy wooden sills gleamed from years of rubbing against countless student coats and bags.

Outside, late September basked in a golden Indian summer. Camille and Rowan had claimed a spot by one of the windows. Neither of them felt like eating - it was too early for lunch, and they had a long break before their next class.

Camille, ever the flirt, perched on the windowsill with her legs angled just so, letting her skirt fall in the most flattering way. 

She immediately pulled out a compact mirror, fussed with her already perfectly curled blonde hair, and began applying lip gloss.

Rowan snorted in amusement. She sat cross-legged in a far less graceful pose, not giving a damn how she looked—as long as she wasn’t literally naked, it was fine. 

A sketchbook from their previous lecture was now open in her lap.

"Could you maybe stop playing the innocent saint act?" Camille grumbled, eyes still glued to her mirror. "I swear, it’s getting embarrassing walking around with you. You’re basically committing a sin just sitting like that."

Rowan didn’t look up. “Saints don’t sketch, Camille. I do.”

“Same thing. Either way, people talk. I feel weird around the girls now.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“Excuse me?” Camille finally turned to her, smudging her lip gloss in the process. “Ugh, damn it.”

“Sorry, Joker,” Rowan muttered, not looking up. “It’s not like I dreamed of hanging out with a bimbo either.”

Camille crumpled a napkin and hurled it at her friend. She missed.

“If we hadn’t been friends since first grade, I’d shove your head in a toilet myself.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Rowan replied under her breath, already picking up her pencil. Even she couldn’t quite explain how they were still friends. Maybe it was just that their parents had been close since forever. And the annoying part? Camille wasn’t stupid—she was funny, engaging, had a good heart. She just… bent too easily under pressure.

Back in third grade, when the other girls declared dolls “totally uncool,” Camille handed over her entire Monster High collection to Rowan. Not that it stopped her from coming over to play with them—always with this dramatic look, as if she were making a great sacrifice for her poor developmentally-stunted best friend.

By fifth grade, when cartoons were deemed “for babies” and girls started talking about crushes, Camille switched tracks again. She still watched cartoon shows secretly, but Rowan had caught her a few times.

And so it went.

Now Camille had a new obsession. After just one lecture with Professor Julian Mercer, their cohort unanimously declared him “dreamy,” “a total snack,” “adorbs,” and most commonly, “And the best part? Not married.” Camille had joined the chorus without hesitation. But while the others still flirted with guys their own age, Camille had fully committed: she was saving herself for Professor Mercer. She, the rose, was blooming just for him - a man more familiar with obscure legal codes than the concept of flirtation.

Rowan didn’t argue. Mercer was indeed handsome and seemingly had a decent sense of humor. Still, he wasn’t exactly a walking K-drama alpha - more like the background second lead in a low-budget adaptation. But when his older colleague, Elliot Vaughn, was around…

Camille stretched with a dramatic sigh. “The coffee machine’s broken again… God, I need caffeine. Or at least a hot professor. With personality. Preferably unattached.”

“You mean Mercer?” Rowan replied innocently, not lifting her eyes from the page.

Camille sighed again, gazing at the car that had just pulled into the faculty lot. “Who else? Look, he’s driving. And of course - who would’ve guessed - Vaughn’s with him. Again.”

“Touching,” Rowan murmured, tracing a chin on paper with deliberate focus. “They’re such good… friends. So close. So tender…”

“Are you implying Vaughn doesn’t own a car, or just enjoys being chauffeured around like someone’s sugar baby?” Camille snapped, still oblivious to the undertone.

Rowan smirked. “Sure. And in the evenings, I bet he throws on a fur-trimmed robe and says, ‘Julian, be a dear and fetch my slippers.’”

Camille narrowed her eyes. She knew exactly what kind of things Rowan was into. Now it clicked.

“Are you… suggesting something?”

Rowan glanced up, grinning devilishly from behind her dark bangs streaked with blue, then returned to her sketchbook.

“Suggesting? No. Pure coincidence. Every. Single. Day.”

“It’s not even funny,” Camille muttered, tapping the window. “I’ve been trying to talk to him for a week, and Vaughn is always there. Like a guard dog. Or one of those creepy grocery store security guys making sure you don’t run off with a stick of salami.”

“Maybe he is a guard,” Rowan shrugged. “Protecting poor Julian from your pheromones. Can’t have another victim like Serge the Moose from sophomore year.”

“Real mature,” Camille scoffed. “Wait, are you drawing them again?”

Rowan didn’t even try to hide it. She turned the sketchbook toward Camille.

There they were. Both professors, smiling smugly from the page. Camille had confiscated similar drawings before, but this one wasn't the type - Vaughn front and center, Mercer grinning like a lovestruck fool behind him.

“Why are they both smiling like idiots?” Camille snapped.

“They smile like that a lot, haven’t you noticed? Remember when they covered that lecture together?”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.”

“Vaughn was so into the material, and Mercer just looked at him like… like he didn’t even care about the lecture, just the sound of his voice. Adorable, really.”

“You’re shipping them!” Camille gasped as if only now realizing it. She’d had her suspicions, but hoped Rowan was just finally developing an interest in real men.

“Obviously. They’re light and shadow. One’s the terror of the department, the other could’ve stepped out of a Jane Austen novel,” Rowan sighed, this time genuinely dreamy. “Together, they’re like a perfect cup of tea - strong, hot, and leaves you with a lingering taste.”

Camille groaned. “Not another ‘Lan Wanzie’ situation.”

“Lan Wangji,” Rowan corrected automatically.

“Whatever. You get one new fandom and suddenly everyone’s in a forbidden romance. And what do you want ME to do?” Camille muttered, ears perked at approaching footsteps. “I’m still hunting Mercer.”

“Just don’t be surprised when that hunt ends with a double heart attack - yours and his. And Vaughn? He’ll just give you one look and you’ll freeze until spring.”

“Enough with the K-pop dramas.”

“That’s K-dramas, darling. Watch more closely. The chemistry is undeniable. The longing glances, the tension… You’re out here with your cheap flirting playing checkers while they’re playing slow-burn chess.”

“Flirting is an art too,” Camille said defensively, flicking her hair.

Footsteps and low voices echoed down the corridor. Camille quickly adjusted her pose, preparing for a graceful dismount - no easy feat in her skirt. But neither professor even glanced her way. Vaughn took a call, pulled his phone from his coat, and, without looking, handed his bag to Mercer. The latter took it in one fluid motion, as if this silent handoff happened every day.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Camille whispered, stunned.

Rowan burst into laughter. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“All that’s missing is him holding the door for - ”

Right on cue, Julian held the door open for Vaughn.

Rowan raised a brow laughing. “Camille, you’ve got a gift.”