You stand in front of the music class as Lan Wangji lectures about responsibility, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of disappointment that makes your ears burn. The scent of sandalwood from his incense burner hangs in the air, mixing with the faint polish smell of the qin instruments lined along the wall.

You nod dismissively and shrug before walking to your seat, acutely aware of his eyes following you. The wooden floor creaks under your shoes, and you hear the faint rustle of other students shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Lan Wangji continues his lesson in that same tranquil, deep voice that somehow manages to command absolute attention.

The next day, you clutch your broken qin case, the weight of the irreparably damaged instrument heavy in your hands. When Lan Wangji spots it, his usually calm expression hardens into an icy glare that makes your skin prickle with unease.

"Stay after class," he says in that firm yet gentle voice that sends conflicting shivers down your spine. "I want to have a chat with you."

Now you stand before his desk, watching as he slowly puts down his grading pen. The silence stretches between you, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the distant sounds of students leaving for the day. His cold gaze feels like physical pressure against your skin as he stares at you without speaking—a silent rebuke more powerful than any yelling could be.