Thanks to Lena Moore, Ethan Moore had been exposed to vocal training from a young age.
When he was little, he genuinely loved the piano. Back then, he even dreamed of becoming a great pianist one day. But love, when pressed into endless drills and rigid routines, had a way of wearing thin.
What started as passion slowly turned into indifference.
And indifference eventually became avoidance.
Maybe he just hadn't loved it enough.
Ethan walked up to the white grand piano and sat down. A student volunteer stepped forward and adjusted the microphone beside him.
On his way from backstage to the spotlight, he'd already made his decision.
The Secret.
It was a song he loved deeply in his previous life. One he had practiced more than once, quietly, for himself.
A soft note rang out.
Then another.
The opening melody flowed gently across the field, tender and restrained, wrapping itself around the night air.
Some students unconsciously started tapping along.
A moment passed.
Then more than a few of them realized something felt off.
They'd never heard this song before.
"The cold coffee slips away from its coaster,
The feelings I hold back arrive far too late…"
"I tried so hard to pull the past back,
But it's still written clearly on my face…"
"The best thing wasn't the rainy day,
But the roof where we once hid from the rain together…"
Confusion crept through the crowd.
Brows furrowed. Whispers spread.
Even some of the faculty exchanged uncertain looks.
If they weren't mistaken—
Was this… original?
"…Is that Ethan?" Mike Turner stared at the stage, stunned.
"I… think so?" Sam Reed said slowly.
"Then… are we still recording?" Chris Nolan asked, questioning reality itself.
They'd been ready to document a legendary embarrassment.
Instead, it was starting to look like a highlight reel.
"Record," Mike said decisively. "Of course we record. The guy on stage is my son."
Sam nodded. "Fair."
Chris sighed. "…Alright."
Nearby, Lynn Harper clapped softly, clearly impressed. "Clara, your student is really something."
Clara Vaughn didn't respond. She was listening.
And she had to admit—it was good.
"You said letting go would take us further,
So why change a time already lost?"
"You stopped me from saying goodbye with your fingertips,
Letting me imagine you beside me, just before everything faded…"
"You said letting go would take us further,
Maybe fate only meant for us to meet…"
"Only meant for us to fall in love that autumn,
And after the leaves fell, how was I supposed to gather the shattered happiness?"
Silence followed.
Then—
Applause erupted.
Thunderous. Unrestrained.
Ethan stood, walked to center stage, and bowed lightly.
No grand gestures.
No lingering.
He arrived quietly, and left the same way.
That calm detachment alone was enough to make more than a few people's hearts skip.
"Wow," Lynn said with genuine admiration. "Clara, you really struck gold with him. That was beautiful."
"He's fine," Clara replied evenly.
"Could you sound any colder?" Lynn laughed. "Honestly, it's starting to feel like he's copying the way you talk."
Clara's eye twitched.
Maybe… she should make him hand-copy a few more scores.
—
Back in the crowd—
"When did Ethan start acting like this?" Mike muttered.
"He definitely wasn't like this before," Sam said.
"Drop the 'definitely,'" Chris added. "This level of posing is… impressive."
Mike clenched a fist, eyes burning. "Watching this makes my blood boil. I want to get on stage and act cool too."
"You?" Sam laughed. "You'd start shaking the moment you stepped up."
"Watch your mouth!"
Sam tilted his head thoughtfully. "Didn't you shove him into the spotlight earlier?"
"…Then he owes me," Mike declared proudly.
That reaction speed earlier? No way you pulled that off without seriously playing Counter-Strike.
Ethan stepped down from the stage and immediately found himself intercepted.
Upperclassmen. Lots of them.
"Ethan, your singing was amazing. I'm a third-year vocal major. Want to practice together sometime?"
"I'm a third-year piano major too. Maybe we could—"
"That song was incredible. Original? I'm in composition. Want to talk?"
Ethan glanced at them, expression calm.
"No time."
And just like that, he walked away.
Honestly?
This Clara Vaughn–style response felt great.
He committed to the cool cold persona and rejected every offer without hesitation.
Back in his class, the crowd swarmed him.
"Ethan, I didn't know you could sing like that!"
"It was alright."
"You trained before, right?"
"Yeah."
"Ethan—"
"Mm."
Three full layers of people surrounded him.
Mike, Sam, and Chris watched from the outside, brows knitting tighter by the second.
Eventually, the crowd dispersed.
The welcome gala came to an end.
"So," Mike asked, draping an arm around Ethan's shoulders, "what are we eating tonight?"
"Anything."
"Hot pot?"
"Sure."
Mike's face darkened. He cracked his knuckles. "You're really pushing it."
Sam chimed in. "Seriously. Acting cool in front of strangers is one thing. You gonna pull that on us too?"
Chris added calmly, "You think we don't know what you're usually like?"
Ethan spread his hands innocently. "What are you talking about? Aren't I always like this?"
Mike tightened his grip. "You keep this up and we're pinning you down later."
Sam lit up. "I still have wigs and skirts. Lights off, who's to say?"
"…What the hell," Ethan breathed. "Fathers, please. How about dry pot instead?"
"Now you're talking," Mike said.
"Spicy hot pot," Sam insisted.
"Chicken stew," Chris countered.
After a round of rock-paper-scissors, they headed for the cafeteria.
Later that night, Ethan received a message.
Lena Moore:
Not bad, little bro. I didn't even know you could write songs.
Ethan Moore:
Not really.
Lena Moore:
Want to go out this weekend?
Ethan Moore:
Can't. Busy.
He wanted to go. But he still hadn't copied his scores, barely practiced, and the last thing he needed was Clara Vaughn hearing him butcher a piece again.
Lena Moore:
Alright then.
After replying, Ethan sat down at his desk.
And opened his music production software.
—
Ethan Moore stayed up until three in the morning.
That was how long it took him to finish producing the final audio file.
Once it was done, he opened a music copyright registration platform and uploaded everything in one go: the track, the lyrics, his ID, the whole package.
His three roommates were surprisingly cooperative. The moment they realized he was recording and editing, even their gaming volume dropped to something almost… polite.
Mike Turner stayed up with him till three too. Not to help. To game.
Ethan couldn't help wondering how Mike's arms were thicker than Ethan's thighs when the guy lived in a chair and treated his keyboard like a gym.
Chris Nolan also made it to three a.m., but not because he was gaming.
He was in his "Imperial Court," whispering sweet nothings into his phone like his life depended on it.
Compared to Sam Reed's "Princess Suite" and Chris's "Imperial Court," Ethan honestly felt like he and Big Mike were sleeping in a cardboard box behind the building.
Ethan was curious what Chris's partner looked like. He wasn't the only one. Mike and Sam were curious too.
But Chris guarded those photos like state secrets.
Still… judging by the soft, sweet voice drifting out of Chris's phone sometimes, it was probably a certified cutie.
Sam was the earliest sleeper in the room. Always lights out before midnight.
Tonight was no different.
The downside of staying up till three was showing up late to class the next day.
Luckily, the instructor let it slide, probably because it was the first time.
Ethan immediately thought of Clara Vaughn.
Yeah. Huge difference.
—
Thirty-six hours later, the weekend rolled in.
Ethan's phone buzzed with an electronic certificate: proof of copyright registration.
Ever since the welcome gala two nights ago, his name had spread fast.
Now people were calling him Harmonia Conservatory of Music's "cold, untouchable campus heartthrob."
Ethan thought that title fit him perfectly.
His roommates strongly disagreed.
They were laughing so hard they looked like they might choke.
Mike Turner: "I'm dying. 'Cold heartthrob.' If they saw you lying on your bed digging at your toes, they'd sue for false advertising."
Ethan snapped back instantly. "Big Mike, that's defamation. Slander. When have I ever done that?"
Sam Reed: "I can confirm. You absolutely have."
Chris Nolan: "Same. I've witnessed it."
Ethan pointed accusingly. "That was me trimming my toenails!"
Sam: "Nope."
Chris, merciless: "That was toe digging. Clear as day."
Ethan slammed a hand on the desk. "Keep barking and I'll demolish your Princess Suite and your Imperial Court."
Sam immediately scuttled behind Mike, putting on his most wounded expression. "Mike… he's so mean…"
When Ethan first met Sam, he'd thought Sam was genuinely pretty, and the voice was… unfortunately effective.
But after living together for a while, Ethan's opinion had evolved.
One word.
Shameless.
"Come on then," Mike said, cracking his knuckles. "Show me what you've got."
Ethan was nothing if not realistic.
He could bully Sam and Chris any day.
But Mike?
Mike would fold him in half and use him as a bookmark.
But that was fine.
Ethan knew someone with maxed-out combat stats.
He "went to the bathroom," pulled out his phone, and messaged Clara Vaughn.
Ethan Moore: Professor Vaughn! Emergency! Reply fast!
Clara Vaughn: ?
Ethan Moore: Do you have any one-hit-kill tricks? He's bigger than me and stronger.
Clara Vaughn: Do you think asking me this makes sense?
Ethan Moore: It does. Your student is confused and needs guidance.
Clara Vaughn: I teach music.
Ethan Moore: …
Clara Vaughn: Did you wash the pillowcase?
Ethan Moore: Yeah.
Clara Vaughn: Come to the faculty apartments.
Ethan Moore: On it.
—
Ethan packed up the pillow and the sofa cushion and headed out. He'd even sealed them inside two giant plastic bags like they were evidence.
"Where you going?" Mike asked, suspicious.
"Seeing my sister," Ethan replied smoothly. "Dropping this stuff off."
Lena Moore, once again, was his favorite shield.
The moment Ethan stepped out into the hallway, his face changed like someone flipped a switch.
The smile vanished.
The expression cooled.
The posture sharpened.
The "cold heartthrob" persona didn't maintain itself.
And these last couple of days? His name had really started making rounds. On the way over, plenty of people stared.
Mostly upperclassmen.
A few looked like they wanted to approach and ask for his contact.
But one look at his ice-cold expression, plus everything they'd heard from the confession wall, and they chickened out.
Ethan kept his face blank all the way from the dorms to the faculty apartments.
It was quiet there. Especially on a weekend. Hardly any students, barely any staff.
He messaged her.
Ethan Moore: I'm here.
A reply came instantly.
Building 2, Unit 401.
Ethan found the door.
Clara Vaughn was already waiting.
She looked like she'd just finished yoga, skin lightly damp, that clean post-workout glow.
She had a coat over her fitted workout clothes though, which felt like a personal attack.
Ethan walked in without a word and held out the bags.
Clara took them, pulled the cushion out first, and glanced at it. "Did you wash the sofa cushion cover too?"
"Yeah." Ethan nodded.
"How's your practicing?"
"Fine."
"Did you copy the scores?"
"No."
Clara narrowed her eyes, like she'd just caught something.
Was this kid… copying her again?
"Ethan Moore."
"Hm?" Ethan replied automatically, and for a second, he felt absurdly satisfied.
Clara didn't speak. She just stared with those sharp eyes.
Ethan's confidence cracked under the pressure.
He coughed awkwardly. "Professor Vaughn… why are you calling me?"
Clara's voice stayed calm. "Do you want to copy those scores a few more times?"
Ethan's "cold heartthrob" mask shattered into dust.
"Professor Vaughn, you're joking, right?"
Clara didn't blink. "You look like you'd love that."
"No, no," Ethan rushed out. "I'm just here to return your stuff. Since I've done that, I should go. I promise I'll practice when I get back."
He turned to leave.
One step.
Then his eyes caught something on the coffee table in the living room.
A vase of lilies.
Ethan paused. "Wait. Didn't you say you threw the flowers away?"
Clara's expression didn't change. "The ones you gave me, I threw away. Those are new."
"…Right." Ethan pouted slightly.
He didn't believe her. Not even a little.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was getting out before she assigned him a second round of score-copying.
So he said goodbye fast and escaped.
—
Half an hour later, back at the dorm.
"Ethan, get on. I'll carry you, we're about to go farm some wins," Mike said, already hyped.
"Go ahead," Ethan replied. "You play."
He sat down at his desk.
And started copying staff lines.
By hand.
In the year of modern technology.
Unbelievable.
Mike wandered over, curious, and as soon as he saw what Ethan was doing, his eyes nearly popped out. "Ethan Moore… what is this? Are you trying to start an arms race? You gonna secretly pass the language exam behind our backs too?"
From inside the Princess Suite, Sam's head shot out like a periscope. "WHO'S STUDYING? ETHAN MOORE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Chris had been planning to nap, but Mike's shouting made him fling open the curtain to the Imperial Court. He glared down like an emperor addressing peasants. "Ethan. Are you… learning something?"
Ethan stared at them. "Guys. I'm just copying music."
That was the dorm version of horror.
Not violence. Not betrayal. Not theft.
A roommate turning pages.
"Copying music?" Mike frowned. "Why would you do that? Just print it."
Ethan let out a small, bitter laugh.
Yeah. If only.
"Hand's itchy," Ethan said lightly. "Felt like copying."
Once they realized it was music and not studying-study, Sam and Chris retreated into their rooms like the crisis was over.
Mike lost interest too and slouched back to his own open-air shack of a bed.
Ethan understood the dorm's unwritten law perfectly:
Copying music was fine.
Reading a book was not.