Chapter 102

The afternoon sun over the university campus should have been soft and warm, but for Lisa it felt sharp—almost humiliatingly bright.

She stood near the hallway outside the student activity building, holding what was supposed to be a carefully built LEGO flower arrangement tucked inside a clear display box. It had taken her days. Every piece was chosen with care, every color matched because she wanted it perfect.

For Jennie.

It wasn’t even her birthday or anniversary. It was just a “because I love you” kind of gift. The kind Lisa always struggled to say out loud, so she built instead.

But now…

Now it was broken.

Not gently. Not accidentally.

The box lay cracked on the ground, LEGO pieces scattered like fallen petals. A few petals had been stepped on already, smudged and scratched beyond repair.

And Lisa was crying.

Quietly at first, like she was trying to swallow it down. But the more she stared at the ruined flower, the more her shoulders trembled until it became impossible to hide.

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” one of the soccer players scoffed nearby, adjusting his duffel bag. “It was just an accident. You dropped it in the way.”

“It wasn’t—” Lisa tried, voice breaking. “You kicked the box.”

The boy shrugged. “Still just plastic toys.”

That sentence was what made her tears spill faster.

Because to Lisa, it wasn’t just plastic toys.

It was love, carefully built piece by piece.

And then—

A sudden silence cut through the hallway.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… heavy.

Like the air itself had changed its mind about being breathable.

Jennie had arrived.

She didn’t run. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone shifted everything—shoulders straight, expression unreadable in that calm way that somehow felt more dangerous than anger.

Her eyes moved first to Lisa.

Then to the broken LEGO flower.

Then to the tears.

Something in her face cracked—not visibly, but deeply. Like a fault line forming under glass.

“Lisa,” she said softly.

Lisa tried to wipe her face quickly, embarrassed. “I’m okay. It’s just— it’s nothing, really, I can fix it—”

Jennie stepped closer.

And gently took Lisa’s hand.

Cold fingers. Warm palm.

That contrast alone made Lisa’s throat tighten again.

“It’s not nothing,” Jennie said quietly.

Then her gaze shifted.

To the scattered pieces.

To the boy still standing there, looking mildly annoyed like this was an inconvenience rather than a moment he had caused.

Jennie didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

“Did you do this?” she asked.

The soccer player shrugged again. “It was an accident. She left it in the way of practice. We were passing balls—”

Jennie blinked once.

Slowly.

Then she looked at Lisa again, as if confirming something only she needed to understand.

“Did he kick it?” she asked Lisa instead.

Lisa hesitated.

That hesitation was enough.

Jennie exhaled through her nose.

Not anger yet.

Something worse.

Control.

“Jennie, it’s fine—” Lisa started again, panicked now, because she recognized that tone.

But Jennie had already let go of her hand.

Not in rejection.

In decision.

“I’ll handle it,” Jennie said.

And then she walked forward.

By the time word spread through the hallway, people had already started watching.

Jennie Kim wasn’t just another student. Everyone knew that. Everyone also knew she didn’t usually get involved in campus conflicts.

But they also knew something else.

Her family had influence. Serious influence. Endowment boards, university partnerships, funding channels—things students didn’t talk about loudly but always whispered about.

So when Jennie walked straight into the middle of the hallway and stopped in front of the soccer group, nobody interrupted.

Not even the coaches nearby.

Jennie looked at them for a long moment.

Then she said, evenly, “Who kicked her work?”

The boy from earlier lifted his chin. “I told you, it was an accident. Why are you making it a big—”

Jennie took one step closer.

That was all.

He stopped talking.

Her voice was still calm when she spoke again. “That girl,” she nodded slightly toward Lisa behind her, “spent days making something for me. You destroyed it.”

Silence.

Jennie tilted her head slightly. “Explain why that’s acceptable.”

One of the teammates shifted awkwardly. “We didn’t mean to destroy it. It just got in the way—”

“In the way of what?” Jennie asked. “Respect?”

That made a few people flinch.

Still, she didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t raise her voice at all.

Which somehow made it worse.

The coach stepped forward carefully. “Jennie, let’s talk about this privately—”

“I will,” Jennie said immediately. “With administration.”

That word changed the air again.

The soccer player scoffed, trying to regain control. “You’re really going to escalate this over some toys?”

Jennie turned her eyes back to him.

And for the first time, there was something sharp in them.

“They are not toys,” she said. “And you don’t get to decide what matters to her.”

A pause.

Then she added, softer but colder:

“You will be accountable for this.”

Not a threat.

A fact.

Lisa stood a few steps behind, frozen.

She wasn’t used to this version of Jennie.

The protective Jennie, yes.

But not the one who made entire rooms go quiet just by deciding they would.

And Lisa didn’t know whether she should feel safe or scared.

Probably both.

Because Jennie finally turned back to her.

And the sharpness disappeared instantly.

Like it had never been there.

“Come here,” Jennie said gently.

Lisa hesitated.

Then moved forward slowly.

Jennie cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing away tears like they had no right to be there.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa whispered again. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Jennie’s expression softened completely.

“You don’t need to apologize for making something beautiful,” she said.

Lisa’s lips trembled. “But it got ruined.”

Jennie looked over her shoulder briefly at the broken pieces still on the floor.

Then back at Lisa.

“We can fix it,” she said simply.

Lisa blinked. “It can’t be fixed.”

Jennie smiled faintly. “Then we make a better one.”

That was it.

No lecture. No dismissal of feelings. Just… acceptance.

But Jennie wasn’t done.

She glanced toward the hallway where the group still stood awkwardly, unsure what would happen next.

“I already reported it,” she said calmly. “To the student affairs office.”

The soccer player’s expression shifted. “You what?”

Jennie’s voice stayed steady. “You damaged another student’s property and harassed her when she confronted you. There will be a review.”

“Overreacting much?” he muttered, but less confidently now.

Jennie didn’t respond to that.

Instead, she looked back at Lisa.

“I don’t want you near them again,” she said gently.

Lisa frowned slightly. “Jennie… I don’t want trouble.”

“I know,” Jennie replied. “That’s why I’m handling it.”

There was no arrogance in it.

Just certainty.

The following days moved quietly, like the campus itself had decided not to gossip too loudly for once.

The incident was reviewed.

Statements were taken.

Cameras were checked.

Witnesses confirmed what happened.

And slowly, consequences followed—not dramatic ones, not cruel ones, but real ones.

The soccer team received disciplinary action from the department. The player who had kicked the LEGO display was suspended from matches pending review. Mandatory conduct training was assigned. The university emphasized respect for student work and safety in shared spaces.

Nothing was “destroyed” in a violent sense.

But accountability settled in.

And that was enough.

Lisa didn’t feel relieved right away.

At first, she felt guilty.

Even sitting beside Jennie later that night in their quiet apartment, she kept fidgeting with her fingers.

“I didn’t want them to get in trouble,” she admitted softly.

Jennie was sitting on the couch, gently assembling something new between them—tiny LEGO pieces spread across the table like a second chance.

“I know,” Jennie said.

Lisa looked at her. “Then why did you do it?”

Jennie paused.

Then placed a small piece down carefully before answering.

“Because you were crying,” she said simply.

Lisa went quiet.

Jennie continued, voice softer now. “And because you don’t deserve to have things you love treated like they don’t matter.”

Lisa’s throat tightened again. “It was just a gift.”

Jennie looked up at her.

“Not just a gift,” she corrected gently. “Something you made for me.”

That made Lisa look away quickly, embarrassed again—but this time for a different reason.

Jennie shifted closer, nudging her shoulder lightly.

“Help me,” she said.

Lisa blinked. “With what?”

Jennie lifted the half-built LEGO flower carefully.

“Let’s rebuild it.”

Lisa stared at it.

Then slowly, hesitantly, she reached out.

Their fingers brushed as they worked.

One piece at a time.

Quiet.

Steady.

Safe.

Later, when the new LEGO flower finally stood complete again—slightly different, a little imperfect, but still beautiful—Lisa held it carefully like it might disappear if she blinked too hard.

“I think…” Lisa whispered, “this one is better.”

Jennie leaned her head slightly against Lisa’s shoulder.

“It’s ours,” she said.

Lisa smiled faintly. “And the old one?”

Jennie thought for a moment.

“Still meant something,” she said. “Even if it broke.”

Lisa looked down at her.

“You were really scary, you know,” she admitted softly.

Jennie raised an eyebrow. “Scary?”

Lisa nodded. “In the hallway.”

Jennie sighed, pretending to be offended. “I was being responsible.”

Lisa laughed a little through her nose.

Then leaned into her.

“But thank you,” she added more quietly.

Jennie’s expression softened instantly again.

“Always,” she said.

And this time, there was no hallway full of tension, no broken pieces on the floor, no voices raised in anger.

Just two people sitting together.

Fixing what could be fixed.

And keeping each other safe from the things that couldn’t.