The most handsome boy in school was her deskmate. This was an objective, almost irritating fact, like the law of gravity or the inevitability of Monday mornings.
And for two weeks straight, he'd done her homework. It had begun with a single, desperate evening before a calculus test, and had since morphed into a silent, unnerving ritual that left her both grateful and deeply anxious.
Equally consistent was the mysteriously clean state of her duty area—the ping-pong tables she was supposed to sweep, pristine every Tuesday without fail. The first time, she'd assumed it was a fluke. The second, a prickle of suspicion. By the third, the gleaming green surfaces felt like an accusation.
After days of observation, Sophia Carter could no longer ignore it. The pattern was too deliberate, too quiet, too much like him.
She'd only wanted to enjoy some small perks. In her new, quiet life, these were supposed to be harmless advantages.
What if he thought she was taking advantage? What if he saw it as bullying? The thought was a cold knot in her stomach, a phantom ache from a past she was running from.
Having played the villain in her past life, Sophia was hyper-aware of every interaction with Alexander Sterling now. That previous version of herself had moved through the world with a careless entitlement, never considering the quiet burdens others carried. Now, every small kindness she received felt like a debt she couldn't afford to owe.
She couldn't risk ruining the good impression she'd worked so hard to build. This new identity—the gentle, unassuming Sophia—was a fragile construct, and Alexander's silent actions felt like a tremor that could bring it all down.
The Rumor Mill
News traveled fast at Westridge. It was a currency traded in whispers and flashed across glowing phone screens in the moments between classes.
According to Mia's intel, leaked photos of the "transferred genius" from Anhui had spread across all three grades.
The school forum was divided:
One faction insisted the photos were heavily filtered—"no way someone looks that good in real life. That's some next-level photoshop, I bet his real face is a potato."
The other swore on their future college admissions that Alexander Sterling was just that handsome—"anyone who says otherwise gains thirty pounds. I saw him with my own two eyes and my soul literally left my body."
The hype had even reached the international division, with girls making pilgrimages to the administration building just to catch a glimpse.
Sophia refused to join the crowds. The old her would have been at the very center of such a spectacle, fanning the flames. The new her flinched away from it.
At 160cm, she'd stopped growing after middle school. No amount of milk helped—it all went to places she didn't need.
She envied those willowy tall girls who navigated the crowded halls like graceful ships.
Mia's descriptions painted a vivid picture: S-class students flooding the halls between classes, an elite and intimidating tide.
Unless Sophia mustered unprecedented courage to shove through, a move that felt aggressive and utterly unlike her new persona, she wouldn't even see the top of Alexander's head.
The Escape
During last period English, Sophia watched the clock tick toward 11:30. The teacher's lecture on poetic meter was a dull, meaningless hum beneath the frantic thrum of her own pulse.
When the teacher paused, she raised her hand. "May I use the restroom?"
Her pockets bulged suspiciously, cheeks flushed with a combination of summer heat and sheer nerve.
Assuming it was a feminine emergency, the teacher waved her off.
Sophia hurried down the empty hallway, heart pounding. Each squeak of her sneakers sounded deafeningly loud against the polished linoleum.
The midday sun scorched the pavement as she darted between the long, cool shadows of the sycamore trees, making her way toward the administration building.
She waited by the bulletin board, rising onto her toes like an anxious parent at dismissal. This was a terrible, impulsive, and frankly stupid idea. What was she even going to say?
When Alexander finally appeared, another boy was trying to sling an arm around his shoulders—only to be shrugged off unceremoniously. The rejection was so swift and impersonal it was almost funny.
Sophia remembered her own rejected hand from their first meeting and stifled a laugh. It seemed he treated everyone with the same glacial indifference.
She waved vigorously, sweat-damp bangs sticking to her forehead. "Alexander!"
The Interception
Lin Lang was mid-complaint when he noticed the girl.
"You coming to that Jiang University prep class or—holy shit, you've got groupies now? Already? Man, I've got to learn your secrets."
Alexander stepped forward, a subtle but definitive movement that blocked Lin's view. "Go ahead."
Lin gaped as the girl approached—not some stunning beauty with perfect makeup, just... glowing. She was flushed and a little breathless, radiating a kind of earnest energy that felt entirely out of place.
Round cheeks flushed pink, a tiny, almost imperceptible mint-green bra strap peeking from the damp collar of her uniform blouse. It was such an ordinary, human detail that it made her seem more real and disarming.
He suddenly felt lightheaded.
"Your friend?" Sophia asked, offering a small, polite smile at Lin.
"Just a classmate," Alexander said flatly, his tone a clear dismissal.
Lin left, muttering about betrayal and the inherent unfairness of the universe.
The Chocolate
Alone on the path, Sophia struggled to keep pace with Alexander's long strides. He walked with a silent, urgent purpose that made her feel like she was constantly scrambling.
"Slow down!"
He didn't respond but his pace fractionally adjusted, a tiny concession that sent a flutter of relief through her.
From her pocket, she produced two chocolates—pink wrappers with white script: Light as snow, sweet as a kiss.
In a few years, these would become popular confession gifts among teenagers.
But today, they were just candy. A peace offering. A thank you.
"I don't eat chocolate," Alexander said, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Sophia blinked. "Is it because it melts?" It was the only reason she could imagine for rejecting chocolate. She pressed one determinedly into his hand, her fingers brushing against his. "If it's soft inside, I'll get you a fresh one."
Her persistence was maddening. It was a bright, unwavering force that demanded a reaction, and he was a master of giving none. His world was quiet and ordered; she was a chaotic variable he couldn't solve.
Alexander took it, his fingers closing around the small square with a sense of resignation.
"Why skip class?"
His first direct question to her. The sound of his voice, low and devoid of emotion, made her feel like she was being interrogated.
Sophia's throat tightened. "Because you weren't coming back." The words tumbled out, more honest than she'd intended.
She peeked at Alexander's tightened lips and hastily amended, "We're deskmates! You've been helping me with homework—I had to check on you. It's only right."
She rushed to fill the heavy silence. "The class monitor didn't know anything, so I came to see you myself."
Sunlight dappled through the sycamores as they walked, painting Sophia's skin with shifting patterns of liquid gold.
Alexander watched her for a long moment, this girl who talked so much, who filled the air with her anxieties and her endless, pointless questions.
Even toward someone like him, she had endless words:
Does your hand still hurt?
Don't pick at the peeling blisters. It will only make them worse.
How many people are in S-class? Are they all scary-smart?
Are the teachers strict? I bet they are.
Do you really take timed tests every day? That sounds like actual torture.
I heard your classroom's AC is freezing—do you need a sweater? I have an extra one in my locker.
Have you made any friends besides that boy? He seemed... friendly.
Will you come back for evening self-study? Our class feels empty without you.
There are baby birds in the nest outside our window—come see them before they're gone.
Most questions went unanswered. He remained a fortress of silence, his jaw tight.
The short stretch to the cafeteria took twice as long.
At the entrance, surrounded by the clatter of trays and the roar of a hundred conversations, Sophia finally voiced her real concern:
"Did you clean the ping-pong tables on Tuesday?"
Her lashes fluttered, a nervous habit she couldn't control. "You don't have to repay me. The homework was just... an emergency. You don't owe me anything."
Alexander saw through her instantly. He saw the guilt, the anxiety, and the desperate need for reassurance all warring in her wide eyes.
"No," he said flatly. "We're done talking."
The dismissal stung. It was sharp and absolute, like a door slamming shut in her face.
Sophia blinked, confused. Her mind raced, replaying every word.
Had she said something wrong? Offended his pride?
She trailed him stubbornly—mimicking his free soup, his three-yuan meal of tofu and radish, even sitting across from him at the crowded table. He focused on his food, pointedly ignoring her presence.
Alexander ate swiftly, then vanished up the spiral staircase to the faculty dining hall.
When Sophia finally found him, the sight knocked the air from her lungs. He was cleaning spilled ribs and grease from a table.
This was his work-study job.
Six hundred yuan a month. The amount was less than what she sometimes spent on a single afternoon of shopping. The realization landed like a physical blow.
Teachers' eyes lingered on her—the pearl in their midst, the well-known Sophia Carter from the privileged class—but Sophia only saw Alexander's hands:
The way his right fingers curled uselessly as he wrung the rag, the tendons in his wrist stark as he compensated with his left hand. Suddenly, his terse handwriting made a painful kind of sense.
The way he didn't flinch when a supervisor strode over and berated him for "half-hearted work," his voice sharp with authority. Alexander just absorbed the criticism with a terrifying stillness, as if he were made of stone.
She crouched beside the bucket, her clean white dress hem dragging through the murky, soapy water without a second thought, and took the dirty cloth from him. She scrubbed it against the washboard inside the bucket with all her strength, fueled by a sudden, fierce protectiveness.
"Here."
Her palms were red and stinging, the rag twisted bone-dry.
"See? Not a drop left." She looked up at him, offering the clean rag, her eyes clear and determined. In that moment, she wasn't the villain or the quiet girl. She was just Sophia, trying to clean up a mess that wasn't hers.