The alarm clock was playing tricks on me.
I swear, each time I pressed the snooze button, the damn thing laughed.
Beep, beep, beep.
"Oh no." I moaned and gripped my pillow tightly.
The muffled voice of Qiao Rui came from beneath his blanket across the dorm room. Chen Lin. Wake up. Otherwise, you will be buried alive behind the library by him.
I gave him a quick glance. "What? Six o'clock in the morning?"
With no mercy, he corrected, "Six fifteen." "You assured Mr. Top Student that you would arrive at six thirty. Get it moving.
I moaned more loudly and rolled to the ground like a fallen soldier. "Tell Zhou Mingyu I died heroically in battle. May he live on without me."
Qiao Rui kicked me with his blanket-covered foot. "Get up before I livestream your funeral."
With a sound that was half-sob, half-battle cry, I dragged myself upright. My reflection in the mirror nearly made me faint. Hair sticking up in five directions, panda eyes darker than the coffee I was about to inhale, hoodie wrinkled like I'd wrestled a bear in my sleep.
And this was the face Zhou Mingyu saw every morning. No wonder he was always annoyed.
By the time I staggered out of the dorm, I had exactly six minutes to sprint across campus with an armful of textbooks and two cups of coffee I'd bribed the half-asleep café barista into making.
One black. One sweet.
The second cup wasn't even for me.
It was for him.
And I hated myself for remembering.
The library annexe was quiet, sunlight slanting through the tall windows, painting the wooden floors in strips of gold. The only sound was the scratch of a pen.
He was already there. Of course.
Zhou Mingyu sat at the center table, posture straight, expression calm, pen moving across the page with surgical precision. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, his glasses caught the light, and the steam rising from his black coffee curled lazily upward.
He looked like he belonged in another world—a painting, maybe—something you admired from a distance but didn't dare touch.
Meanwhile, I was a gremlin, juggling two cups and a bag that kept slipping off my shoulder.
"Morning," I croaked, slamming the coffee down.
"You're late."
I checked my phone. "It's 6:31!"
"Which is one minute late."
My jaw dropped. "You're unbelievable."
"You're undisciplined."
I wanted to throw my latte in his face. Instead, I gulped half of it down in one go and collapsed into my chair.
"Let's begin," he said, sliding a worksheet toward me.
And just like that, the torture started.
Every time I wrote something, his voice cut in.
"Wrong."
"Careless."
"Step three is sloppy."
I wanted to strangle him.
But then he'd lean over, pen tapping the exact spot I'd gone wrong, explaining the logic with infuriating calm. And suddenly the fog in my brain would clear, the answer snapping into place like puzzle pieces.
It was maddening.
By the time the clock hit eight, I was slumped across the desk like roadkill.
"My brain is soup," I groaned.
"You lasted longer than yesterday," he said.
"Barely!"
"Improvement is still improvement."
I glared at him through half-lidded eyes. "Do I at least get a gold star?"
He adjusted his glasses. "No."
"You're heartless."
"Consistent," he corrected.
I smacked my head against the table. "Consistency is evil!"
For a split second, his lips twitched—so faint I almost thought I imagined it.
Walking out together was, once again, a disaster.
The hallway outside the annexe was packed with early risers heading to class. And once again, whispers followed us like a wave.
"Look—it's them again."
"Every morning now."
"Are they… together?"
I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself.
He, of course, didn't react at all. Just walked with that calm, steady rhythm as if the world could collapse around him and he wouldn't blink.
By the time we split ways, my ears were burning. But I thought—hoped—that would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
By lunchtime, the rumors had mutated into a monster.
The cafeteria was loud, crowded, and filled with the smell of fried rice and noodles. I just wanted to eat in peace. That's all.
But fate hated me.
"Lin Chen!"
I froze mid-step, tray in hand.
Zhao Yifan—our resident gossip king—strode toward me, his gang of loud friends trailing behind him. He had that grin, the kind that meant trouble.
"I heard a rumor," he announced, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear. "You've been spending a lot of time with Zhou Mingyu lately."
My stomach dropped. "What—no, it's not—"
He leaned closer, eyes sparkling. "So tell us, Lin Chen. Are you two, you know… a thing?"
Laughter rippled through the tables. Someone whistled. Another called out, "Spill the tea!"
Heat rushed to my face. "We're not! He's just tutoring me!"
"Ohhh," Zhao Yifan drawled, "tutoring. That's what we're calling it now, huh?"
More laughter. My ears burned.
"Shut up! It's not like that!" I snapped, louder than I meant.
The laughter quieted, curiosity sharpening into something heavier. Zhao Yifan smirked, sensing blood.
"Well, then," he said. "Why don't you prove it?"
I blinked. "… Prove it? How the hell am I supposed to—"
"Lin Chen."
The voice was cold and flat, instantly silencing the room.
My heart stopped.
I turned, and there he was.
Zhou Mingyu stood in the doorway, sharp gaze locked on Zhao Yifan. His presence alone was enough to make the air heavy, like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
Zhao Yifan stammered. "W-we were just joking—"
"Joking," Zhou Mingyu repeated, his tone so calm it was terrifying. "At his expense?"
No one answered.
The silence stretched, suffocating.
Then Zhou Mingyu walked—slow, deliberate—straight toward me. His every step echoed in my chest. He stopped right at my side, gaze unreadable.
"Let's go," he said.
I stared at him, stunned. "But—I haven't—"
He took the tray from my hands. Just took it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned and walked out.
And like an idiot, I followed.
We ended up under the old sycamore tree near the science building. The air was cooler here, quieter, away from the noise.
He handed my tray back.
"You didn't have to do that," I muttered, staring at my food. "Now they'll just think it's true even more."
"They already think it," he said.
I swallowed. "And that doesn't bother you?"
He looked at me, gaze steady. "Does it bother you?"
My chest tightened. "O-of course it bothers me! People are misunderstanding—spreading rumors—"
"Rumors only matter if they're false," he said calmly.
I froze. My throat went dry. "…What does that even mean?"
He didn't answer. Just nudged the tray closer. "Eat."
And then he turned and walked away, leaving me with my heart in my throat and a thousand unspoken questions buzzing in my head.
That night in the dorm, Qiao Rui nearly exploded when I told him.
"He defended you? In front of the entire cafeteria?!" His jaw dropped. "Lin Chen, do you understand what this means?"
"Yes," I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. "It means I'm doomed."
"No, it means—" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Do you… like him?"
I shot up like a rocket. "WHAT?! No! Absolutely not!"
"You're blushing."
"I am not!"
"You are."
"I'm overheating from stress!"
Qiao Rui gave me a long, knowing look. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
I flopped back down, groaning into the pillow.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake his words from my head.
Rumors only matter if they're false.
What on earth was he trying to say?