If fate had a sense of humor, it hated me personally.
That was the only explanation for how I, Lin Chen—the campus clown, the sunshine boy, the eternal academic underdog—ended up shackled to Zhou Mingyu, the campus iceberg, for the semester's most significant project.
Me. Him. Four weeks. Thirty per cent of my grade.
And no way out.
The rumor mill was already on fire.
"Did you see? Zhou Mingyu chose Lin Chen. With his own mouth!"
"That's basically a marriage proposal in campus terms."
"No one's ever been chosen by him before. Not even the other top students!"
By the end of the day, people weren't whispering anymore. They were staring. Openly. Like I'd grown a crown on my head or sprouted horns.
I wanted to melt into the floor.
Qiao Rui thought it was hilarious. "Congratulations," he said, grinning widely. "You're officially the campus heroine of a romance novel."
"I'm the tragic side character who dies in chapter ten," I groaned, stuffing my face into my pillow.
"Nope. You're the lead. Zhou Mingyu is the male lead. You're doomed."
We set our first work session for Saturday evening. A normal person might've suggested the library. A more cowardly person (me) might've suggested a café across town.
But Zhou Mingyu, in his infinite terrifying authority, said, Library. Annex. Seven."
And like a moth drawn to a flame—or an idiot drawn to his own doom—I showed up.
The annexe at night was different. Quiet in a way that felt intimate, not academic. The overhead lamps cast soft pools of light, leaving the corners in shadow. The air smelled faintly of old paper and floor polish.
And there he was, already waiting, notebook open, pen poised, as if he'd been carved into that chair.
"On time," he said, glancing at me.
"Don't sound so surprised," I muttered, sliding into the seat across from him.
But inside, my heart was pounding. Because something about the empty room, the dim light, and the silence—it made everything sharper. Louder. Too much.
The first hour was fine. Sort of.
We divided tasks. He outlined the structure; I scribbled down notes. He asked for sources; I volunteered to fetch books. He corrected my citations; I resisted the urge to throw my pen at his perfect face.
But then the little things started.
His chair scraped closer. Just a little. Then a little more. By the time I noticed, our elbows were nearly brushing.
When I reached for a reference sheet, his hand landed on the same page. Our fingers touched. He didn't pull away. Neither did I.
At one point, I caught him staring. Not in the notes. Not in the book. At me.
I panicked. "D-do I have something on my face?"
"No," he said.
Then he went back to writing, as if my heart hadn't just exploded.
Two hours in, I was drowning in silence and caffeine fumes. My brain was fried. My notes looked like chicken scratch.
"I'm useless," I groaned, slumping over the desk. "Just fail me now."
"You're not useless," he said calmly.
"Yes, I am. I'm a fraud. An academic disaster wrapped in human skin. A—"
"Lin Chen."
His voice cut through my spiral. Firm. Steady.
I froze.
When I lifted my head, his eyes were on me. Sharp, but softer than usual.
"You're better than you think," he said quietly.
I blinked. "…What?"
He didn't repeat himself. Just turned back to his notes.
But the words sank deep, curling around my chest.
Better than I think.
Was that encouragement? From him?
My brain short-circuited.
Around ten, the library emptied. The silence grew heavier, punctuated only by the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of paper.
I was fighting sleep when his voice broke the stillness.
"Do you know why I study this much?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Because you're a robot?"
He gave me a look. Not annoyed—more like amused, though his expression barely shifted.
"My family expects it," he said finally. "Perfect grades. Perfect records. Nothing less."
The calmness in his tone made it worse. Like it wasn't just expectation—it was obligation, carved into him.
I didn't know what to say. My chest tightened.
"…That sounds lonely," I blurted.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone.
"Maybe," he said. And went back to writing.
But the air between us had shifted.
By eleven, my brain was mush. I rubbed at my temples, groaning. "If I see one more footnote, I'll commit academic homicide."
"Focus," he said.
"You focus! I'm dying!"
"Drink water."
I grabbed my bottle dramatically. "Yes, master."
For the first time, I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch—almost a smile.
And my stupid heart somersaulted.
Midnight. The room was quiet, the world outside muffled. I'd dozed off on my notes, cheek pressed against the paper.
A faint touch jolted me awake.
Someone is brushing hair from my forehead.
I blinked blearily, heart racing.
And there he was. Zhou Mingyu. Leaning close, gaze unreadable, hand frozen mid-air.
For a second, neither of us moved. The air between us crackled. My breath caught.
Then he pulled back, expression calm again as if nothing had happened.
"Go back to sleep," he said softly.
But there was no way I could sleep after that.
Because my heart wouldn't stop pounding.