The lecture hall at First University was a battlefield.
Not the kind with swords or shields, but one fought with sharpened pencils, endless cups of coffee, and an unspoken competition for the best seats in the house.
The front rows were for the ambitious. Those who wanted the professor to know their names were the kind of students who scribbled notes before the chalk even hit the board.
The middle rows were for the survivors. Neither too desperate nor too lazy, they existed in the safe zone, listening enough to pass exams but far enough back to whisper during class.
And then there were the back rows—the graveyard of the drowsy, the slackers, and the chronically late.
That, unfortunately, was where I belonged.
I, Lin Chen, had perfected the art of balancing my head on one arm while pretending to listen. My notebook lay open before me, filled not with lecture notes but with random doodles of cats, a poorly drawn basketball hoop, and something that might have been a dragon if you squinted hard enough.
The professor's voice droned on, steady and monotonous, like the hum of an old air conditioner.
"—the properties of linear algebraic equations…"
My eyelids grew heavy. My pen slipped from my fingers. The notebook under my cheek was warm from the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows.
Perfect nap conditions.
"Lin Chen!"
A sharp whisper jolted me awake. I blinked blearily at the figure beside me—my best friend, Qiao Rui, who looked like he hadn't slept in three days but still had enough energy to scold me. His hair was messy, his glasses were slipping down his nose, and his lap was covered in a stack of highlighted textbooks.
"What?" I mumbled, still half-asleep.
"You're drooling on your notes."
I lifted my head. Sure enough, a wet circle had formed on the corner of the page, soaking into the paper. I wiped it off quickly, pretending it didn't exist. "Notes are overrated."
Qiao Rui groaned. "We're not even three weeks into the semester. How are you planning to survive finals?"
"I have a strategy," I said confidently, stretching my arms above my head.
"Sleeping through lectures isn't a strategy."
"Exactly. That's why I rely on you. You're my walking, talking, bespectacled study guide."
"Unbelievable." He shoved his glasses up his nose with one finger, but I could see the faint smile tugging at his lips.
I leaned back in my chair, grinning. The truth was, I wasn't hopeless. I wasn't brilliant either, but I had a decent memory and the ability to cram like a champion when exams rolled around. Motivation was my true weakness. And maybe the odd basketball game that ended too late the previous evening. With a yawn, I looked around the lecture hall. Students sat in rows, bent over their notes, writing assiduously, their faces strained with focus. It appeared as though some of them had not seen the sun in weeks. Others were ready to advance to a higher academic level.
And then there was I, praying the professor wouldn't call my name.
Just as I was about to slip back into a light nap, a shadow fell across my desk.
"Move."
The word was sharp. Not loud, but firm enough to snap me fully awake.
I blinked up at the owner of the voice.
He was tall—taller than most guys I'd seen around campus. His white shirt was perfectly pressed, the dark blazer over his arm crisp and flawless. His tie was knotted with precision, not a strand of hair out of place. His face…
Well. Let's say the gods had been very unfair when distributing looks. Sharp jawline, straight nose, and eyes so deep and dark they seemed to strip away every layer of pretense you had.
The kind of face that belonged in magazines. Or on the cover of the university's admissions brochure.
Zhou Mingyu.
Even I, professional napper and seat thief extraordinaire, knew who he was.
The top student. The genius. The one with perfect grades, perfect manners, and a reputation for being utterly untouchable.
And right now, he was staring at me like I was a bug blocking his path.
"Uh…" I rubbed the back of my neck. "Sorry, what?"
"This is my seat," he said.
His tone wasn't arrogant. It wasn't even angry. Just calm. Certain. Like it was a fact carved into stone: the sky is blue, water is wet, and this seat belongs to Zhou Mingyu.
My survival instincts screamed at me to get up and move. But my pride? My pride was a stubborn mule.
I straightened in my chair. "Pretty sure it's first-come, first-served. And I was here first."
A ripple of laughter spread through the rows behind us.
"Did he just argue with Zhou Mingyu?" someone whispered.
"Dead man walking," another muttered.
I ignored them, keeping my gaze fixed on the top student.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just looked at me with that unreadable expression, his eyes cool and assessing.
Then, to my surprise, he sat down.
Not in another seat. Not in a different row.
He sat down right beside me.
The tension in the room spiked. Students shifted in their chairs, glancing nervously between us. Even Qiao Rui shot me a horrified look.
I swallowed. "...Uh. Okay. That works too."
Zhou Mingyu pulled out his notebook with calm precision, his movements sharp and efficient. The faint scent of his cologne drifted over—clean, crisp, and expensive. My heart thumped uncomfortably in my chest.
This was fine. Totally fine. There's nothing weird about sitting next to the campus genius after basically stealing his throne.
Except—
He picked up his pen.
And started writing.
With his left hand.
I frowned. I'd seen him around campus before. During a seminar last week, he'd been writing with his right hand.
Which meant—
My eyes widened. He was deliberately using his non-dominant hand because I had taken his usual spot.
Petty. The top student was petty.
I bit back a laugh, clapping a hand over my mouth to cover the grin threatening to spread across my face.
Zhou Mingyu must have noticed, because his pen paused mid-stroke. Slowly, he turned his head toward me, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
I coughed, trying to look serious. "Nice penmanship."
His gaze lingered on me for a beat longer before he returned to his notes without a word.
I exhaled in relief. Crisis averted.
For now.
The rest of the lecture was torture, not because of the professor's droning voice, but because I couldn't concentrate with Zhou Mingyu sitting so close. Every time his pen scratched across the paper, every time his sleeve brushed the desk, every faint rustle of his notebook—it was like my senses were on high alert.
Qiao Rui leaned over, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to die? That was Zhou Mingyu. Zhou Mingyu. Do you know how many people would kill for his attention?"
"I didn't ask for his attention," I whispered back. "He just… showed up."
"Appeared? His seat was taken by you.
"Semantics."
With a grunt, my friend covered his face with his hands.
Students hurried to gather their belongings and leave as soon as the lecture ended. In the hopes that Zhou Mingyu would depart first, I stayed. However, he remained still. He closed his notebook, sat motionless, and stared straight ahead.
I cleared my throat. "Well, are you... anticipating something?"
He moved his gaze in my direction. Cool. Calm. Unreadable.
"You owe me," he said softly.
My stomach dropped.
Before I could ask what that meant, he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and walked out of the room without another word.
I sat frozen, heart pounding.
What the hell did that mean?
Qiao Rui grabbed my sleeve, shaking me. Lin Chen. Do you realize what just happened? He spoke to you. Zhou Mingyu doesn't talk to anyone unless it's in an academic setting. And he said—he said you owe him?!"
"I don't know!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "All I did was sit in his chair!"
But deep down, I had the sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.