I couldn't stop thinking about it.
"You owe me."
The words had echoed in my head for the rest of the day like a cursed ringtone. What did he even mean? Owe him what? A seat? A new pen? A fresh cup of overpriced campus coffee to replace the one I'd drooled on my notes with?
By the time I made it back to the dorms that evening, my brain was fried. I collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling as my roommate—Qiao Rui, my self-appointed life manager—paced the room with the energy of a man preparing for war.
"You don't understand, Lin Chen," he said, running a hand through his messy hair. "Zhou Mingyu isn't just some random student. He's—he's basically a god on campus. He's top of every class, professor's favourite, national math competition champion, and—"
"And devastatingly handsome," I added with a smirk.
Qiao Rui groaned. "This isn't funny! You've caught his attention, and not in a good way. Do you know what happens to people who get on Zhou Mingyu's bad side?"
"They get… death glares during exams?" I guessed.
"They mysteriously fail group projects," Qiao Rui sighed dramatically. "They lose access to study materials. Their printers jam the night before a deadline. Coincidences? I think not."
I sat up, rolling my eyes. "So you're saying he's not just a genius but also some kind of academic mafia boss?"
"Exactly!" Qiao Rui jabbed a finger at me. "And now you've provoked him."
I laughed, throwing a pillow at him. "Relax. He probably forgot about me already. I'm not important enough for him to remember."
But even as I said it, I didn't believe it.
Because I could still see his face in my mind, those sharp eyes lingering on me before he left the lecture hall. And that voice—calm, low, and utterly serious: "You owe me."
No, Zhou Mingyu didn't seem like the type to forget.
The next morning, I trudged into the lecture hall early for once. Qiao Rui had practically dragged me out of bed, muttering something about "avoiding another disaster."
"Sit in the back," he ordered, shoving me toward the last row. "Somewhere safe. Invisible. Out of his line of sight."
I yawned, clutching my coffee. "You sound like we're hiding from a predator in the wild."
"Exactly," Qiao Rui said solemnly. "You're a rabbit. He's a lion. Do the math."
Before I could argue, the lecture hall doors opened.
And in walked Zhou Mingyu.
The room seemed to shift around him, the volume of chatter dropping instantly. Students straightened in their seats, eyes following him as he strode toward his usual row—the one I'd stolen yesterday.
My breath caught. Was he going to…?
No. He walked past it without hesitation, heading straight for the back.
Straight for me.
"Shit," I whispered, nearly choking on my coffee.
Qiao Rui's jaw dropped. "He's—he's coming this way—"
Sure enough, Zhou Mingyu stopped right beside me, his expression calm, his gaze unreadable. Without a word, he placed his notebook on the desk next to mine and sat down.
My heart somersaulted.
"Morning," I blurted, my voice higher than usual.
He didn't reply. He just opened his notebook, his pen already in hand.
The professor began the lecture, chalk scratching across the board, but I couldn't focus on a single word. Not with Zhou Mingyu sitting less than a foot away, his presence radiating like a storm cloud.
I scribbled nonsense in my notebook to look busy. When I risked a glance sideways, I noticed his handwriting—neat, precise, effortless. Every line perfectly aligned, every formula written like a piece of art.
Meanwhile, my notes looked like a toddler's drawing of spaghetti.
As if sensing my gaze, Zhou Mingyu's pen stilled. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine.
I froze.
"You're not paying attention," he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear.
Heat rushed to my face. "I—I am! Look—linear equations! Variables!" I pointed at the mess of scribbles on my page.
His lips curved. Not into a smile, exactly, but something dangerously close.
"You'll fail at this rate."
I bristled. "Excuse me. I've survived years of exams with my methods. Don't underestimate me."
"Your methods are sleeping through lectures and begging your friend for notes," he said flatly.
My jaw dropped. "How do you—?"
"Everyone knows."
I slumped in my seat, groaning. Fantastic. My reputation as a nap king had spread across campus, and now even the top student knew.
"Fine," I muttered. "So what? It works for me."
Zhou Mingyu tapped his pen against the desk, eyes never leaving mine. "You owe me."
My heart skipped. There it was again—that cursed phrase.
I swallowed. "… What exactly do I owe you?"
"A favor," he said.
My pulse quickened. "What kind of favor?"
"You'll find out," he replied, turning back to his notes as if the conversation were over.
I looked at him, my mind racing with possibilities. Did he want me to run errands? Do his laundry? Guard his sacred seat from future thieves?
The suspense was killing me.
But I didn't have long to wait.
Later that afternoon, I was leaving the library when I heard someone call my name.
"Lin Chen."
I turned—and nearly dropped my bag.
Zhou Mingyu stood at the base of the steps, his posture straight, his expression as unreadable as ever. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine shoot, the wind ruffling his dark hair, sunlight glinting off the edge of his glasses.
"Uh… hey?" I said weakly.
"Come with me," he said, already turning away.
"Wait—what? Where?"
He didn't answer. Just walked, his long strides forcing me to jog to keep up.
Students passing by stared openly, whispering as we went.
"Is that Lin Chen?"
"No way. Why is Zhou Mingyu talking to him?"
"Are they… friends?"
Friends? Hah. I wasn't sure if I was his new project, his debt collector, or his entertainment.
Finally, he stopped in front of a small study room in the library annexe. He pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter.
Inside, the room was quiet, with a whiteboard against one wall, a table in the center, and two chairs pulled close.
I hesitated. "…Am I about to be murdered?"
His gaze flicked to me, unimpressed. "Sit."
I obeyed, clutching my bag like a shield.
Zhou Mingyu set his notebook on the table, flipping it open to a fresh page. Then he looked directly at me, his tone calm but firm.
"You owe me. So starting today, you're my study partner."
My jaw hit the floor. "…Study partner?"
"You're failing. I don't tolerate incompetence in my vicinity," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "So I'll tutor you."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
The top student—the cold, untouchable genius of First University—was offering to tutor me?
Scratch that. Not offering. Declaring.
"I—wait—why me?" I stammered.
His eyes held mine, dark and steady.
"Because," he said slowly, "you owe me."
My stomach twisted.
Oh no.
What had I gotten myself into?