He changed the subject to liven things up. “You got a dog at home? What breed? Next time I come over to play.”
“…Better not,” He Siheng paused, mumbling vaguely. “My dog can’t be seen by people.”
Zhou Yu: “?”
The first two days back were placement tests. After the tests, classes and seats were reassigned based on scores. This morning self-study on the first day of school was the last one in Class 1 for some students. The homeroom teacher stood at the podium and held a brief class meeting in the first few minutes.
“New year, new vibes—everyone’s looking spirited.” After a break without seeing them, the homeroom teacher was as amiable as ever, like a Maitreya Buddha.
A mischievous student below called out, “Old Qin, you had a good holiday too—got even rounder.”
Several students burst into laughter, and Qin Yi didn’t mind, laughing amiably along.
“Back to business. This meeting’s mainly about two things,” Qin Yi said. “First, the placement tests and class reassignments. You all know the school’s reasoning, but scores fluctuate. Even if you drop out of Class 1, don’t get discouraged—aim to test back in next semester.”
Easier said than done. Students below the podium couldn’t help wailing, worrying about dropping out of Class 1, tearfully bidding farewell to their deskmates in advance.
During the break, He Siheng had heard Tan Jing mention this, and it hadn’t felt like much then. Now, sitting in the classroom amid the widespread lamentations, it hit him like enlightenment, stirring a trace of reluctant sentiment.
This was his and Tan Jing’s last time sitting together as deskmates.
He Siheng glanced sideways at the guy beside him, hesitating as if wanting to say something. The other noticed his gaze and turned to look.
The moment their eyes met, He Siheng reflexively snorted coldly and turned away, refusing to look anymore.
Cold and heartless one second, regretful the next.
That wasn’t what he meant to do at all.
In their last moments as deskmates, he had wanted to wipe away the awkwardness from the past two days, stop being mad at him—but he didn’t know how to say it and ended up seeming even angrier.
He Siheng sighed in annoyance, and then his fingertip warmed.
A warm, dry palm enveloped it. Slender fingers slipped between his, their palms fitting tightly together seam to seam, secretly exchanging their differently tempered body heat in public.
Pulses linked to heartbeats throbbed far faster than usual.
The homeroom teacher mentioned the second item on the agenda at the podium: Director Yan’s perennial emphasis on cracking down on puppy love. Playful students below joked that theirs was pure camaraderie, drawing a wave of laughter.
He Siheng wanted to laugh along, but his heart pounded like a drum. Heat rolled scorchingly from his fingertips.
He turned his head again to look at Tan Jing.
The latter stared innocently at the podium, his profile stern and handsome, as if seriously listening without distraction. Under the desk, his thumb pad gently rubbed the back of He Siheng’s cool hand.
More like soothing than flirting.
He Siheng looked away, straightened his back to face the podium, then shifted posture again, propping his cheek on one hand to obscure the irrepressible curve at his lips. The hand being held gripped back lightly, bit by bit.
On the third day of school, the new class assignments came out.
Wang Yizhou, who had been an unofficial member of Class 1 for a semester, finally squeezed in.
Not only that, with his fortieth-place score, he got to sit next to Jing Bro! Ecstatic!
But he seemed to be the only happy one.
Devastated by Tan Jing’s lack of enthusiasm, Wang Yizhou wallowed in self-pity. “Jing Bro doesn’t love me anymore.”
Song Lin doused his flickering spark. “Be confident—he never loved you.”
Wang Yizhou: “…”
On the other side, Zhou Yu, assigned as He Siheng’s deskmate, clasped his hands in thanks to the heavens. “Thank god, thanks to second-place Heng Bro and thirty-ninth-place me, thanks for this merciful coincidence that saved me.”
He Siheng’s mouth twitched. “I’m second, and that makes you this happy?”
Zhou Yu: “I’m happy to be your deskmate.”
He Siheng didn’t buy it. “Didn’t you worship Tan Jing? How come you’re not thrilled to sit with him?”
Zhou Yu defended himself vigorously. “Worship is one thing, deskmates another. I still plan to slack off in class and lurk in the group before senior year. How could I slack next to the class monitor?”
Even with a hundred times his courage, he wouldn’t dare sit by Tan Jing and sneak peeks at the fan support group’s spicy chats.
Zhou Yu suddenly remembered something and asked, “Right, Heng Bro, do you know what’s up with Little Strawberry?”
He Siheng hadn’t logged into his alt these days. Hearing the sudden mention, he asked, “Did he spam the group again?”
“Nah,” Zhou Yu said. “He had zero presence. Just posted photos the first couple days of break, then nothing. Last night, he suddenly left the group. Everyone’s mourning the loss of a big player.”
Probably confessed and got rejected, decided to give up.
He Siheng said offhandedly, “Maybe he saw the light, realized Tan Jing’s nothing special, and lost interest.”
“No way,” Zhou Yu said righteously. “That’s not seeing the light—that’s disillusionment with the mortal world. He must’ve become a monk.”
He Siheng: “…”
Prompted by Zhou Yu, during break, He Siheng pulled out his phone from his desk, switched to his long-unused alt, and checked the fan support group.
The group album really hadn’t updated in ages. Little Strawberry never uploaded that photo asking about boundaries, quietly left the group, never messaged him again, and his status showed offline—like he’d vanished.
He Siheng’s last chat with him was from the night before New Year’s Eve.
The final message was from Little Strawberry.
-Got it. I was the one overthinking for him.
He Siheng stared at the message for a while, frowning slightly.
That night, emotions running high, it hadn’t seemed odd. Today, with a cool head, the phrasing felt inexplicably strange.
Little Strawberry’s words sounded like… he was regretting it for* Tan Jing?
But hiding under the Jingle Cat alt, he was just an ordinary group member. Among Tan Jing’s worshippers, one more or less didn’t matter. What was there to regret?
He Siheng suddenly remembered the day he first crossed paths with Little Strawberry. It was Little Strawberry who had initiated the private chat, casually and familiarly asking why he liked Tan Jing. At the time, He Siheng had pegged him as some kind of auditor fishing for rule-breakers and hadn’t thought anything more of it.
Little Strawberry’s explanation was that he’d cast a wide net, privately messaging several people about Tan Jing, only for no one to respond.
But after joining the group and uploading that series of photos, he’d shot to fame overnight. Even Zhang Xunyue had speculated about his relationship with Tan Jing. How could no one have been willing to engage with him?
There was only one explanation that made sense—
Little Strawberry’s “wide net” story had been a lie from the start.
Once He Siheng pieced together the whole sequence from an outsider’s perspective, a chill ran down his spine.
Little Strawberry—this guy—might have known his true identity right from the beginning.
