Chapter 37: Zhou Zhuoli: Making him call “brother” is even harder than saying sorry…

Zhou Zhuoyuan received the message that Pei He’s plan had failed, and his face fell at once.

What kind of Gaokao Top Scorer was this? Even Zhou Zhuoli couldn’t be fooled. He grumbled to himself inwardly, refusing to consider that the problem might be his own lack of credibility.

“Spill it. What happened this time?” Zhou Zhuoli tossed his bag aside and launched into an interrogation.

Zhou Zhuoyuan mumbled vaguely, “What else could it be? My stomach acted up, so I ended up in the hospital.”

Zhou Zhuoli pressed, “I’m asking why it acted up. You were fine at lunch. I watched you eat every single meal. How could it just flare up out of nowhere? Did you sneak some booze?”

Zhou Zhuoyuan bristled at the accusation. “No booze. I don’t even like the stuff. I only had one cup of milk tea.”

Pei He’s expression turned hard to read.

This was the same guy who’d gotten pried open in two sentences flat—and he’d had the gall to roast Pei He’s emotional intelligence on WeChat?

Zhou Zhuoli asked, “Who bought you that milk tea? Your little boyfriend?”

“No! Just drop it! I’m starving. I need food!”

Seeing Zhou Zhuoyuan getting worked up, Pei He stepped in to smooth things over. “Let’s eat first. The doctor said he can’t go hungry.”

Zhou Zhuoli shot him an indifferent glance and pulled out the lunchboxes from his insulated bag.

This time, there were portions for two people.

Only then did Zhou Zhuoyuan realize he shouldn’t have snapped at Zhou Zhuoli like that. He waved Pei He over to join him, then timidly nudged the bowls and chopsticks toward the middle of the table. “H-have you eaten yet?”

Zhou Zhuoli’s face turned as black as the bottom of a pot. “I have. Eat your own.”

What was he supposed to say to that? Fight a patient for food?

Still feeling queasy, Zhou Zhuoyuan ate slowly. Pei He finished his meal by the time Zhou Zhuoyuan had only gotten through half a bowl.

Zhou Zhuoli noticed the small scab on his lip—probably from biting it that afternoon. It stood out starkly against his bloodless face.

He had a real talent for hurting himself without even trying.

Zhou Zhuoli watched for a moment, irritation building, then pulled out his phone to deal with some work.

Spotting the move, Zhou Zhuoyuan nervously set down his bowl and chopsticks. “Zhou Zhuoli…”

“What?” He didn’t look up. He’d long since grown numb to his little brother’s rude familiarity.

“Could you not tell them? I had no idea milk tea was bad for my stomach. Other people bought it for me before, and nothing happened. If you tell them, it’ll be total chaos at home again. And Zhou Zhuoyi will worry. He’s not doing well—don’t make him stress.”

Before heading back to the dorm, Zhou Zhuoyuan had sworn up and down to Zhu Wan that he’d apply to move out on the spot if he got sick, all breezy and straightforward. Now here he was, hemming and hawing, desperate to keep it under wraps.

Zhou Zhuoli pocketed his phone and fixed his flip-flopping brother with a stare—the same brother who now wanted him as an accomplice. A meaningful smile curved his lips. “Don’t you hate Little Yi? Why bother pretending?”

Zhou Zhuoyuan shot an instinctive glance at Pei He. Seeing no odd reaction, he pressed on. “None of your business if I pretend or not. The fact is, he’ll worry.”

Zhou Zhuoli didn’t rise to the bait. “Who was it that said I didn’t need to take the fall for you?”

Zhou Zhuoyuan’s face shifted through a rainbow of expressions. He wasn’t some hypocrite who thought only he had the right to hold a grudge—no one got a monopoly on resentment.

“Sorry.”

Zhou Zhuoli almost thought he’d misheard. “What?”

Zhou Zhuoyuan clammed up and picked up his bowl to resume eating.

His mule-headed little brother had actually apologized to him. Zhou Zhuoli found it as unbelievable as water flowing uphill. But the thrill faded quickly; he knew full well it was just fear of getting booted from the dorm.

It was a rare chance to hold something over Zhou Zhuoyuan’s head, so Zhou Zhuoli flipped his phone face-down on the bed. “But calling me by my full name like that? It’s rude.”

Zhou Zhuoyuan froze mid-bite. He set his bowl down slowly, his chest heaving, scabbed lips parting and closing without a sound.

They stayed locked in stalemate for what felt like ages. Finally, he gave up, scooping rice into his mouth by the mouthful. He’d gone from nibbling daintily to cramming it in—cheeks bulging, the scab on his lip threatening to split open again.

Zhou Zhuoli watched the display, and his heart sank.

Making him call me “brother” was even harder than prying an apology out of him.