This was a major undertaking. While the students could simply consider who they wanted to sit with, Old Zheng, as the homeroom teacher, had many factors to consider—whether their heights were compatible, whether the combination of their study attitudes would be positive. From those little notes, he could only piece together about ten pairs that could smoothly become deskmates.

Then there was Zhou Tingzhao, a popular choice with both boys and girls writing his name, yet he hadn’t written anyone’s name. Among the girls, Sang Ru was the most sought-after, and this most sought-after girl had chosen the most popular boy.

These two could disrupt many potential pairings. Old Zheng was at his wits’ end and thought he might as well pair them up. After all, he didn’t need to worry about their grades, their heights matched well, and they both already sat in the back rows anyway.

So, besides calling Sang Ru to ask, he also called Zhou Tingzhao.

“Many people wrote your name.”

“Mm.” Zhou Tingzhao’s reaction was indifferent, as if it didn’t matter whether anyone chose him or not.

“You’re the only one in the class who left this paper blank. There’s no one you want to sit with?”

Zhou Tingzhao paused for a moment before saying, “I suppose so.”

“What do you mean ‘suppose’?” Old Zheng muttered, then spread six notes on the desk. “Do you have any preference among these?”

He spotted that graceful handwriting almost immediately.

Though they were supposed to write their names in the upper left corner, she hadn’t. Instead, she had written “Sang Ru” and “Zhou Tingzhao” side by side, and even had enough time to draw a small boat with a paddle next to them.

“Tingzhao” (停棹) sounded like “stop the boat” (停船). Like a boat stopping at the shore.

Those few characters seemed to have a pulse, beating their hearts along with them.

Why not… stop here.

Zhou Tingzhao picked up this note, subtly caressing it, and said: “Her, Sang Ru.”

Old Zheng laughed: “That’s what I was thinking too.”

Everything was proceeding too smoothly. When Sang Ru heard Old Zheng announce the seating arrangements, she almost laughed out loud. Old Zheng was too naive to believe that reason.

Li Chenfei also got her wish. They hugged goodbye and promised to still sit near each other.

By senior year, when changing seats, students usually moved the entire desk for convenience. The classroom was filled with the noisy sounds of moving furniture, mixed with everyone’s soft murmurs of joy or dissatisfaction.

Sang Ru stood up to drag her desk outward, but only managed to move it one centimeter—too many books made it incredibly heavy. So she paused to gather strength, then pulled backward forcefully. The desk didn’t move, but her heel stepped on something, and she lost her balance, falling backward.

She didn’t hit the ground but fell into someone’s arms. Sang Ru looked back to see Zhou Tingzhao looking down at her.

His black-framed glasses weren’t the thick, encompassing kind. That thin black rim wound delicately around the frame, not bulky, giving him a cool appearance at first glance, making him seem even more aloof and distant. The black also made him look serious and proper.

It suited him well.

He truly looked good in glasses. Sang Ru was a bit entranced.

At this moment, Zhou Tingzhao released his hands—he had instinctively gripped her shoulders to prevent her from falling.

“Let me help you,” Zhou Tingzhao said.

His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he spoke. After Sang Ru was steady, her line of sight was almost level with it. She stared for a while, until Zhou Tingzhao felt his throat becoming hot and dry. He unconsciously swallowed before looking away, shifting his gaze to her eyes.

Sang Ru smiled: “Okay, thank you.”

Yang Fan had already moved to another group in the last row. The space for the new deskmate was ready. Zhou Tingzhao moved Sang Ru’s desk over and turned to see her following behind him, dutifully carrying her chair. When their eyes met, she smiled at him.

Zhou Tingzhao quickly lowered his gaze, taking the chair and setting it in place.

He was flustered, as if trying to escape.

Finally seated, Sang Ru took several gulps of water to quench her thirst. As if having rested, she then turned to talk to him: “Thanks for just now.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Of course,” Sang Ru stretched lazily, without restraint. “We’re deskmates now.”

After a long moment, Zhou Tingzhao softly responded with an “mm,” actually agreeing.

Others hadn’t finished moving yet, so they could still chat a bit.

Sang Ru gently poked her new deskmate. Seeing him turn toward her, she said: “I wrote your name on that paper, did you know?”

“Mm,” after saying this, he felt he had said too little, so Zhou Tingzhao added, “I know.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the girl in front of him stopped smiling and put on a familiar expression—the same slightly aggrieved look she had when asking him to teach her problems or when telling him she hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Then he heard her say: “But you didn’t write my name.”

Zhou Tingzhao felt inexplicably flustered and gripped his pen tightly: “That’s not it. I didn’t write anyone’s name.”

“But that still means you didn’t write mine.”

This could be considered unreasonable. If Zhou Tingzhao had maintained his usual state of mind, he probably would have said: We’re not that close.

But now he was experiencing unprecedented panic, his brain short-circuiting, unable to say anything.

Sang Ru wasn’t truly angry; she just wanted to see how Zhou Tingzhao would react.

He stuttered without saying anything meaningful, but then seemed to think of something. He took out a sheet of paper—without tearing it, a whole large sheet—and wrote something on it, head lowered.

After writing, he passed it to her. Sang Ru looked—

“Zhou Tingzhao Sang Ru”

Similarly, with no division of upper left or middle, the two names were neatly arranged in one line.

His handwriting was beautiful, and these two names listed together were even more beautiful.