Zhou Tingzhao had thought things were already getting out of hand, but what she did next was truly beyond the pale.

Sang Ru suddenly slipped beneath the desk, though her hand never let go of his. She settled herself between his legs, resting her chin on his knee and looking up at him with an expression that was somehow both innocent and bold.

Zhou Tingzhao’s entire body went rigid with tension.

He pressed his lips together and finally set down his pen. He wrapped his hands around hers and said in a low voice: “Get up.”

“No.”

She was just as stubborn. The moment the word left her lips, she continued to hold his hand firmly — as if daring him.

Like a slow, deliberate tide wearing down stone, Zhou Tingzhao felt his composure slipping away breath by breath.

He tightened his grip to still her restless hand, his gaze stormy as he looked down at her.

“Get up,” he said again.

“No.” Her eyes suddenly glistened, and her voice took on a soft, wounded edge. “You’re being mean to me.”

Zhou Tingzhao immediately found himself at a loss. “I’m not…” he said, the words coming out weaker than he intended.

The corners of her mouth turned down. Her brow furrowed with exaggerated hurt. Ignoring his denial, she said: “You lied to me too.”

“What did I lie about?”

Sang Ru made a show of trying to pull free from his grip. When she couldn’t, she tilted her chin up pointedly. “See? You said you wouldn’t stop me, but now you won’t let me move.”

He remembered that moment — a trap entirely of his own making.

Their eyes locked, a silent contest hanging in the air between them. Zhou Tingzhao’s throat moved once, and he finally surrendered.

He released her hands, placed his own back on the desktop, and picked up his pen again.

If he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t stop her — could he at least pretend to ignore her?

Evidently not.

He could look away, but the soft sounds below the desk continued, quiet enough yet somehow entirely consuming.

Seeing him yield, she grew bolder.

Zhou Tingzhao closed his eyes for a moment. He knew he was losing ground, and the worst part — the most shameful part — was that some part of him didn’t mind.

Sang Ru glanced up and wondered why he was so difficult to draw out today.

Zhou Tingzhao always endured. He wore his composure like armor. But everyone had a breaking point, and she had always known exactly where his was. She liked to watch him reach it — liked to watch the careful, serious mask begin to crack.

She looked up at him again. Even from this angle, the sharp lines of his face were striking, taut with the effort of maintaining control.

A low, barely audible sound escaped him — involuntary, barely there, but enough.

“Zhou Tingzhao,” Sang Ru said his name softly.

He responded with a faint “Mm,” but didn’t look at her.

He didn’t dare.

“Look at me.”

He said nothing. His pen hovered above the paper, completely still.

She tugged gently at his hand. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, inevitably, Zhou Tingzhao lowered his gaze to meet hers.

Seeing him obey, she smiled — bright and triumphant — and then, as if rewarding his compliance, she leaned up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his jaw.

Zhou Tingzhao’s fist closed against the edge of the desk. Every coherent thought he’d been clinging to scattered at once. His whole body felt like it was coming undone from some quiet, warm center.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Pleased with what she saw, she tucked herself closer against his knee, her ponytail swinging with the movement.

Zhou Tingzhao stared down at her with reddened eyes. The image of her — still in her school uniform, ponytail high, expression caught between teasing and tender — struck something deep and wordless in him.

The beginning of a youthful nightmare that had lasted ten years. And yet the gods had returned the beautiful dream overnight. She had shown mercy, reversing for him the obscure, aching years of his youth.

He had never had anything. And now it seemed he suddenly had everything at once. Faced with a dream made real, a person could only tremble — overwhelmed, disbelieving, desperately afraid to reach for it in case it vanished.

He no longer dared —