"Is it this late already?"

Zhou Zhiyi woke to find it was already noon. Without the school’s blaring music, he might have missed lunch entirely.

That morning, he’d called Che Qingshi—a contact from comic comments—but got no reply. He’d have to ask later.

Chu Hui still slept soundly. Mu Shiqi, however, was preparing to get out of bed for food. Seeing her unsteady movements, Zhou Zhiyi felt a twinge to help. Maybe because they both had foot injuries?

"Mu Shiqi, don’t push yourself. I’ll buy food for everyone."

"But don’t you have a foot injury too?" Mu Shiqi paused, staring at him with a puzzled frown.

*I’m not as heavy as you. And I’m not a girl.* Zhou Zhiyi thought it but stayed silent.

"For me? Almost healed. No big deal."

*Yeah, right.* Every step sent a dull ache through his foot, but he could force a normal walk if he gritted his teeth.

"Then… thank you." Mu Shiqi hesitated, then accepted. "Just get me stir-fried rice with green peppers and shredded pork."

"Understood!" Zhou Zhiyi saluted sharply, making her laugh. He strode to the infirmary door and yanked it open—only to find his best friend, Wu Feng, standing there.

"Guess opening this door won’t teleport me to an isekai world with a cute girl. Just my ‘son’ instead." Zhou Zhiyi joked, spotting the stir-fried rice and zhajiangmian noodles in Wu Feng’s hands.

"I brought lunch for my ungrateful son!" Wu Feng declared loudly, as if delivering divine justice.

"Sure it wasn’t just to visit me?" Zhou Zhiyi grinned. "Mu Shiqi! Wu Feng brought your stir-fried rice!"

"T-this is so embarrassing…" Mu Shiqi’s face flushed crimson. She ducked her head, avoiding Wu Feng’s gaze.

*Whoa. Mood swing much? Faster than a chameleon!*

"Zhou Zhiyi! Where are you going? I brought your lunch too!" Wu Feng called as Zhou Zhiyi headed out.

"One more person needs food." Zhou Zhiyi turned to leave—but an inner command flashed: *Congratulate Wu Feng for fourth place in the men’s 4000-meter race.*

*Do I really have to say this?* *Guess the second male lead’s job is to cheer…*

"Son! Congrats on fourth place in the 4000-meter race. Dad’s shocked you managed it!" Zhou Zhiyi’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but friends could handle that.

"Pure skill," Wu Feng replied, though Zhou Zhiyi caught the proud smirk tugging at his lips.

*Pure skill? What otaku sprints after eight laps? What otaku dashes while gasping for air?* Zhou Zhiyi bit back the words.

"Well, that’s it." He waved and fled. Talking to Wu Feng felt harder each day. *Calm down. I’ll get used to it.*

*But how?* He shook his head, refusing to dwell. *There’s always a way.*

Zhou Zhiyi walked on, clinging to that thought—even as he wondered what that way could be…