After returning from the sports field, they plunged straight into another intense study session.

According to the homeroom teacher, this was their final year. They should focus entirely on studies—aside from essential activities—and aim for a good university. Only then would they be free.

Mo Xuan, who’d already lived through college and spent a year “lying flat,” couldn’t help muttering under his breath: *To hell with that.*

It was self-study period. Once the teacher left, the class monitor settled onto the desk. Pages flipped, papers rustled—then silence fell, broken only by the soft scratch of pens on paper.

Mo Xuan sat at his desk, a thick math test spread before him.

Staring at problems that felt vaguely familiar, he stayed speechless for a long moment.

Yes—he’d been reborn. He retained most memories, but that didn’t mean he recalled every senior-year detail. At best, he had a general sense… and faint echoes of last life’s exam questions. Now, facing these again, a sharp dread coiled in his gut: *Reliving senior year’s hellish grind?*

Was anything more miserable?

Mo Xuan’s face twisted into a pained grimace.

After reluctantly scribbling a few answers, he noticed something off.

He looked up—glances darted his way. Sitting in the very back row, it was almost certainly *him* they were watching.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it. But soon, seven or eight students—boys and girls alike—kept stealing meaningful looks.

*What’s going on? Did they uncover my reborn secret?*

A flicker of panic stirred. *Paranoid much?* Every extra glance felt like exposure.

He elbowed his deskmate, voice low: “Why’s everyone staring? Something on my face?”

His deskmate blinked in surprise. “Haven’t you gone over yet?”

“What?” Mo Xuan frowned.

“Next to Yun Jiumo! Didn’t you bribe her deskmate with snacks for self-study seat privileges?” He jerked his chin toward her.

Mo Xuan followed the gesture. A short-haired girl shot him mischievous glances.

But to her right, Yun Jiumo remained utterly absorbed—posture perfect, pen grip precise, even the way she brushed stray hairs from her cheek effortless and calm. As if she hadn’t noticed anyone was *supposed* to sit beside her.

*Oh.*

He’d nearly forgotten.

Last life, he’d pulled every trick to get close. Confirmed she wouldn’t mind, bribed her deskmate (who knew his crush and agreed readily), and swapped seats every self-study. Everyone had grown used to it.

They’d expected him to move the moment class started. Waiting… waiting… her deskmate grew restless. Others glanced over, puzzled.

Mo Xuan swept the room and sneered inwardly.

*As if.* Did they think he was *that* version of himself?

He knew how to build rapport fast—ask a question, keep it light. Unless her grades were worse, she’d glance, ponder, maybe chat. That’s how he’d first connected with Yun Jiumo’s cool, elegant facade. Her quiet help felt promising.

But now? No way.

After being drugged, nearly slashed with a glass knife… *No thanks.*

*You can’t judge a book by its cover.* He’d once believed her pure, graceful, self-respecting. Charged forward like a Spartan—only to learn *she’d* been busy too. Night after night, unknown herbs slipped into his honey pomelo tea. Slowly turning him frail. And she’d say, sweetly: *“It’s for your own good.” “So we stay together forever.”*

*To hell with that.*

This life? Distance. Safety.

He flashed a serene, world-weary smile and waved. “Nah. Too much trouble.”

A sharp *rip*—his deskmate had torn the paper.

Yun Jiumo’s deskmate gaped, as if he’d just declared, *“I don’t love Yun Jiumo.”*

*No way. This is Mo Xuan?* The guy who orbited her nonstop—even hopping around her seat during breaks? Who sacrificed a mountain of snacks just for seat-swapping rights? Now, prompted directly… stone still?

“Y-you sure?” His deskmate twirled his pen, mouthed toward Yun Jiumo.

Mo Xuan nodded firmly, feigning calm while stealing a glance.

Their whispers were low but clear. He watched Yun Jiumo closely.

Nothing.

Her pace, posture, the habitual hair-brush every seven seconds—flawlessly normal. Like she wore noise-canceling headphones, utterly detached.

*Overthinking again?* Maybe she truly didn’t care. Her attitude had always been lukewarm—impossible to read.

After his final refusal, her deskmate turned back. Others followed, sinking once more into problem sets.

Silence deepened. Even faint, hurried breaths were audible.

Unseen by all, Yun Jiumo had stopped writing.

Head lowered, raven hair cascading to hide her face. The test paper lay clear before her—yet the words wouldn’t register.

Her knuckles whitened around the pen, veins taut. Grip fierce enough to pierce paper.

She breathed deep, forcing down the storm in her chest. Waited until the crimson haze in her eyes faded. Then, stretching casually, she straightened her back—and flicked a glance backward. Just a flash. Over the boy.

Mo Xuan noticed nothing.

Slumped in his seat, cheek propped on one hand, pen cap between his teeth, he stared listlessly at the paper, muttering complaints.

Those bright eyes. Straight nose. Rosy lips. Healthy glow. She knew them all.

Even the way his brow furrowed before a curse slipped out—she could predict it.

He was *her* Mo Xuan. The one she remembered. The one she controlled.

But this time… a strange unease stirred.

He’d changed.

Just enough to slip beyond her grasp.