In the buzzing classroom, the students were only contemplating who they would sit with, while Mr. Black, their homeroom teacher, had more complex considerations. He had to think about height compatibility, positive learning attitudes, and more. From the scattered notes, he managed to piece together pairs that worked—less than ten couples in total who could be desk partners smoothly.

Eric was a popular choice, with both girls and boys writing his name—and yet he hadn’t chosen anyone himself. Among the girls, Amy was the most sought-after, and of course, she chose the most popular guy.

These two alone disrupted quite a few potential pairs, leaving Mr. Black with a mild headache. He considered just pairing Eric and Amy together—they’d probably make an excellent team, and with both their grades and heights, they’d fit well at the back of the class.

Thus, alongside calling in Amy, he also called for Eric.

"You've got quite a few fans," Mr. Black observed.

"Yeah," Eric responded with indifference, as if whether anyone chose him was of no concern.

"You're the only one in class with a blank sheet—no preferred partner?"

Eric paused momentarily before replying, "Not quite."

“What does ‘not quite’ mean?” Mr. Black muttered, spreading out the six notes that bore Eric's name before him. “See anyone you’re inclined to pair with?”

His attention fell almost immediately on the delicate handwriting.

Amy hadn’t followed the instruction to write her name in the corner. Instead, she had inscribed “Amy” alongside “Eric” right in the center, even finding the time to sketch a little rowboat beside them.

“Dock, dock, the boat is arriving,” it read beside, the words pulsating as though in rhythm with a heartbeat.

Maybe it was time to dock here.

Eric picked up the note, discreetly running his fingers over it. “Her, Amy,” he stated.

Mr. Black beamed, “That was my thought too.”

Everything fell into place so seamlessly that when Amy heard the seating arrangement announcement, she nearly laughed out loud. Mr. Black was so gullible, believing those reasons.

Lily, too, was pleased, hugging Amy goodbye as they promised to keep close by.

In their senior year, moving desks usually meant shifting the entire table for convenience. The classroom became a cacophony of dragging desks and chairs interspersed with murmurs of contentment or discontent.

Amy attempted to drag her desk but had managed to shift it only an inch—it was impossibly heavy with books. Pausing to regroup her strength, she tugged abruptly backward, only to lose her balance.

But she didn't fall. She collided into someone's arms. Turning her head, she found Eric gazing down at her.

His glasses, rimmed with thin black frames, lacked the bulkiness of other styles, casting a cold aura around him. It heightened his distant, austere demeanor.

It suited him perfectly.

Eric looked striking in his glasses, and Amy found herself staring a moment too long.

Releasing his gentle grip—he had instinctively grabbed her shoulders to steady her—Eric offered, “Let me help.”

His Adam’s apple moved as he spoke, its motion aligning with Amy’s line of sight. Her eyes lingered there until Eric noticed, his throat turning hot and dry. He swallowed reflexively before shifting his gaze to meet her eyes.

Amy smiled warmly, “Thanks a lot.”

Jack had already moved to his new position in another group’s back row, leaving the seat beside Amy open. Eric helped maneuver her desk, then saw her trailing along with her chair.

Their eyes met, and she gave him a friendly grin.

Eric lowered his eyes hurriedly, taking her chair to place it in its spot.

He looked almost like he was fleeing.

Once settled in their new spots, Amy took a few swigs of water to refresh herself before turning to Eric. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem,” he replied.

“Of course, now we’re desk partners,” Amy noted casually, stretching without any particular decorum.

Eric murmured a small “Mm,” as though in agreement.

There was still time to chat before the rest of the class finished shifting.

Amy gave Eric a gentle poke, drawing his attention. “You saw what I wrote on that paper, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, feeling that his answer was too blunt, so he added, “I knew.”

Her smile quickly disappeared, replaced by a familiar expression—a face she wore when asking him for help with problems or claiming she hadn’t eaten yet. A pout that looked almost pitiful.

“But you didn’t write me down,” she pointed out.

Eric's fingers tightened around his pen with an inexplicable anxiety, “That’s not it. I didn’t write anyone.”

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

Her accusation was unreasonable; if Eric were thinking straight, he might have mentioned that they weren’t well-acquainted.

But now he felt uncharacteristically flustered, leaving him speechless.

Amy didn’t really mind; she merely wanted to observe Eric’s reaction.

He stuttered, not quite able to form a response until suddenly, an idea struck him. He pulled out a sheet of paper, left it whole, and quickly scribbled on it.

He handed it to Amy, who read—

“Eric Amy”

Neither name tucked away in a corner; they were both aligned neatly in a row.

His handwriting was beautiful, especially with their names written together, it became even more so.