“Let me help you to the bed.”

Mo Xuan’s sudden words left her flustered.

“O-oh… okay… okay,” Shen Bingyao stammered, her cheeks flushing crimson without her control.

Help her to the bed? Why did her mind instantly leap to something else?

She clutched the quilt’s edge tightly, curling inward. A faint tremor ran through her from sheer nerves. Thankfully, the dim light hid her blush from Mo Xuan, and the quilt muffled any sign of her shivering.

Relief washed over her—tinged with a hint of disappointment.

But Mo Xuan had no hidden thoughts. He simply felt it was undignified for Shen Bingyao to lie on the cold floor, especially while sick. She deserved proper rest.

With Shen Bingjing nowhere to be found, the task fell to him.

Still, the idea of lifting her sent nervous waves through him. Just imagining the soft warmth beneath the quilt made his mind race. Where should his hands even go?

Worse—he feared accidentally brushing her skin, or how she might react.

Please don’t let Shen Bingjing walk in now. Otherwise, there’d be no way to clear his name.

He silently groaned, bent down, and reached out.

Shen Bingyao quickly looked away, held her breath, body stiffening.

Strong hands slid beneath her—back and legs. Mo Xuan slowly curved his arms, fingers careful and precise. A sharp inhale—then she rose. The sudden lift, suspended midair, spiked her heartbeat. She nearly squeaked.

Mo Xuan moved fast. To minimize contact, he stepped forward the moment he lifted her, lowering her gently onto the bed. The quilt held firm, guarding her modesty.

For now, the scene was salvageable. If someone entered, he could claim he’d come at her call—and she could confirm it, as long as her blush stayed hidden.

“Um… if you’re alright, I’ll head out.”

Mo Xuan’s eyes darted around, pulse quickening.

Truth was, he wanted to stay. The guilt from his past life ached whenever he saw this fragile girl. Partly to ease her loneliness. Partly to soothe his own heart.

As if this alone could stop her from walking that tragic path again.

Besides, in this timeline, Shen Bingyao was still gentle and whole. Only after he dated Yun Jiumo did she spiral. Right now? Just a lonely, vulnerable girl. Nothing to fear.

Yet lingering felt wrong. A young woman curled under the quilt—presumably unclothed—while he, a healthy guy, stood bedside. Empty courtyard. Even a drama clip wouldn’t frame it this awkwardly.

If Shen Bingjing were here, he’d feel easier. Alone with Shen Bingyao? Uncomfortable.

The flustered girl froze. Her eyes dimmed visibly. She bit her lip reluctantly, peeking from the quilt with heartbreaking vulnerability.

She didn’t want to nod. Didn’t want to say “okay.” That would make him leave—abandoning her to silent, suffocating darkness.

But asking him to stay? Impossible. Years of reading others’ moods left her voiceless except with her sister. Under Mo Xuan’s gaze, she’d always obey—willingly, quietly.

Her lips trembled. Pale face. Eyes glistening.

Mo Xuan kept glancing at the door, silently begging Shen Bingjing to return—any excuse to escape.

The silence was thick. Nothing to say. Nothing to do. He didn’t know where to put his hands.

Shen Bingyao stayed quiet. He waited, unsure if she needed something else.

For someone with limited mobility, a willing helper meant everything.

“Xiao Jing… is she not here?” After a long pause, Shen Bingyao’s voice trembled out—timid, hesitant.

Mo Xuan felt relief. The tension eased slightly.

“I checked earlier. Courtyard’s empty. She’s probably out.”

Shen Bingyao gave a soft “Oh,” forcing a weak smile. “She must’ve gone shopping. She’ll be back soon.”

“Mm.”

In the dim room, Mo Xuan stole a glance.

She’d been staring. The moment their eyes met, she jerked away like a caught voyeur. Blush crept up her neck. She feigned interest in a vase, heart hammering.

Mo Xuan sighed inwardly.

Sometimes he wondered—if she’d been just a little bolder back then, would their story have changed?

Honestly, he didn’t dislike her. Compared to her lively sister, Shen Bingyao was elegant, serene, gently charming. Her quiet shyness only added to her appeal.

Before her confession, he’d held mild fondness—not love, not focus. His heart was wholly Yun Jiumo’s: the girl he chased three years, who dangled near-yield hints. She monopolized his thoughts, blinding him to others.

Now he saw it—likely deliberate. She knew his nature. Built her presence slowly. Then struck: shattering his defenses, claiming his body first, weaponizing her allure and sudden devotion to bind him forever.

What a terrifying woman. How had he missed it until now?

He watched Shen Bingyao pull the quilt higher—covering lips, nose—leaving only damp, darting eyes. She curled smaller, longing to touch him yet fearing discovery. Heart torn between hope and dread.

The sight made him want to smile—and ache deeper.

If he could, this life, he’d give this wounded girl warmth. Hope. Spare her the loneliness. The despair. The final choice she made before.

“May I sit?” He gestured to the bed’s edge with a gentle smile.

Shen Bingyao nodded like a pecking chick, joy nearly spilling from her eyes. She wanted him to stay—every extra second mattered.

Mo Xuan sat without hesitation, turning to face her.

Under his steady gaze, warmth flooded her. Her body trembled slightly with quiet happiness.

An itch near her thigh made her fingers twitch—but she froze, remembering he was there.

Mo Xuan noticed nothing. Dim light, her lying down—he could only guess her tension from the quilt’s subtle rise and fall. Probably because he was sitting there.

Then a new thought surfaced.

Today, he’d test her reaction.

From Shen Bingjing’s sharp questions, he sensed the elder sister’s feelings—but needed certainty. Assumptions could derail everything. Only precise care could heal her wounds. Only that could prevent the tragedy of his past life.