“Are you sure it’s okay to give me your bed?”

Jiuli held the towel, gently wiping stray water droplets from her damp hair as she coolly watched Chen Dao making the bed for her.

She knew she shouldn’t seem too distant—but had no idea how to act.

Being overly friendly might make him develop feelings, and that would only complicate things.

Her mind even conjured a fantasy: her ghostly self meeting Chen Dao.

She’d greet him, but he’d scold her—*You ungrateful ghost! Slept in my bed, ate my food, showed no improvement, and got me labeled a suspect!*

She’d never believed in ghosts and spirits before. But after her parents passed, she began hoping—an afterlife existed, souls lingered, *they* were still there.

Otherwise, all those tears would’ve been for nothing.

“Heave-ho!”

With a final grunt, Chen Dao lifted the quilt, gave it a shake, and tossed it onto the fresh sheets.

“No worries—the room next door has a comfier bed!”

(Truth was, it was just a dusty storage closet. No bed. No sheets.)

“Oh…”

Jiuli nodded, silently certain it was a lie.

*That door’s covered in dust. Obviously unused.*

She shot him a faint glance but found no words.

They were barely classmates—calling them “friends” was already generous.

So… was inviting a friend to share a bed crossing a line?

She had zero ulterior motives. But if Chen Dao caught a cold or stiff neck because of her? She’d overthink even jumping into the sea, mind swirling with guilt.

Even in death, she refused to burden others. Quiet closure was all she wanted.

So before the end, she’d keep playing her part.

“Alright then. Sweet dreams. I’m off—”

Chen Dao grabbed his thermal top and bottoms, bundled the old sheets, and turned to leave—clearly heading for the couch.

Before he could step away, a tug pulled at his shirt.

He turned. Jiuli hooked one finger into his sleeve, the other hand clutching the yellow towel’s edge, lower lip lightly bitten.

“Stay… together?”

Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced calm into her tone.

“Uh…”

Chen Dao froze. His mind stayed steady—but his hot-blooded teenage body? Not so much.

*Please don’t let my downstairs betray me…*

“I might snore.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’ve got restless legs.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I’m Cao Cao!”

“Then I’m Lady Ding!”

…Wait. Lady Ding? Cao Cao’s first wife?

Chen Dao blinked. *Is she actually—?*

He glanced back. Jiuli’s expression was solemn. Zero shyness.

“Ah—don’t misunderstand! I just meant *today*. No worries.”

“Thanks…”

*Hmph. So aloof. Playing it cool? Honestly, I wasn’t that eager to share a bed either~*

Chen Dao mentally drafted half an essay.

“Then… can you stay?”

“Only if you wait while I brush my teeth.”

He feigned agreement. Jiuli nodded and loosened her grip—

*Whoosh!* He bolted out and slammed the door shut.

Jiuli blinked. *Tricked again.*

Not angry. Just… *He really is stubborn.*

Leaving was fine. Before going, she’d stop by the convenience store—repay him for the meal, then find a quiet place to end her life.

Her goal unchanged. Only the location shifted.

*Should I text Auntie? Thank her?*

She couldn’t decide. Truth was, she was still scared. But living felt so heavy.

Chen Dao? Tomorrow he’d face chaos—kicking down the rooftop door, snatching the “goddess’s” milk tea, “borrowing” clothes. Explaining all that alone was a headache. Let alone starting over.

*How I envy his confidence…*

She pushed the door open. Pitch black.

A faint *creak* came from the living room sofa.

“Is that the sofa?”

“Has no one told you? A man’s second bed is the sofa.”

Chen Dao rolled over. Another *creak*.

“Comfortable?”

Bathed in the room’s glow, Jiuli stepped slowly behind the rigid wooden armchair—not plush at all. Sleeping on it felt like a board.

“How can your 36-degree mouth say that?”

Her small hand gripped the chair back, peeking over.

Chen Dao wore thermals under a hoodie and school pants, tucked under the quilt. No pillow.

She touched her lips, frowning. “Nonsense! I just showered—I’m warmer than 36!”

“I don’t believe it. Unless—never mind. Go sleep.”

*Still the same Jiuli. Stubborn over tiny things.*

Backlit by the room’s light, her silhouette blurred softly—mysterious, ethereal. Seeing his closed eyes, she leaned closer.

Stomach pressed against the chair back, upper body inching toward his face.

Two centimeters away. Her tiptoes trembled. *This is my limit.*

Chen Dao felt warm, moist breath brush his cheek—but stayed perfectly still.

“Thank you. I’ll buy a ticket home tomorrow.”

Her whisper carried damp softness, a hint of ambiguous warmth—yet remained cool, detached. Stirring no ripples.

She pulled back swiftly. The light vanished.

By morning, Jiuli was gone.