She’d believed that keeping her distance and repaying Chen Dao for every kindness would grant her peace of mind at death’s door.

Then Xia Jiuli could proudly say: aside from her parents, she owed no one—and could join them without guilt, clinging to them even into the next life.

As for her aunt? She’d only hoped not to be a burden.

But with each step deeper into the sea, the biting cold and unnatural feverish heat stirred a strange unease.

Chen Dao hadn’t rushed to stop her—yet she grew more cautious, more hesitant.

She blamed it on fearing a clumsy fall… until the moment she stumbled.

*It’s not about dignity. It’s about hurting him.*

Using intimacy as payment. Trading compliance for silence.

Every thought only burdened him further.

She nearly hated herself.

*Xia Jiuli… why are you so detestable?*

She almost screamed, begging him to scold her—but stopped.

She knew he’d never yell. Only listen, quietly.

Even choking on seawater, her mind clung to him.

Honestly? Drifting from shore, she realized she wasn’t calm at all.

Afraid of sharp debris. Afraid of sharks.

But most of all… afraid Chen Dao would grieve after she was gone.

She knew turning back wouldn’t erase the dampness in her soul.

Yet no one refuses the warmth of a sunbeam breaking through.

Even if shadows still crept where light couldn’t reach—she’d shift just enough to sit in its glow.

“You’re heavy.”

Chen Dao grumbled beneath her, shifting her weight. His fingers brushed her thighs—no uniform fabric this time. Just skin. Intimate.

He worried: sweaty palms? Squeezing too hard?

Hearing her weight mocked, Xia Jiuli raised her icy hand and thumped his back—

“Wait! No! Aaaaah!” Chen Dao yelped.

But she clung tighter. Chest pressed to his back. Thighs locked around his waist. Refusing to let go.

“That’s for calling me heavy! Hahaha!”

Her laughter held zero pretense—a clear, bell-like chime across the empty beach.

Hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. A fleeting smile in her eyes. For once, the guarded adult facade melted away.

The tide nudged them shoreward.

Suddenly—a beam of light shot from behind, bathing them both.

“Ah—so bright!” Xia Jiuli patted his shoulder, sharing this tiny lighthouse gift adorning their world.

Chen Dao spun twice. She straightened her legs. Her shriek cut through crashing waves, carried by the wind.

After the dizzying spin, he walked unsteadily toward sand.

She fell silent, arms around his neck, pressing her cold cheek near his warmth—but not too close.

*Please… just a little slower.*

The light followed them ashore, lingering until they retrieved their discarded clothes.

Xia Jiuli waved toward the lighthouse. *Thank you.*

Darkness rushed in—only distant city stars and the slope’s lone streetlamp remained.

Few lights. Yet somehow… many.

She turned to Chen Dao.

Hands covering exposed skin. Clothes at her feet. She’d boldly claimed she’d die… yet now clung to his warmth.

Foolish? Maybe.

But she’d simply been waiting—for someone to stand where her parents once did, and hand her courage back.

Chen Dao dressed swiftly, pulled a hand warmer from his pocket, and tucked it against her stiff, shivering frame.

“Wow~” Her voice trembled, but warmth flooded her limbs.

He urged her to sit. She clutched the warmer, sank into the sand.

He draped his down jacket over her, wiped her feet with his T-shirt—even dried between each toe.

“Wait—no, don’t—*don’t sniff them!*”

Heat flooded her neck, her ears. She bit her lip, watching him tend to her delicate feet.

She’d thought feet were safe… yet this shattered her composure.

Chen Dao found them strangely captivating: smooth, uncalloused, perfectly shaped. A brush on her sole or ankle made her shiver. *How intriguing.*

Once dry, he slipped on her socks and shoes.

Looking up—he saw her flushed face, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.

He feigned ignorance. She hid her mouth, turning away.

“Ah! Got it!”

He shot toward the shore, bent, dug—and returned with two shells.

Xia Jiuli’s heart leaped—*Was he running to die?!*—then softened in surprise.

She watched him wipe them clean with his uniform, blow off the sand, and offer one.

“Yours.”

“Mine?”

Dazed, she lifted her hand from her abdomen and took the three-centimeter shell.

Plain pattern. Faint blue hue. Nothing special—yet perfectly matched his.

He’d split the pair the moment he found them, pocketing his half.

“This is what I promised our aunt,” he said softly. “I vowed to care for my good friend. So… when you’re ready to see your parents again—mail this to me.”