Night deepened. Darkness bled into the shadows. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the curtain gap, illuminating pupils as dark as ink and resting on pale skin—like the first frost of early winter, so fragile it felt unnervingly sickly.

The hospital room’s AC hummed softly, keeping the temperature just right. Yet the thick quilt felt stiflingly warm.

Suddenly, a gap opened in the tightly tucked covers. Hot, steamy air seeped out—the heat nearly scorching her skin. Moments later, fresh oxygen flooded in, cooling the stifling warmth just enough to let her breathe.

Her face flushed crimson. Each breath released a damp mist, dampening her slightly curled bangs until they clung wetly to her forehead, vision blurred.

She repeated silent affirmations again and again, until at last, the fierce longing to possess him someday overpowered her body’s urgent cries.

Teeth clenched, she halted her fingers trailing down her abdomen. But the dull ache between her thighs tugged her consciousness deeper—down toward an abyss. She squeezed her legs together, bit by bit, teetering on the cliff’s edge.

Mind foggy, she barely knew her own actions. The fever, subdued by medicine, crept back—rising, burning—until her cheeks flushed and bloodshot veins webbed her eyes. She dared not move, terrified of waking him.

Trapped beneath the quilt, she felt like she’d fallen into a furnace.

Dissolve… melt into his flesh, merge with his body—no gap, not even a second.

Perhaps she truly was ill. Gravely so. Fever… a mild stomach ailment. Medicinal fluid flowed through the sharp needle into her vein, spreading through her blood to every corner.

The medicine worked fast: the thermometer’s mercury receded, stomach spasms stilled, pain vanished. She was cured.

But was she?

Doctors, roommates—everyone around her bedside sighed in relief, genuinely glad. Yet she couldn’t smile.

Because the illness remained. Never gone. Like the world’s most cunning virus, it lurked in every cell, fused with her being, hiding in shadowed corners, letting out a grating cackle that swirled in her mind—a maddening whisper.

Her sickness had no cure. Unless… she died.

But the boy was right beside her—the cure, and the torment. How could she sleep on a night thick with desire?

Craving surged. A torrent of longing drenched her senses, wearing down her body inch by inch, her soul granted no peace.

This was punishment for her lie. She had lied… coaxed him here.

But it wasn’t her fault. Truly, it wasn’t.

Qingchuan was too vast. So immense she could no longer spot his figure—only watch helplessly as he shrank in her vision, fading until gone. Loving someone wasn’t wrong. She simply loved him. What was wrong with that?

A terminally ill person wanting to live—what crime was that?

A swallow echoed in her throat. Saliva gathered, yet her lips were chapped and peeling, parched by unbearable heat. She endured.

Slowly, she peeled back the quilt. Bloodshot eyes peered out. Stealthily, she watched the boy slumped over the bedside, lost in sleep. Suddenly, the thirst eased. She halted on the cliff’s edge.

His sleeping face was serene. Beneath thick black hair, his eyes closed with only a faint slit—revealing depths clear as a still pond. Gentle brows, delicate lips… like a jade tree beside a tranquil stream, an orchid blooming at its edge.

How she adored him. Soul and body—utterly captivating, achingly desired, yet forever out of reach. An itch at the heart’s tip, impossible to scratch. Only torment remained.

If she could never have him, she’d never watch others draw near. Even if longing gnawed her heart, this bitter hope was her solace—a way to cling to life, even in tatters.

She’d overheard his phone call while pretending to sip congee: party… many girls… Luo Xiao Xiao.

She recalled the girl from the gala—revealing outfit, drum kit, all eyes on her. Cheers erupted. Xia Qian Ge thought only: a flirtatious show-off.

Luo Xiao Xiao. So that was her name—“cute,” just like her pretty face.

More people gathered around him. How many more Luo Xiao Xiaos would come? A puzzle board held only so many pieces. Someone would be squeezed out first.

But she wouldn’t lose. She never had.

…

“Qian Ge, I’m sorry,” the boy murmured, slumped at the bedside, a white quilt draped over his shoulders against the night chill. “I’m sorry…”

Su Yu opened his eyes, waking from a dream. He shifted, felt the quilt’s warmth, lifted his head—gaze locking with hers. So close he saw the dark brown of her irises, heard her breath.

His heart skipped a beat. Then steadied. He exhaled slowly.

“Thank you. I’m not cold,” Su Yu said, rubbing tired eyes as he handed the quilt back. “Why are you awake? Still unwell?”

“No. Much better now.”

Xia Qian Ge shook her head. The flush had faded. She smiled, calm. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re thirsty,” Su Yu noted the dryness on her lips. “Let me get water.”

He rose, crouched by the dispenser. The gentle trickle of water filled the quiet room. The scene felt peacefully warm.

Xia Qian Ge watched, dazed. Heat rose again. Throat dry. Words stuck.

The pitter-patter of water underscored the silence. He suddenly felt the room too warm—the air behind him burning.

“Here. Drink.”

“Mm.”

She sipped gently. Moistened chapped lips. Her complexion softened.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. We’ve been classmates for three years, after all.”

“Classmates…”

Xia Qian Ge paused, then offered a faint smile. “Mm. Classmates.”

“I’m sleepy,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her forehead, drowsiness clouding her eyes.

“Rest then.”

“Okay.”

She lay back, turning away from Su Yu. Her clear eyes slowly glazed. Thick shadows churned deep within. Something buried once more.

Not yet time. She would endure a little longer.