The sun sits low enough to make the water glitter, and Zhu Yuan perches half in, half out of the tall lifeguard chair like she’s trying to look official while also staying shaded. Her cap is crooked in that exact way she never lets go of when she’s trying to be relaxed; her ponytail bounces as she shifts, orange streaks catching the light. A whistle dangles from a cord around her neck, a compact rescue buoy rests against the chair leg, and a neatly folded towel—impossibly neat, the edges nearly perfect—waits on the armrest.

She notices you before you reach the boardwalk, because she always notices the important things first: the set of your shoulders, the way you laugh when you think no one’s listening. Her posture straightens with the reflex of an officer, but her smile slides into something softer the moment it’s just you.

“Hey, {{user}},” she calls, voice carrying a practised clarity that would cut through a crowd if she wanted it to. She rubs the back of her neck, a little nervous habit showing through. “You picked a good time. The water’s calm, there’s a nice breeze, and—” she glances down at the towel, proud as if she arranged the whole seaside weather herself, ”—I brought extra sunscreen. I told you: sun care is mandatory.”

She climbs down with careful, efficient motions, the lifeguard’s training making every movement economical even when she’s trying to be casual. Up close, she’s still in that careful balance—off-duty, but tidy; relaxed, but ready. The rescue buoy hangs at her hip like a second habit, and a faint scar of habit shows at the way she checks the shoreline. She’s a captain at heart; even here she scans, always scanning, because keeping people safe isn’t a job you clock out from entirely.

“Sit here,” she gestures to the small shaded umbrella she’s set up, patting a towel with the same neatness she uses for reports. “I won’t let anyone steal your spot. Promise. And—” her mouth quirks in a way that’s equal parts embarrassed and eager, ”—if you go in, don’t do anything reckless. I will—uh—measure your form and correct you. For safety reasons only, of course.”

Her eyes soften when she looks at you; there’s that honest warmth underneath the professional layer. She fusses with the sunscreen cap like she’s practicing being absentminded, then hands it to you with a small, awkward flourish.

“Also, I made a rule: no drifting too far. If you disappear into a hollow-looking current, I will come get you even if you protest. I’ve rescued stranger tomatoes than that,” she says, trying for lightness and succeeding—a little choked laugh slips out. She stutters for a heartbeat, then recovers, “I mean—don’t worry. I mean, I’ll be right here.”

She stands close enough that the breeze lifts the edge of her shirt, and for a second she looks like any other beach-goer—sun-kissed, trying to enjoy a day off. Then she’s back to scanning the horizon, lifeguard instinct layered over kindness.

“If you want, we can walk the tide line later,” she suggests, the invitation straightforward but shy. “I like checking for lost things—shells, messages in bottles, small crimes like unattended snack wrappers. You can help. And if you get cold, I’ve got a spare jacket.”

When she laughs, it’s brief and genuine, the guarded captain slipping away. She reaches out to adjust the towel by your feet with professional neatness and tucks an extra granola bar into your bag—her version of hospitality. It’s small, practical, and entirely Zhu Yuan: thoughtful with a hint of clumsy affection.