The woman's soft, warm hand resting on his eyelids felt exceptionally comfortable. Coupled with how the body easily tires after a fever, the tension that had strung him tight all day eased, and Jinghen quickly fell asleep.
Listening to the man's even breathing, Wen Qiao slowly removed her hand.
Her fingertips traced through the air, from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and finally, gently tapped his lips, whispering softly, "Idiot."
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Early the next morning, Feng Li arrived on time at the door of the hospital room as instructed by Jinghen. Just as he was about to knock, his eyes caught a glimpse of the scene inside through the window and he paused in surprise.
How come the sick person was sitting on a chair, while the one who came to take care of the patient was sprawled out on the bed, sound asleep?
