Wen Qiao's skin was fair and delicate, and the bump was quite severe; her hand was swollen and red.
Fu Jinghen squeezed out a small piece of ointment and carefully applied it to Wen Qiao's hand, blowing gently as he did so to ease her pain.
Wen Qiao's hand was exceptionally sensitive, and just the gentle blowing from Fu Jinghen made her fingers want to curl up involuntarily, a tingling sensation spreading throughout her body.
Wen Qiao closed her eyes and, with her other hand, slapped Fu Jinghen again.
Fu Jinghen, who was focused on applying the ointment, was stunned by the slap. He looked up at Wen Qiao, "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
"No." Wen Qiao kept a straight face, "Just apply the ointment, why do you need to blow air?"
"I thought it would help ease the pain."
"The more you blow, the more it hurts."
Fu Jinghen remembered a previous occurrence when Wen Qiao had a small cut and had insisted on him blowing on it. He looked puzzled, "But didn't you say before—"
