Mi Yao stared at the bowl of dark Chinese medicine; she had already smelled its distinctive odor. It was really foul-smelling, and with her shallow throat, taking the medicine was always torturous. Now that she was pregnant, she could endure the smell even less. Her small hand pressed against her chest, "ugh," she leaned over the bed's edge and dry heaved twice.
There was nothing in her stomach, and all she vomited up was acid water, which brought tears and mucus pouring out—truly uncomfortable.
Fan Nuo quickly put down the medicine bowl, crouched down, and used his sleeve to wipe her tears and mucus. "What's wrong? Does it feel very bad? I'll pat your back for you."
Huai Fu Yueming had already arrived; with his tall and long legs, he stood outside the door but did not go in. What he saw was this scene: Mi Yao bent over the bed retching, Fan Nuo fussing and cajoling her. Even from outside the door, he could sense the indissoluble tenderness and care in Fan Nuo's eyes.
