"Fu Xingzhou, what's wrong with you?"
Ye Yan hurriedly threw the umbrella aside and crouched down to check his condition.
His face was pale, like a fragile sheet of white paper, and his body was trembling slightly.
His distinct-jointed hand was clutching the hem of her pants, while the other hand was tightly pressed against his abdomen.
Ye Yan knew he was probably suffering from a stomach attack, and it was fierce, as a dense cold sweat had already broken out on his forehead.
Ye Yan picked up the umbrella, held it completely over him, and took out her cellphone with the other hand to call Fu Xingrui.
"Fu Xingzhou, how do you feel?"
After the call, Ye Yan let Fu Xingzhou lean against her.
His face bore a frighteningly pale hue, his brows were tightly furrowed as if he was enduring immense pain.
Ye Yan was extremely anxious and could only press her hand on his stomach, repeatedly massaging it.