Chapter 65

At night, the elderly couple slept in the guest room on the first floor. Fortunately, the bedding that Tu Kun had brought over last time was still there; once his parents left, he'd just need to put on fresh covers. The downstairs bathroom had also naturally become theirs.

Han Qian's back injury meant he couldn't shower, so he lay on the bed listening to the water running in the bathroom—an unfamiliar sound. Wen Nuan usually monopolized the first-floor bathroom for her showers, casually leaving her clothes behind.

About twenty minutes later, Wen Nuan emerged from the bathroom in her pajamas, her damp hair dripping, a popsicle in her hand. She slipped off her shoes and climbed onto the bed as if it were her own room.

"Did you take leave?" she asked.

Han Qian, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, nodded. "I called Sister Yang—she said I can come back to work whenever I'm better. But! Young Miss, I'm tired. Go back to your own room and sleep, will you?"

"Nope," Wen Nuan said breezily. "I can't sleep with wet hair. Let's watch *Boonie Bears* together, okay? And you—don't lie flat. Lie on your side or on your stomach. The weather's hot, and you need to be careful with your back."

She pulled on his arm until he shifted, then sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, unwrapping her popsicle. Wen Nuan had strong teeth—she bit into it without a hint of hesitation. Han Qian, now on his side, looked at her and spoke softly. "If the people at the office could see their icy goddess of a vice president, Wen Nuan, at home snacking like this, they'd be devastated."

Wen Nuan curled her lip in disdain. "Let them be. What's it to me? Have you heard of Umaru-chan, Han Qian?"

"I have. If you could shrink down, you'd be just like her. But Umaru-chan had a brother."

"And I've got a certain someone who owes me money," she retorted.

"Get out," Han Qian said. "I'm done talking to you."

"Mmm… this is delicious," Wen Nuan said with exaggerated pleasure.

She was deliberately provoking him, and it worked—Han Qian suddenly sat up, leaning forward to trap her against the headboard. The abrupt movement left Wen Nuan stunned, her mind going blank for five seconds. When she came to, her expression was murderous—her eyes practically shooting flames.

The popsicle was gone. Han Qian had snatched it away in a single bite.

Wen Nuan seethed, biting down hard on her back teeth. "Han Qian," she said, her voice low and furious, "you should count yourself lucky you're hurt right now. Otherwise, I'd kill you. You owe me a popsicle."

Han Qian released her and sat cross-legged opposite her, chewing on the stolen popsicle with smug satisfaction. But halfway through, he winced and stopped speaking entirely—his brain frozen from eating too fast.

"Serves you right!" Wen Nuan snapped. She slid off the bed, deciding it was wiser not to eat popsicles in front of him again.

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The next morning, the four of them headed to the hospital—Wen Nuan drove, and Han Qian sat in the passenger seat.

At the hospital, Han Qian met Wen Nuan's so-called "Director Wang." He looked no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with golden hair and a hint of Western features—a half-breed, maybe. He greeted Wen Nuan warmly, opening his arms for a hug. Han Qian's eyes narrowed; he stepped forward and intercepted him, frowning.

He knew a bit about foreign etiquette, but with his parents there, this was too much. Director Wang paused, blinking in surprise before speaking in slightly stilted Chinese. "Nuan, this gentleman is…?"

Wen Nuan hesitated, then said softly, "This is… my husband, Han Qian. Director Wang, from Australia."

As she spoke, she slipped her hand around Han Qian's arm. He felt awkward and tried to pull away, but she pinched him hard. Director Wang smiled at Wen Nuan, then shot Han Qian a coquettish wink before leading his parents away for their checkups.

Han Qian shivered at that look. Wen Nuan tugged him into Director Wang's office. "Why didn't you go with Mom?" he asked, frowning.

Wen Nuan pinched his neck and hissed, "What, you think I didn't have enough fighting with Yan Qingqing? You want me to fight Wang Nan too? You'd better behave."

Han Qian's eyes widened. He rose and walked toward the door. "Forget it. I'll just leave—I'm not dying, anyway. Do you know what I hate most?"

Wen Nuan pulled him back in, flustered. "Oh, come on! What are you afraid of? Wang Nan's medical skills are excellent—he's trained in traditional Chinese medicine. Come back here."

"I'm not going back," Han Qian said. "I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" she demanded.

"I'm scared he'll… take advantage of me," Han Qian said.

"Han Qian!" Wen Nuan snapped.

"Yelling won't change my mind."

Just as their bickering reached its peak, Wang Nan returned. Seeing them locked in this absurd tug-of-war, he looked puzzled but only smiled politely as he returned to his desk. He looked at Han Qian again and said calmly, "Mr. Han, I hear the injury is on your back. Please remove your shirt."

Han Qian, already wary of the man's supposed preferences, folded his arms and took a step back. "It's fine, really—it doesn't hurt anymore. See? I can jump around just fine—oh, shit—"

Pain shot through his back, making him curse as cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Wen Nuan covered her face in embarrassment and kicked him lightly. "Husband," she said in a sickly sweet tone, "be good."

The word "husband" nearly scared Han Qian to death. He looked at Wen Nuan in horror—her using that word was far more terrifying than any look Wang Nan could give. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. This was like going to the executioner's block.

But as he began to unbutton his shirt, Wang Nan's expression suddenly changed. He accused Han Qian of insulting him, of lacking faith in a healer's integrity. Han Qian's patience snapped—he buttoned his shirt again and turned to leave. Wen Nuan reached for his arm, but he shook her off and stormed out of the office.

Wen Nuan sighed and gave Wang Nan an apologetic look before running after Han Qian.

Half an hour later, Han Qian lay face-down on a hospital bed as Wang Nan examined the deep bruising across his back.

"It was a blunt instrument, wasn't it?" Wang Nan asked, frowning. "Whoever did it must have been a large man—around two hundred and twenty pounds, I'd guess. Only one blow?"

"Yes," Han Qian muttered.

"It may have cracked a bone. I'll prescribe an herbal poultice for now. If it doesn't help, I recommend finding another physician."

"No need. I'll find someone else right away," Han Qian said curtly.

The mention of pounds instead of jin, the constant coldness—Han Qian had had enough. As he got dressed, Wang Nan twirled a pen between his fingers and gave him another tight smile.

"Do you still want the medicine, Mr. Han?" he asked.

"No," Han Qian said flatly. "And don't bother—I'll pay for whatever's been done so far."

"That's not necessary," Wang Nan said with a smile. "Nuan and I are friends."

"But you and I aren't," Han Qian replied coldly.