By the time Murong Qiufeng fully woke, the sun had already risen and set three times. His fever had broken, but he still felt groggy and disoriented. Occasionally he opened his eyes, only to drift back to sleep moments later.
Shangguan Ye grew more and more restless. Everyone in the clinic was on edge, afraid to upset him. After all, hadn’t they just seen him casually break a solid wooden post with a single punch? Truly a storm waiting to be unleashed.
“Qiufeng, you’re awake! How do you feel? Any pain anywhere?” Seeing him conscious, Shangguan Ye hurried over, gripping his shoulders with anxious intensity. He stared into Murong Qiufeng’s eyes, afraid he would close them again and sink into another long sleep. Even though the doctor said it was exhaustion, Shangguan Ye couldn’t relax until he saw him fully recovered.
Murong Qiufeng frowned, squinting against the light. He leaned back, ears guiding him to recognize Shangguan Ye’s presence. His mind was foggy; he couldn’t recall what had happened. A hoarse, low groan escaped him. “Ye…? What happened to me?”
Hearing that raspy voice, Shangguan Ye’s heart lifted. He said gently, “Don’t speak yet. Let me get you some water.” He hurried to the table, poured a cup, and carefully supported Murong Qiufeng against his chest, cradling him as he brought the warm water to his lips. “Here, sip some water first.”
Murong Qiufeng felt weak, his body aching in every joint. His throat burned, dry and raw, and he gagged slightly as his lips touched the water. He sipped slowly, then turned his head slightly.
Shangguan Ye watched nervously. “What’s wrong?”
Murong Qiufeng leaned against his chest, not daring to move. He shook his head faintly, coughing hoarsely. “Throat… hurts.”
There was a soft, almost childlike tinge in his tone—a mixture of grievance and vulnerability. They say the mind is most fragile when sick, and now he seemed to crave the care of someone who would pamper him, like a child.
But Shangguan Ye had no time for indulgence.
“Throat hurts? Then don’t talk. Lie down; I’ll get the doctor.” He helped him lie back carefully, gently smoothing the blanket over him, and rushed out. In moments, he returned, practically dragging the middle-aged doctor into the room with light-footed speed.
“Careful, careful!” The doctor looked pale, his wrist nearly dislocated by Shangguan Ye’s grip. He quickly shook free as soon as he landed.
Shangguan Ye ignored him and strode to the bedside. Murong Qiufeng stirred at the commotion, opening his eyes. Shangguan Ye glared at the doctor. “Why haven’t you started? His throat hurts. What’s going on? Did something go wrong with your medicine?” His eyes narrowed, sharp and commanding.
Though slightly haggard and unshaven, Shangguan Ye’s gaze was like a sword. A mere nod from him could mean death.
The doctor, accustomed to this kind of arrogance, ignored it. He checked Murong Qiufeng’s pulse. “The cold has been mostly cleared. He’s just weak and needs rest for a few more days. As for the throat, with the fever and lack of use, it’s naturally dry and scratchy. Drink plenty of water. I’ll prepare some light, easy-to-swallow food. No rush; he shouldn’t be traveling until fully recovered.”
The doctor shot Shangguan Ye a subtle glance, understanding the young master’s condition was more than just a cold. He kept silent, respecting privacy, though he worried quietly. He sighed—other people’s matters were not his concern; his job was just to heal.
Shangguan Ye exhaled, relieved. He brushed aside the loose strands of hair from Murong Qiufeng’s forehead. “Any other pain anywhere?”
Murong Qiufeng pressed his lips together and shook his head. Over the short rest, he had recalled fragments of what happened, but he didn’t want to reveal how sore he was. The current pain was worse than last time.
The doctor left after giving a few instructions, leaving the two alone. Shangguan Ye brought the water back and helped Murong Qiufeng sip a few more mouthfuls.
“There, all done.” Murong Qiufeng grimaced, tilting his head; swallowing was like needles pricking his throat.
Shangguan Ye gently wiped the water from his lips, heart aching at his discomfort. He offered the cup again. “A few more sips. Be good… it’ll stop hurting soon.”
His tender coaxing made Murong Qiufeng stubborn, turning away and trying to sit up.
Shangguan Ye sighed, placing the cup aside and supporting him. “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”
Murong Qiufeng gave him a sharp look but didn’t speak. He reached to lift the blanket.
“Hey!” Shangguan Ye quickly held his hand. “You can’t get out of bed yet. You just shook off the cold. Tell me what you need—I’ll help.” He couldn’t help but smile at this familiar stubborn streak, recalling how he had acted in their first night together.
“I need to… pee.” Murong Qiufeng gritted his teeth, too sore and achy to move comfortably. His back burned like fire.
Shangguan Ye froze, then let out a quiet chuckle. “Oh… you don’t have to get up. There’s a chamber pot. Here, I’ll help.” He reached under the bed for a bright green ceramic pot and began lifting the blanket to undo his pants.
Murong Qiufeng flushed, a tinge of red in his pale face. “No! I can do it myself. Go out.”
Shangguan Ye smirked devilishly, leaning close and blowing warm air near his ear. “Heh… we’re married now. You’re the only one I haven’t seen in this state. Don’t be shy. Let me help you—it’s a rare chance, only you, remember to cherish it.” With that, he gently helped him sit and pulled down his pants.
Murong Qiufeng nearly fainted from anger, coughing and gasping.
“Okay, okay. Do it yourself—I won’t watch. Take it slow. I’ll get some food ready and help you change clothes afterward.” Seeing his flushed face, Shangguan Ye stopped, helped him sit back against the headboard, and left the room.
