Hearing this, Sang Qiao's brows furrowed deeper, knowing that Fu Xing was not one to stay put, but she hadn't expected him to be this unsettled.
Her gaze swept over Meng Jiahe's angry face and finally settled on her swollen cheek.
"Got hit?"
"Yeah, it pisses me off to death!" Meng Jiahe then remembered her swollen cheek; she really felt wronged to death.
"First, go treat your wound, I'll keep watch here for you," Sang Qiao couldn't help but reach out to rub her head, trying to soothe her.
"Remember to call me if Fu Xing comes." Meng Jiahe nodded, and as she was leaving, she didn't forget to leave these words behind—she couldn't just take a hit for nothing!
"Okay," Sang Qiao responded.
Meng Jiahe walked down to the medical room, where she saw Sang Qingran sitting behind an office chair, his slender hand holding a pen, the black and white striking her vision.
That outstanding face was, as always, handsome; she instinctively turned to leave.
