Xiao Yuchuan wasn't too insistent, pulled a stool over to the bed, and placed the bowls of medicine and porridge onto the desk.
Although Xiao Qinghe had injured one wrist, his other hand was unharmed, and despite being weak, he had no problem holding a spoon with one hand to take his medicine.
He drank the medicine very slowly.
Xiao Yuchuan didn't urge him, but stood coldly to the side, his expression icy.
An hour passed before he finished both the medicine and the porridge.
Yuchuan looked at Qinghe's wrist injury, now seeping blood, "Does it not hurt?"
He shook his head, "I can't feel the pain, perhaps because the pain in my heart far exceeds the pain from the wound on my wrist."
