"Stomach ache," Qinghe's mind suddenly flashed with something, and she paused slightly. She seemed to have mentioned offhandedly earlier that she had a stomach ache, didn't she? He had already had his milk this morning, and the servants had warmed it up for him; of course, he wouldn't do it himself, warming it up to drink.
So, that meant...
Qinghe looked up at his aggrieved expression and the hurt in his little eyes, and instantly she understood. At this point, picking up the milk and drinking it down, then saying a couple of complimentary words, would certainly be the best solution, but Qinghe's furrowed brows wouldn't smooth out, because she hated the taste more than anything.
Seeing that she was staring fixedly at the milk, but refused to drink it, Weisheng Yueren's gaze grew even more pitiful. He looked at her with such a woeful expression, like a little dog that had been abandoned, and finally, seeing her remain unmoved, he angrily turned his head and left.
