"Idiot, idiot," I said with my eyes wet and glistening.
He suddenly sealed my lips with his, our tongues entangling, nearly leaving me breathless. I pushed him away, "Are you trying to infect me?"
"I've only got a fever; it's not contagious yet."
With our foreheads together, I felt his warm breath on me.
"No one to take care of me, sis," he said.
I touched his face: "Let's go back home."
"I really do have a fever, my eyes are sore," he complained.
My fingertips were damp.
We returned to our little cabin in the Zhonglu Building. Jiayang, clad in his cotton pajamas, half-reclined on the bed, eating the brown sugar water and stewed egg I had cooked for him.
"Does it taste good?"
"Yeah. It's delicious," he answered, but then suddenly looked up, "Something doesn't seem right."
"What's wrong?"
I looked at him. His fever made his complexion even more rosily endearing.
"Are you sure this is for someone with a fever?"
"Close enough."
"It's not for postpartum women?"
