Watching the anger on her small face, he was startled for a mont, "What happened? Who was on the phone?"
"Those two holes on your nose—are they just for breathing? Can’t you check yourself?"
Wen Qiao threw down those words and stord into the bedroom, then forcefully slamd the bedroom door so hard that even the living room windows trembled.
Fu Jinghen: "?"
Was that his call she just took?
How could she still be this angry?
Fu Jinghen put down the fruit plate in his hand, picked up the cellphone from the sofa, and decided to check who had upset his darling to this extent.
The mont he saw the call log, Fu Jinghen’s brows furrowed deeply.
Thinking of Wen Qiao’s uncontrollable anger, Fu Jinghen could guess that Yang Lan must have said so unpleasant things.
He threw down the phone, strode toward the bedroom, and tried the doorknob, half expecting to be denied entry, only to find that Wen Qiao had not locked the door.
Fu Jinghen was slightly surprised, opened the door, and entered; seeing the "Mongolian yurt" ford under the quilt on the bed, the anxiety in his brow eased a bit.
He walked over to Wen Qiao’s side, sat beside the bed, and patted the "Mongolian yurt," "Co out, don’t suffocate yourself."
He would have been better off not saying anything, for with his words, the "Mongolian yurt" bulged up a bit, making itself even snugger.
It even changed positions, shifting a bit to the side.
Watching Wen Qiao’s childish behavior, Fu Jinghen couldn’t help but laugh and cry; he raised his hand to tug at the quilt covering Wen Qiao, "Co out and vent your anger on , don’t just stew under the quilt."
"I don’t want to," Wen Qiao’s voice was muffled, she gripped the quilt, and with a strong pull, snatched it back from Fu Jinghen and shifted a bit more, "You go out."
"Then I don’t want to either."
Seeing that soft tactics were futile, Fu Jinghen resorted to a harder approach. He wedged his hand into the tightly pressed seam of the quilt, trying to lift the "Mongolian yurt" that Wen Qiao had ford.
No sooner had his hand slipped in than it was harshly slapped.
"What are you doing, trying to act indecent again?" Wen Qiao pushed his hand away, "Get your hand out."
Fu Jinghen grabbed her wrist by feeling, "You co out, and I’ll retract my hand, otherwise I can’t guarantee I won’t touch sothing."
Wen Qiao was furious, unable to believe soone could be so shaless.
She was still angry, not wanting any physical contact with Fu Jinghen, and pried his fingers off her wrist one by one, shifting significantly to the side.
Originally in the middle of the bed, her continuous shifts to avoid Fu Jinghen—while still under the quilt and unaware of her position on the bed—led to a situation Fu Jinghen hadn’t predicted in ti to warn her; Wen Qiao rolled off the bed, blanket and all.
A dull "thud" sounded as Fu Jinghen imdiately got up from the bed, went around to the other side, squatted down, and fished Wen Qiao out of the quilt.
"Where did you hit? Does it hurt?"
"What do you think?" Because her hair was disheveled from the blanket, she casually cleared the hair obstructing her vision and glared at Fu Jinghen, "Try falling from the bed yourself and see if it hurts."
Actually, it didn’t feel like much; the bedside was carpeted, and Wen Qiao was wrapped in a quilt, only kicking the wardrobe with her heel as she rolled down, but she just didn’t want to speak nicely to Fu Jinghen.
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