Chenxing rarely saw Nan Baihao also looking dazed and nervous, and couldn't help but laugh: "If he's not your son, whose son could he be?"
Those few men, oh, how they all make such a serious yet silly expression when facing a little baby.
Nan Baihao's heart was almost jumping out, his gaze finally resting on his son's face, but he frowned: "Why is he so small?"
Subconsciously, the same question that troubled Gu Shaocheng appeared in his mind: Can he survive?
"He's a premature baby."
Releasing Huanhuan, Nan Baihao extended his arms, still smelling of gunpowder, and his hands trembled violently before he finally held the baby. Chenxing reminded from the side, "Hold him sideways, yes, just like that."
It was an experience that could not be described in words; the little one in his arms was his son, his and Huanhuan's flesh and blood. Nan Baihao's eyes suddenly moistened.
