The next morning, Wen Qiao was woken up by an itch on her face.
She blinked her eyes open, and Fu Jinghen's cheerful face came into view.
"Are you sick or something?" Wen Qiao smacked her hand onto his face, pushing him back: "Get lost, seeing you is annoying."
The little girl had quite the strength when she got angry. Fu Jinghen didn't meet her force with force; instead, he kissed her palm.
Wen Qiao immediately withdrew her hand, frowned at Fu Jinghen, and wiped her hand on his clothes with disdain: "What are you doing, your slobber's all over my hand."
"You disdain me that much?"
"Yeah." Wen Qiao said deliberately, "I'm sick of you."
"Is that so?" Fu Jinghen laughed and said, "Then how do you explain that little girl who wouldn't let go of me in the bathroom yesterday—"
With a crisp "smack," Wen Qiao once again covered Fu Jinghen's mouth.
