Huo Jingyuan lowered his eyes slightly. The mottled shadows of trees outside the wall cast a dappled pattern into the pavilion. He reached out and gently ruffled her hair, his gaze carrying a deep, lingering smile.
“It’s not enough.”
The master tailor he had in mind came from a century-old family of craftsmen. Any garment personally made by him would cost at least a hundred yuan or more.
Wen Ci pouted.
If it was that expensive, then forget it.
The military hospital’s allocated budget was already limited, and they needed two sets of water sleeve costumes. Hiring a master tailor would simply be impractical—the money needed to be spent where it mattered most.
“Then never mind, I’ll just go to Haishi with Dr. Yu.”
“When are you going? I’ll take you there.”
Wen Ci waved her hand in refusal. “Dr. Yu and I haven’t decided on a date yet. You don’t need to take us. We’ll just take the bus when the time comes.”
The two of them sat in the courtyard until six o’clock. Huo Jingyuan then stood up to prepare dinner, knowing it would only take a few minutes.
After he finished cooking, Wen Ci took bowls from the kitchen and served the rice.
Sitting across from Huo Jingyuan, she held a pair of wooden chopsticks in her hands, her tone filled with eager anticipation.
“Let me see what Chef Huo has made today.”
Three dishes and a soup.
Huo Jingyuan slowly sat down, glancing at Wen Ci from the corner of his eye. He needed to confess something to her calmly and take the initiative to admit his mistake.
The reason was simple—he had lied.
That night, when they had been intimate, Wen Ci had touched the scar on his chest. The wound wasn’t too visible to the naked eye, but when their skin met, there was no hiding it.
At the time, he hadn’t thought much about it and had casually brushed it off, saying, “It’s nothing, just an old battlefield injury.”
“What is it?”
Wen Ci’s intuition had always been sharp. Sensing that Huo Jingyuan was secretly observing her, she asked directly, “If you have something to say, just say it. Don’t beat around the bush.”
“For now, stay home after work.”
“Hm?”
Wen Ci frowned slightly. There was something off about the tone of his voice. Setting her chopsticks down, she fixed her gaze on him.
“Can you tell me why?”
Huo Jingyuan hesitated for a moment, then gave her a condensed version of the story. Halfway through, he noticed that Wen Ci hadn’t taken a single bite.
He fell silent, looking at her.
“Why did you stop?”
Huo Jingyuan smiled faintly. “If you don’t eat soon, the food’s going to get cold.”
Wen Ci: “…”
She had been so engrossed in listening that she had almost forgotten.
When he mentioned the moment he had faced the knife, Wen Ci’s eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of cold fury flashing through them. It only lasted for a second before she quickly suppressed her emotions.
“Huo Jingyuan, are you an idiot? Why didn’t you dodge? That was your chest—if a knife pierces there, it’s the area with the highest fatality rate.”
Her tone was filled with anger, disbelief, and frustration.
Huo Jingyuan smiled faintly.
“Don’t smile,” Wen Ci said seriously.
Huo Jingyuan explained, “Brother Qin’s wife couldn’t accept his death. She needed to vent the emotions bottled up inside her. She wouldn’t have actually taken my life.”
In the early years, when the situation was still unstable, the Northwest had no proper hospitals—only makeshift tents. There weren’t even enough doctors, let alone nurses. The soldiers’ wives often took on the role of makeshift nurses.
They bandaged wounds, treated the sick, and saved lives.
Although they had never received formal medical training, their experience in real-life situations made them incredibly skilled in understanding injuries. Even if a knife struck the chest, as long as it didn’t pierce the heart or sever a major blood vessel, survival was possible.
And just as he had predicted—he had survived.
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