MW CH16

Chapter 16: Want Some Candy?

I parked in a random spot and dashed to the emergency hall. Didn’t take long to find Mochuan in the surgical wing.

In the treatment room, the bandage from hours ago was off again. A nurse deftly flushed the gash on his arm with disinfectants. The guy who’d been stone-faced when hurt now winced faintly.

“Sis, he got cut by a rusty blade—where’s the tetanus shot?” I asked her.

“Once it’s stitched, the doc’ll prescribe it. Take the slip to the counter, grab the meds, then head to the injection room,” she said. Maybe curious about Mochuan’s getup, and seeing me with him—chatty—she probed, “You minorities?”

“Not me, him.” I pointed at Mochuan.

“You don’t look it. Where you from? How old?” Nurse Wang—forties, round face, friendly—had my hometown, age, and job out of me in three sentences.

“You’ve got that Haicheng vibe—trendy, fair-skinned. A catch like you—got a girlfriend?”

I’d fielded this since adulthood—handled it like a pro.

Say no, she’d pitch her niece’s number. Say I like men, she’d lament, then preach yin-yang harmony as life’s true way.

So, to skip the hassle, I usually went with…

“Yeah,” I grinned. “I’m married.”

The arm mid-air twitched hard. Mochuan turned, eyes incredulous. I met his gaze, daring him—so I lied, what you gonna do?

“Of course, good guys marry young,” Nurse Wang sighed, then pivoted to Mochuan, beaming. “Handsome, you hitched?”

He froze—didn’t expect the spotlight so soon. After a beat, he mumbled, “I keep the Eight Precepts—I can’t marry.”

Eight Precepts: no killing, stealing, sex, lying, drinking, eating past time, using perfumes or dancing, or sleeping on grand beds. A layperson’s practice path.

I didn’t know how devout he was, but if he strictly held them—no lying—then his claim of no regrets returning to Cuoyansong… was true.

He wasn’t lying. Shit.

“Keep… what?” Nurse Wang blinked, lost.

“He says his clan only weds within the faith—folks like us don’t cut it,” I bullshitted, hands on Mochuan’s shoulders, switching gears. “Sis, where’s the doc?”

She swabbed his wound with a final cotton ball, tossed it, and stood. “Getting ready, probably. I’ll grab him—wait here.”

The room went quiet—just me and Mochuan. I glanced down, caught the washed-out wound, scalp tingling, and looked away fast.

“Cenglu can marry outsiders now,” he said, flexing his fingers, testing them as he inspected his arm.

I’d read online that looks are a genetic lottery—plain genes hitting stunning features is a miracle. Even then, beauty’s not a free pass—some have killer faces but rough voices or clumsy hands. Nature doesn’t overdo perfection.

I’d seen genetic jackpot winners in entertainment, fashion—me included—but none like Mochuan. No flaws yet.

His hand? Too thick, it’d be clunky; too thin, frail. Perfectly balanced—a different miracle.

“What if parents—like Chunna’s dad today—say no?” I multitasked, chatting while mentally cataloging his flaws.

He curled his fingers, clenched a fist, voice flat. “Old folks resist, but they don’t matter. Once they’re gone, it’ll happen.”

Legs? Height’s well above average—no flaw there.

Waist? Felt it today—belt hid abs, but “lean strength” fit.

Chest… I flicked my eyes down. For wound care, he’d shed the outer robe again, revealing a silk undershirt.

Snug, collar teasing his Adam’s apple, fastened with a knot, cut tracing broad shoulders into a V-shape. Teal jade beads pressed his chest; beiyun draped his spine. The holier it looked, the more it oozed forbidden allure…

I squeezed his shoulder unconsciously—did he still shoot arrows? Felt solid.

Then his left hand clapped over mine on his right shoulder.

“What’re you doing?” He tilted his head.

I stared at his hand on mine, didn’t pull back, grinned, and kneaded twice. “Your shoulder’s stiff—massaging it.”

He pried my hand off. “No need.”

I backed off, letting it drop. Just then, a bespectacled doctor entered, called Mochuan inside, and told “family” to wait out here.

“…Family?” I muttered, chewing the word, snickered, and headed for the hospital entrance.

At the shop across the street, I grabbed food—a bag of bread, two corns, two waters. At checkout, I spotted toffee rolls on a shelf, snagged one.

“Wait, add this.” I handed it to the clerk, paid via phone.

Everything else bagged, the toffee went in my pocket.

Back outside the treatment room, Mochuan wasn’t out. I ate a corn, drank half a water—he emerged, two slips in hand.

I offered the food bag. “Sit and eat.”

He glanced inside, unmoving. “It’s past mealtime.”

I paused, then got it—oh, no eating off-schedule.

“You eat, I pretend I didn’t see—done. Or do they gut-check you back home?” He still didn’t budge; I snapped, “Not hungry? Don’t eat.” I turned for the payment counter.

Besides the tetanus shot, the doc prescribed anti-inflammatories and painkillers. Fees paid, I hauled a bag of meds back—looked up, saw Mochuan on a hallway bench, eating bread.

Left hand with water, right peeling plastic off a roll, he ate—oblivious to stares—in a way that clashed with his vibe.

For a split second, I thought… him munching bread in a hospital corridor? I’d wronged him. Should’ve driven twenty kilos, kidnapped the city’s best ramen chef for a veggie bowl.

Then I snapped out of it—grossed out by that fleeting absurdity.

“Fresh stitches—doesn’t hurt?” No rush, I sat beside him, waiting.

He ate fine—his precepts weren’t ironclad. Broke the eating rule today; tomorrow… maybe more?

“Local anesthetic—no feeling.” He twirled his bandaged right hand like a demo.

The cut hugged his forearm near the wrist. Winter layers would hide it if he’s careful.

I didn’t ask why he’d keep it quiet—obvious. He’s Cenglu’s golden child. If devout followers knew a thirteen-year-old girl slashed him, bled him, Chunna’d either freak or drown in their spit.

She’d been through enough—no need.

Finishing two bread rolls and half a corn, he seemed full. He wiped each finger with a wet tissue from the bag, then stood.

I stayed seated, looking up.

He frowned, puzzled. “Not leaving?”

I pulled the toffee roll from my coat pocket—warm from my grip—and held it out. “Want some candy?”

It’d been in there a while, same temp as me. Toffee melts easy—maybe it had.

He froze, staring at it, but didn’t reach.

“…No thanks.” Three cold words, he turned, walked to the injection room—alone, no waiting.

My hand hung mid-air. Less annoyance, more predictable defeat.

Ha, asked for it—choked on it, huh?

I slapped my cheek lightly, stuffed the toffee back in my pocket, grabbed the bag, and followed.

Times change—old tricks don’t work. Only kids buy that candy stops pain. Adults just play tough, like it doesn’t hurt at all.