Ye Shen put down his chopsticks, deeply concerned. "Then where should the acupuncture be done? Still on the forehead?"
A few days ago, when his brother's old ailment had relapsed, Si Mingjing had inserted a few needles into his brother's forehead, and in the blink of an eye, he was well again. Ye Shen did not understand traditional Chinese medicine but found it miraculous.
Si Mingjing's brows furrowed even deeper. Two words spilled out reluctantly from between her lips. "Chest."
Mo Yinhe's gaze, fervent yet gentle, remained constantly on Si Mingjing. He saw her avoiding his eyes as if he were the plague god himself, and his heart filled with gloom. Then, suddenly, he heard those two words.
Mo Yinhe's lips curled slightly.
What was clearly a pleasant smile was interpreted by Ye Shen as a dagger hidden in a smile.
Ye Shen's alarm bells rang loudly, and he immediately interjected, "Miss Si, would there be a problem with choosing a different location for the acupuncture?"
