It's not a disguise! Absolutely not!
How could a comatose person, a patient with a high fever on the verge of collapse, fake such painful and desperate tears?
The immense pain and struggle contained in these tears was so heavy that it almost completely crushed this mortal body! This was definitely not something a program could simulate!
Mu Xinrong stared blankly at the trace of the tear sliding down. His heart seemed to be tightly grasped by an invisible hand. The pain made him arch his back instantly and he could hardly breathe.
All hatred, all anger, all cold defenses collapsed and were utterly defeated in the face of this tear of pain that came from the deepest part of the soul.
He reached out his hand tremblingly, and with a care that was almost devout, even though he himself was unaware of it, his fingertips gently brushed away the remaining moisture from the corners of Chao Youye's eyes. The skin his fingertips touched was hot and fragile.
"I'm here." He heard his own hoarse voice ring out, with a kind of clumsy comfort that even he felt unfamiliar with, "...Don't be afraid."
The moment these two words left his mouth, Mu Xinrong himself was stunned. It was as if something heavy, along with these two words, quietly slipped from his soul, which had been burdened with countless reincarnations.
He looked at Chao Youye's brows which were still furrowed in his coma, and it seemed as if they relaxed a little bit because of the whisper. A kind of calmness he had never experienced before, mixed with great fatigue and a hint of strange sadness, slowly and heavily permeated his limbs.
He no longer looked at the blurry snow-covered street scenes passing by outside the window. He just lowered his head and pulled the down jacket covering Chao Youye tighter, using his body temperature to fight the other's extremely high fever.
The other hand hesitated for a moment, and finally, with a resignation that seemed almost like surrender, gently covered the back of Chao Youye's cold hand, clumsily trying to convey a little insignificant warmth.
The car bumped along in the snow. The heater finally began to work, and the temperature in the small space slowly rose. A damp, complex smell mixed with dust, blood, and the clean scent of soap nuts on the boy's body filled the air.
Mu Xinrong maintained this posture, motionless, like a silent reef guarding a fragile treasure.
The fingertips of the cold hand under his palm curled slightly, as if unconsciously trying to grasp something.
Mu Xinrong's fingers stiffened for a moment, but instead of pulling away, he gripped those hot, weak fingers even tighter with an awkward firmness.
The wind and snow were kept outside the car windows.
Inside the carriage, there were only two scarred souls, on the edge of chaos of illness and high fever, on the ruins of countless reincarnations, truly approaching each other for the first time in the most fragile and clumsy way.
Chao Youye's hot breath brushed across Mu Xinrong's wrist, and the scorching temperature seemed to burn through some cold and heavy barriers.
Mu Xinrong looked down at the person resting his head on his legs, a face that was still handsome yet extremely fragile despite his illness. His violet eyelashes were soaked with tears, casting a fragile shadow in the dim light.
His fingers were covering the back of the other person's hand, and he felt the subtle, unconscious grip. A strange warmth, mixed with a sharp pain, suddenly rushed to his eyes.
He turned his face away in embarrassment and looked out the window at the world rapidly receding, blurred by the heavy snow.
The street lights cast dim halos in the thick snow, like distant and warm islands.
The red cross sign of the clinic gradually became clearer and larger in the field of vision, like a silent end point, but also like a new starting point full of unknowns.
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