The game hadn't ended. The referee's whistle blew again, reminding Jiang Cheng he had to return to the court. His jaw tightened, but after one last look at An Ran, he turned away, leaving her shielded only by the whispers and stares of the crowd.
And then, without warning, her bottle was snatched from her hand.
An Ran blinked up just as the water splattered onto the polished floor with a sharp splash.
Qin Mo stood there, expression flat, one hand still dripping. He didn't even acknowledge the stares around them. With the same casual indifference, he reached for her wrist.
"Come."
His grip was firm but not painful, his long fingers wrapping around her smaller hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Without a backward glance, he walked toward the exit of the gymnasium, pulling her along.
An Ran stumbled at first, startled, but… she didn't resist. Somehow, her legs followed.
The chatter of the crowd faded as they slipped into the empty hallway beyond, where the noise was muffled into a distant roar. He didn't stop until they reached a corner near the infirmary, where the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.
Only then did he let go of her wrist.
For a moment, neither spoke. Qin Mo's face was angled down, half-shadowed, his chest rising and falling slowly as if keeping something tightly locked inside.
And then, as though he couldn't stop himself, his gaze dragged to her cheek.
The red mark burned bright against her pale skin. Swollen, raw, too glaring against her quiet face.
His teeth clenched. His jaw worked. Ugly. Who gave her the right to ruin this face?
Before An Ran could step back, he reached up and plucked her glasses off. The world blurred instantly, leaving her blinking at his outline. He dropped them carelessly on the chair nearby, his eyes never leaving her.
Her breath caught. "Qin Mo…?"
But he didn't answer. His gaze flicked instead to the first aid box on the counter. He walked toward it, opened it, and stared at the neatly arranged supplies, bandages, cotton, antiseptic, ointment.
His long fingers hovered, uncertain.
Seconds ticked by.
An Ran tilted her head. "…You don't know how to use them?"
Silence.
His back was to her, but she could see the way his shoulders stiffened.
And then, without turning, he spoke, voice low and clipped.
"…No."
The single word was almost inaudible, swallowed by the hum of the lights. But it was enough. Enough for her to realize that the boy who seemed untouchable, untamed, was standing there helpless before something so small.
Her heart squeezed unexpectedly.
She stepped closer, her voice soft. "It's alright. I can… do it myself."
But when she reached for the box, his hand shot out, catching hers. His palm was warm, trembling just slightly.
"No." His voice dropped to a growl. "I'll do it."
He turned his head, finally letting her see his expression. His dark eyes were stormy, a dangerous mixture of anger and frustration, but underneath, just barely, was something fragile. Something like fear.
As if he was terrified of breaking her even more.
For a long second, neither of them moved. Then, without loosening his grip on her hand, Qin Mo reached again for the box, dragging it closer.
He fumbled with the antiseptic bottle, twisting the cap too hard, almost spilling it before catching himself. His brows drew together in frustration, but still, he pressed on.
Finally, he soaked a piece of cotton and turned toward her.
"Sit." His voice was low, unyielding.
An Ran obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of the chair. Her heart hammered strangely as he stepped closer, standing so near she could catch the faint scent of laundry soap clinging to his hoodie.
He lifted his hand, hesitant at first, then cupped her chin, tilting her face toward the light.
The touch stunned her.
His fingers were long and cool, but the moment they brushed her skin, his movements changed completely. Gone was the boy who had dragged her out with such carelessness. His touch now was featherlight, almost reverent, as though the slightest pressure might shatter her.
The soaked cotton pressed against her cheek. Clumsy, yes, his hand trembled faintly, and he dabbed too slowly, too cautiously, but gentle.
So gentle it made her chest tighten.
An Ran blinked up at him, startled at the contrast between his expression, tight-lipped, jaw hard, eyes narrowed in concentration, and the tenderness of his hand.
A bubble of laughter escaped her before she could stop it.
Qin Mo froze.
Her giggle rang softly in the empty hallway, light and almost musical.
His gaze flicked down, confused, his fingers still holding her chin. "What?" His voice was hoarse, rougher than usual.
"You…" She covered her mouth, shaking her head, cheeks pink. "You look so serious. Like you're preparing for an exam. But your hand... " she couldn't help the smile... "it's so… careful. Too careful. It tickles."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched.
Then something shifted in his expression. His lips pressed tighter, as though suppressing something, anger? embarrassment?, but the faintest flush crept up his ears.
He didn't answer. Just went back to dabbing her cheek, slower this time, his gaze fixed firmly on the wound.
But An Ran noticed how his grip had changed, firmer, steadier, as though her laugh had broken some invisible wall.
And in the quiet, with only the faint echo of the game outside, she realized, this was the first time anyone had ever touched her like this.
Gently. Clumsily. But with care.