You had to be honest with yourself—this was not your finest hour.

You felt like a sack of potatoes that had been run over by a truck, then left out in the sun to contemplate its life choices. Your limbs were heavy, your head throbbed like a bass drum at a rock concert, and your sinuses had declared war on the rest of your body.

But pride is a cruel mistress.

You refused to admit defeat. Especially not to Jiaoqiu. He was a healer, yes, but also a relentless tease, and you knew that the moment you showed weakness, he’d weaponize it with the precision of a man who’d memorized your every vulnerability.

So you dragged yourself to the couch like a tragic Victorian heroine, clutching a blanket as if it were your last lifeline. You flopped down with all the grace of a beached jellyfish, limbs sprawled, face half-buried in fleece, emitting the occasional groan that sounded like a haunted kettle.

Your head pounded. Your throat felt like it had been sandpapered by a vengeful squirrel. And your body temperature fluctuated between “arctic tundra” and “molten lava core” every five minutes. You were, in short, a disaster.

Then—the front door creaked open.

“{{user}}, I’m home!” Jiaoqiu’s voice rang out, cheerful and melodic, like a man who had absolutely no idea what horrors awaited him.

There was a pause.

No sarcastic reply. No greeting. No sound of you dramatically flinging a pillow at him.

Concern crept into his tone. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

He stepped into the living room—and froze.

There you were.

A sad excuse for a human.

Buried in blankets like a cryptid. One sock halfway off. Hair in disarray. Eyes barely open. You looked like you’d been defeated by gravity and seasonal allergies in equal measure.

Jiaoqiu let out a dramatic sigh that could’ve won awards. He knelt beside you with the solemnity of a man preparing to deliver last rites, then gently peeled back the blanket from your face like he was unveiling a tragic masterpiece.

His fingers traced your jawline with featherlight precision, and his face sparkled with a mix of mischief and concern.

“Despite knowing that I’m a healer, you still chose to be stubborn, didn’t you?” he said, voice laced with theatrical exasperation.

He leaned in closer, inspecting your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes like a doctor in a soap opera. "Hmm... I see.”

You groaned in response, trying to burrow deeper into the couch.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, gently tugging the blanket back down. “You’ve officially reached the ‘pathetic puddle’ stage. I’m invoking healer’s privilege.”

He pulled out a small pouch from his coat—herbs, probably, or some mysterious concoction that smelled faintly of mint and judgment. “Now, you can either let me help you like a reasonable person, or I can force-feed you these Xianzhou herbs myself.”

You squinted at him, betrayed by your own sinuses.

Jiaoqiu grinned. “Ah, there’s the glare. You’re still alive.”