Chapter 177: Her Hand Moved
Qinghe noticed Zeyu standing in the doorway but didn’t call attention to him.
Hanchuan was still bent over Zhiyi’s hand, speaking too quietly for the words to carry beyond the bed, and neither of them seemed willing to interrupt.
The cloth in Qinghe’s hands had gone cold. He wrung it out above the basin and folded it beside the clean towels before turning toward Zeyu.
"Would you bring the food in here?" Qinghe asked gently. "Shichen was making something."
Zeyu nodded and disappeared down the corridor, grateful enough for the task that Qinghe regretted not giving him one sooner.
They had all spent hours waiting for something terrible to happen. Now that the soldiers had left, nobody seemed certain which ordinary things they were allowed to resume.
Hanchuan lifted his head when Qinghe approached the bed. His eyes went immediately to the monitor, searching its familiar readings for whatever had brought the doctor closer.
"I’m checking her again," Qinghe explained, resting a hand on the bed rail. "You can stay where you are."
Hanchuan moved his chair back anyway. The legs caught briefly against the floor, and he corrected them with a sharp tug that made Qinghe glance at him.
His friend looked exhausted beneath the steady lights. The composure he had carried through the confrontation was becoming harder to maintain now that nobody stood outside demanding something from him.
Qinghe completed his examination while Hanchuan watched every movement. Zhiyi remained quiet beneath his hands, her dark hair spread across the pillow.
He adjusted the blanket carefully around her injured ankle before returning to the counter to record his observations.
"Nothing has worsened," Qinghe told Hanchuan before he could ask.
"She should be awake," Hanchuan replied. His voice was flat with the effort of keeping something else out of it.
Qinghe set down his pen. He had answered variations of that question throughout her treatment, but knowing the answer hadn’t made it easier for Hanchuan to live with.
"I want that too," Qinghe replied. "I can’t give you a time."
Hanchuan looked back at Zhiyi. His fingers rested against the edge of the mattress, close to her hand without touching it, and Qinghe wondered whether he was afraid of disturbing her or of feeling no response again.
Zeyu returned carrying a tray. The smell of rice and warm meat entered the room ahead of him, making Qinghe suddenly aware of how long it had been since he ate.
"Shichen said to bring these first," Zeyu explained, placing two bowls on the cleared end of the counter. "He’s taking something to Jingwei."
Qinghe thanked him and handed Hanchuan a bowl. His friend accepted it without looking away from the bed, then rested it on his knee as though that completed what had been asked of him.
"Eat while it’s warm," Qinghe instructed. He pulled a chair beside the counter and picked up his own bowl, making the request something they could do together.
Zeyu lingered near the door until Hanchuan finally reached for his chopsticks. Only then did he leave, his footsteps retreating toward the main room.
For several minutes, the small sounds of eating joined the ventilation and the medical equipment.
Qinghe found himself listening to them with an attention he usually reserved for changes in a patient’s breathing. He hadn’t realized how much he needed evidence that the men outside this room were still capable of feeding one another.
Halfway through his meal, Hanchuan stopped with his chopsticks above the bowl. A faint tremor moved through his fingers before he lowered his hand.
Qinghe watched him set the food aside.
"Were you injured?" Qinghe asked.
"No," Hanchuan replied. He flexed his fingers once, then placed his hand flat against his thigh. "It will pass."
Qinghe believed him, although it did little to ease the pressure beneath his own ribs. During the shooting, he had remained beside Zhiyi while the others faced the entrance. He had heard the gunfire through the tablet and waited to learn whether one of his friends would be carried back.
There had been relief when nobody was.
The guilt had arrived almost immediately afterward.
"I asked whether you had to shoot him," Qinghe murmured, looking at the bowl between his hands. "Before you went back to speak to Zhao."
Hanchuan turned toward him, but Qinghe continued before his friend could answer the question again.
"I’m not asking you to explain it tonight," Qinghe added. "I need you to understand that being frightened by what happened doesn’t mean I wanted you to let them take her."
Hanchuan studied him for several seconds. When he finally looked away, some of the tension around his mouth had eased.
"I know," Hanchuan replied.
Qinghe wasn’t certain he had known before hearing it, but he allowed the answer to stand. He finished his food, collected the bowls, and carried them to the doorway, where Shichen met him on his way down the corridor.
"The road is still clear," Shichen informed him quietly. He took the tray before Qinghe could ask. "Jingwei wants someone to relieve him later. I’ll take the first turn."
Qinghe nodded, grateful that they were beginning to arrange the night without requiring Hanchuan to decide every part of it.
When he returned to the bed, his friend had leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed, although his hand remained wrapped around Zhiyi’s.
Qinghe lowered the light above the counter and resumed his notes.
The scrape of Hanchuan’s chair made him turn before he had finished the first line. Hanchuan was leaning forward again, watching Zhiyi with an intensity that brought Qinghe immediately to his feet.
"Her hand moved," Hanchuan reported. He looked toward Qinghe without releasing it. "I wasn’t moving mine."
Qinghe approached the opposite side of the bed, keeping his voice calm as he spoke her name. Zhiyi’s brow tightened, and her eyelids shifted before slowly opening beneath the softened light.
Hanchuan began to lean closer, but stopped when Qinghe raised a hand. For several seconds, Zhiyi looked toward the ceiling without appearing to recognize it.
Then Hanchuan spoke her name.
Her gaze moved toward his voice and settled on his face.
Qinghe watched Hanchuan go completely still as her fingers tightened around his, holding on after he had spent so long being the only one who did.