Xiao Feng took the towel and pressed it against his face.
The moment the wound touched the water, he sucked in a sharp breath from the pain.
"Now you know it hurts?" Xu Anhao stood nearby. "Didn't feel it when you were fighting?"
Xiao Feng didn't say anything. He just held the towel and wiped slowly.
Blood seeped into the towel, patches of red spreading across it.
As he wiped, his hand suddenly slowed.
He looked down at the towel—clean, soft, folded neatly. It was clearly brand new.
Then he looked at the mud and blood on his hands and face, and he hesitated.
Xu Anhao noticed his hesitation and thought he was worried the towel had been used before.
"It's new," she said. "Use it without worry."
Xiao Feng opened his mouth.
He wanted to say, that's not what I meant.
He wanted to say, I'm afraid of getting your towel dirty.
But the words reached his lips and he swallowed them back.
He lowered his head and continued wiping.
Xu Anhao watched him. Watched him finish wiping his face, then the corner of his mouth, then his neck.
The towel was dirty now.
She poured out the water in the basin, scooped a fresh basin of cold water, and brought it out.
"Your arm."
Xiao Feng rolled up his sleeve.
The bruise looked even worse than before—purple tinged with blue, swollen high.
He rinsed the towel clean and pressed it against his arm.
The pain made him suck in another breath, but he didn't make a sound. He just held it there.
Xu Anhao leaned against the courtyard wall, watching him.
The sun slowly slanted westward, and shade crept across the yard. Jujube leaves rustled in the wind, and the old yellow dog lay under the tree, eyes half-closed, dozing.
After a moment of silence, a soft rustling sound came from behind her.
Xu Anhao turned to look. Xiao Mi was peeking out from behind her, half her little head visible, small hands clutching at her clothes, peering over timidly.
The little girl looked at Xiao Feng's face, bruised and swollen in patches, then at the bruise on his arm. Worry filled her small face.
"Xiao Feng-gege…" she said in a small voice. "Does it hurt?"
Xiao Feng was taken aback.
He looked down at the little thing, and the lines on his face suddenly softened.
"It doesn't hurt," he said, his voice even gentler than before.
But after a pause, he put on a stern face again.
"Wait—why are you calling me gege?"
Xiao Mi blinked, confused.
Xiao Feng looked at her seriously. "You should call me shushu."
Xu Anhao almost couldn't hold back her laughter.
Other people, when called uncle, would do anything to get kids to call them older brother instead. But him? Being called older brother wasn't enough—he insisted on being called uncle.
She held in her laugh, thinking that if Xiao Mi switched to calling him uncle, she'd have to tell Xiao Mi later too—don't call her xiaogu in private, call her xiaojiejie instead.
But she didn't say it out loud.
That's just how it was in the village—with family connections, the generational titles were already set in stone.
Xiao Mi probably really should call him uncle.
Xiao Mi tilted her little head, looking at Xiao Feng, then at Xu Anhao, as if trying to figure out why gege had suddenly become shushu.
But she couldn't work it out. She just nodded obediently.
"Oh… shushu."
Xiao Feng let out a satisfied "mm," the corner of his mouth twitching up before he quickly pressed it back down.
Xu Anhao finally couldn't hold it in and laughed out loud.
When Xiao Feng heard her laugh, the tips of his ears turned red again.
He lowered his head, pressing the towel against his arm, pretending he hadn't heard.
Xiao Mi, no longer shy, slipped out from behind Xu Anhao and shuffled up to Xiao Feng, staring at the bruise on his arm.
"Xiao… shushu, does it hurt here?"
Xiao Feng shook his head. "It doesn't hurt."
"What about here?" Xiao Mi pointed at the wound at the corner of his mouth.
"It doesn't hurt either."
"Then what about here?" The little girl pointed at the corner of his eye.
Xiao Feng was helpless. "None of them hurt."
Xiao Mi tilted her head, her face utterly serious. "But it looks like it really hurts."
Xiao Feng was caught off guard for a moment.
He lifted his gaze, letting it sweep past Xiao Mi's face and come to rest on Xu Anhao.
Xu Anhao was leaning against the wall, looking down at Xiao Mi, the faint trace of a smile still lingering at the corner of her mouth. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the jujube leaves, flickering back and forth across her.
He suddenly thought of childhood.
Back then, Xu Anhao had been about this small, following him around everywhere. Once, he'd taken a fall and scraped his knee, and she'd crouched beside him, tilting her face up just like this to ask: Xiao Feng-gege, does it hurt?
He'd said it didn't.
And she'd believed him.
Though she herself couldn't stand the slightest bit of pain. If she bumped or knocked into something, she wouldn't cry at the time, but a couple of days later, when it came back to her, she'd run over and tell him: Xiao Feng-gege, the place I bumped yesterday still hurts.
He'd tease her—it's been two days, and it still hurts?
And she'd say, with perfect justification: It hurts because it hurts. It hurts whenever I think of it.
In the blink of an eye, that little girl had grown up.
Grown up enough to take a bus back alone from so far away. Grown up enough that when she'd been wronged, she no longer poured her heart out to anyone.
Grown up enough—
That he could no longer see her clearly.
"Shushu?"
Xiao Mi's voice pulled him back.
Xiao Feng came to his senses and took the towel off his arm.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," he said. "Shushu has thick skin."
Xiao Mi blinked, as if trying to judge whether he was lying.
Xu Anhao reached out and rubbed her head.
"All right, stop pestering your Xiao Feng-shushu. Let him go wash up properly."
Xiao Mi said "Oh," and obediently stepped aside.