But soon, Feng Mingdong realized something far more urgent than Little Orange. His gaze slowly settled on Feng Yijiu.
“Hey, at least wear proper clothes at home!” He stared at Yijiu—clad only in oversized boxer shorts—and momentarily lost for words.
“It’s hot,” Yijiu replied, her face slightly pale but voice stubborn.
“Then why the hot water bottle?”
“It hurts.”
“You…” Feng Mingdong paused, then clicked. “You’re on your period?”
“Mm.” Yijiu blushed faintly but nodded.
“Seriously…” He glanced at the AC blasting cold air, then at her nearly bare frame. After a long silence, he stepped into her room and handed her a shirt. “Put this on first.”
Yijiu pulled it on reluctantly—not because of the heat, but two sensitive spots on her chest flinched at every brush of fabric.
A camisole? She flatly claimed she didn’t own one.
Watching Yijiu’s stubbornly boyish demeanor, Feng Mingdong’s head throbbed. Worse, his “cabbage”—who thought herself a “pig”—might get taken advantage of by shady guys and mistake them for brothers-in-arms.
He took a deep breath. Tomboy or not, he could support her forever. But as a girl—physically, at least—she needed to learn basic self-respect.
Yet explaining it himself felt awkward… His eyes drifted toward the carefully kept room, dimming slightly.
Then he turned—and spotted two faint outlines through her white shirt. His eyebrows twitched hard.
“Put this on!” Genuine urgency sharpened his voice as he thrust a camisole forward. *My daughter went out today to… neuter Little Orange…*
“No way. I don’t even have those,” Yijiu retorted, arms crossed, shaking her head with familiar defiance.
“Be good, Yijiu. Just wear it,” Feng Mingdong pleaded, temples aching. Facing her delicate, familiar face, sternness melted away.
“Victory!” Yijiu grinned at the discarded white fabric on the sofa. She’d successfully repelled the “evil forces of femininity.”
“And this was dinner?” He held up the trash bag, pointing at scattered takeout boxes.
“Yep,” she nodded matter-of-factly.
Another deep breath. All his efforts felt useless. Having Yijiu home these two days was somehow *less* reassuring than the hospital.
A thought struck him—maybe someone *could* set her straight.
…
“What garbage are these romance novels…” Li Hao muttered, unusually tucked in the library. He’d sought “stones from other mountains” to polish his skills, but why did every heroine already pine for the male lead—dropping hints, clinging, even throwing herself at him?
No useful tips gained—just force-fed endless “dog food” (romantic fluff).
His confidence wavered. Even if he struck up a chat… he didn’t know her name or where she was. Would she even look twice at him? Sure, his face was decent—but what else?
Could he really slam his phone down shouting, “Log in! Your Platinum-rank ‘King of JJ’ will carry you and show off!”?
…No girl would like that, right?
Li Hao pictured a gardenia-pure girl: gentle, artistic, quoting “Life is like a summer flower,” or sighing over Li Yu’s “gazing at the starry sky at 45 degrees” tearjerkers.
Then it hit him—upgrade his “hardware” first! Spruce himself up. *“Read three hundred Tang poems, and even if you can’t compose, you’ll learn to recite,”* right? This insight felt utterly King-tier.
Step one: handwriting. A love letter so messy it wards off ghosts would get tossed—or used as a door charm. Academic grades too… Didn’t girls ask top students for help?
Summer vacation stretched ahead. Perfect time to try.
Unbeknownst to him, his “gardenia girl” was sprawled ungracefully on the sofa, clutching a hot water bottle while gritting her teeth and unleashing fury on her phone.
“Hah! Catch me? Wait five hundred years!” Yijiu gloated, two tiny canines flashing as her near-dead Sun Shangxiang narrowly escaped.
Triumph vanished fast. A cramp shot through her abdomen; her hand twitched. Sun Shangxiang tumbled straight into the enemy.
“Damn it…” The in-game line echoed her mood. Moments later, staring at the blue “DEFEAT,” she grumpily powered off the phone.
“I’m done.” She tossed it aside. Felt worse than lifeless Little Orange—at least *he* got it over with.
She pinched her slender neck. Her voice… had it gotten lighter?
Not a cutesy “clip-on” tone, but definitely not a boy’s. Was she doomed to play the silent pretty boy at school? Or face “kneel-on-first-word” humiliation?
Just imagining her “cool guy” intro shattering into a girly voice before the whole class—*social death*—made her shudder.
*Gotta fix this blasted voice flaw!*
Yijiu steeled her resolve, searching online for voice modulation tutorials. For normal school life, no more slacking.
Hmm—this was the “Pretty Boy Makeover Plan.” Cheerfully, she clicked the most-viewed tutorial by a popular “auntie” creator and began practicing breath control.
