In just two short minutes, Wen Qiao felt as if a long time had passed.
After Fu Jinghen said "Done," she suddenly felt a wave of relief in her heart.
"Tying up hair is so fussy."
"It's my first time doing a girl's hair. I'm not very skilled," Fu Jinghen's apologetic voice sounded from behind her, "With more practice, I should improve."
Wen Qiao pretended not to understand his implication. "Oh, you can practice on your own hair then."
Fu Jinghen reached out and tugged her ponytail, "You ingrate."
Wen Qiao was stunned, as if she couldn't believe that Fu Jinghen would engage in such a childish act as pulling a girl's hair.
She poured the soup she had prepared in advance into the pot, covered it, turned around, and looked at Fu Jinghen with a blank expression: "How old are you, still pulling my hair? Isn't it childish?"
Fu Jinghen remembered something and squinted his eyes in displeasure: "Qi Ming has pulled your hair before, why can't I?"
"When did he pull my hair?"
