Qinghe returned to the clinic roof after the patient was settled. Yan had carried the last supply crate to the mill and come back with dust on his sleeves. He was waiting beside the lantern that still needed moving.
“The night staff shifted it,” she said. “The patient cart can turn now.”
“Good.”
They stood by the low wall. Qinghe folded her arms against the cold. Yan remembered her crouched beside the clinic door in the rain, keeping one hand on a patient’s pulse while she scolded him for trying to carry two stretchers at once. She had laughed only after he put the second one down.
“I have feelings for you,” she said. “You’re the first person I want to tell when something happens. I used to call that research.”
Yan looked at her, then at the lanterns below. “I love you. I love the way you see the person in front of you before you see the wound. I want to be with you, and I want your work to remain yours.”
She watched him, then her shoulders eased. “I love you too. I’ve been trying not to make you guess for months.”
“I thought I was being respectful.”
