Ming Yao stood by the car window, staring at the man's cold and hard lines that didn't compromise his handsomeness. Her nose suddenly felt sour.
The last time she saw him, it was just a fleeting glimpse.
This time, she truly saw him.
More than a month had passed, feeling like several centuries.
Compared to before the accident, he seemed to have lost some weight, with facial contours becoming more cold and harsh, his hair not combed upwards as usual, but with bangs falling over, slightly obscuring those long, deep black eyes.
He sat there, his rosy thin lips tightly pursed, like a statue devoid of any emotional warmth, freezing, frigid, aristocratic.
Ming Yao's hands, hanging by her side, unconsciously clenched into fists.
She stared at him intently, feeling a swelling around her eyes.
He had returned, safe and sound!
But now that he was back, it seemed there was something subtly different about him.
He seemed even colder and more indifferent than before.
