The man was holding a cigarette in his hand, engulfing himself in swirls of smoke. His handsome face was shrouded by the wispy clouds, but it was visible that his cool eyes were slightly narrowed, suggesting a touch of irritation.
When he saw someone push the door open, he thought it was an acquaintance coming to call him and furrowed his brows to look over. But as soon as he saw it was Tong Xiaoyong, he was taken aback in astonishment.
Some reunions cannot be avoided.
Tong Xiaoyong tilted her chin up slightly, her gaze neither cold nor warm, merely indifferent and distant as she directly faced Qu Jing.
Years had gone by, and that reserved boy had turned into a haughty man, his sharp gaze now brazen and arrogant, like the edge of a blade.
Time is a cruel sharpener; it had honed him to the point where not a trace of his past self could be found.