She went straight to the bedroom, took the shawl off her shoulders, threw it onto the sofa, and then walked over to the bed, lifted the covers, and lay down.
Mo Shiqian naturally followed her in, closing the door behind him.
He glanced at the still-placed hair dryer on the table and reached out to pick it up and walk over.
Chi Huan was facing the opposite direction from him.
The warm breeze blew on her hair, brushing across her scalp.
The bedroom was so quiet that only the sound of the hair dryer could be heard.
Chi Huan's face was buried in the pillow, her eyes closed.
After a while, the man's voice sounded faintly, "Chi Huan, sit up and dry your hair."
She didn't open her eyes; her tone was just as faint, "It's already dry."
Slim and knobby fingers threaded through her hair, "It's not, you'll catch a cold, get up."
His way of speaking always seemed to be this tone, concise and to the point.
The air was tense for nearly ten seconds before Chi Huan sat up.
