Their distance was a mere breath away, their breathing entangled with one another.
Li Qiao collected herself and gazed into the man's deep eyes, sensing the conversation could not continue any further.
Thus, she flashed her eyes and innocently extended her right hand, batting her eyelashes, "Master Yan, I'm cold."
Having held hands with the left before, now it was time for the right hand; one must not favor one over the other.
Shang Yu's initially displeased expression, upon seeing Li Qiao's gesture, softened in an instant with a faint smile.
He looked at Li Qiao and pressed her chin with his thumb, seemingly exasperated, "Don't you know to wear more if you're cold?"
Was this a refusal to hold hands again?
But, as he spoke, Li Qiao's right hand was already enveloped in the man's broad and warm palm.
Li Qiao looked down and smiled.
It turned out that just holding hands could make one's heart race.
