The photography studio was dead silent, the air heavy with a tension that seemed ready to explode at any moment.
Every face bore the same expression—stunned.
Especially Wu Huai, who stood beside Ruan Qi.
The wig of the well-known director in his forties nearly fell off in fright.
His eyes widened, his face a picture of shock and collapse, like a child who has just learned that kissing doesn't lead to pregnancy.
Ruan Qi was also somewhat dazed.
She looked down at her clothes.
The man's coat was particularly large, almost big enough to fit two of her. It carried a faint scent of pine, slightly cold, just like its owner.
Ruan Qi's small hand clutched the hem of the coat, her expression tangled.
She wasn't cold at all.
But how was she to tell him politely and without embarassment?
The young girl's little face scrunched up, her eyebrows twitching, which was quite interesting to see.
Xi Jiu's lips curled into a barely noticeable smile.
