"It's been a while since we last met; Little Yanyan couldn't have forgotten me, could she?" Ming Yihan chuckled wickedly. With a swift movement, he floated downwards from above, enveloping Zhiyan like an elegant, lightweight piece of gauze without a trace of heaviness.
His hair, dark as a cascading waterfall, fell onto Zhiyan's collarbone, cool and smooth, compelling her to swallow twice as her throat became dry, in dire need of something.
"You, you, you, how come you're here?" Zhiyan stammered out, finally voicing what was on her mind. Wasn't he supposed to have returned to the Demon Clan? How could he still appear here?
"Because I missed you, so I came."
"You, you, you're talking nonsense," Zhiyan retorted, her eyes wide with denial. How could he possibly fancy her?
"Pfft, Little Yanyan is always so sharp-tongued; why so nervous now? Or is it that I've hit the nail on the head, and you actually do like me?"
