Ji Anning's heart fluttered, and she nodded with a raspy voice, "Mhm."
She stopped her movements, locking eyes with him. His deep black pupils seemed like two profound whirlpools, drawing her in so deeply that she couldn't escape.
Suddenly, Ji Chicheng extended his hand and drew her into his embrace, tightening his arms around her continuously.
He was searching for a sense of solidity, not hugging a blanket, not a pillow, not an illusion, but truly embracing Anning, the Anning he yearned for.
"Your wound," Anning said worriedly, looking at the injuries on Chicheng's body. She lifted her neck, her gaze filled with anxiety.
She wanted to get up, but he was holding her too tightly.
Ji Chicheng shook his head, "It doesn't hurt."
Then, his other hand clasped the back of Anning's head, pressing her face against his chest, moving with his breath, with the rise and fall of his heartbeat.
