Like a little vinegar pot with its lid lifted off.
"You... write a better one, you must surpass them."
Zhao Rong frowned, cutting her off directly, "I don't want to write."
He gazed at Liu Mei, who was about to get angry, and spoke his mind truthfully.
"If it were before, if you asked me to write, I would definitely write. I could write any sort of poem for you. But now, I haven't yet written the love poem I promised you, how can I write for another woman?"
Zhao Qian'er's expression froze, and she turned her face away, seemingly afraid to look into Zhao Rong's eyes.
After a moment of silence, her lips slightly pursed and she murmured somewhat resentfully, "Rong... Brother Rong'er still remembers to write poems for Qian'er, I thought you had forgotten."
Zhao Rong shook his head, "I haven't forgotten. It's been so long because I don't want the poems for you to be makeshift, or just gorgeously elaborate and high-grade without genuine feeling. So I can't bring myself to write."
