The light in the living room was far from bright, a warm yellow glow casting faint shadows between the four of them. A freshly brewed pot of tea still sat untouched on the coffee table, steam curling into the air, but no one reached for it. The air was thick with a stifling tension.
Han Ling sat in the very center of the sofa, his back straight, his gaze steady and sharp. His fingers tapped soundlessly against his knee, as if weighing the right way to speak. Across from him, Ling Zhao and Grant sat side by side, their hands unconsciously clasped together—Ling Zhao's palm was ice-cold, while Grant's burned faintly warm.
Leander, as always, sat right beside Han Ling, an arm casually wrapped around his waist, playing the role of the loyal listener at his side.
In truth, he was only there for the gossip… and to have an excuse to keep holding Han Ling.
