Because of Han Ling's few words, the living room fell into an uncanny silence.
The heavy curtains shut out every trace of light from the outside, leaving only the warm yet dim glow of the table lamp on the coffee table. That faint circle of light spilled over their faces, making each expression seem heavy with worry and unease. In the air lingered an invisible pressure, one that made every breath feel cautious, measured.
Ling Zhao and Grant sat side by side at one end of the sofa, their backs stiff as though pulled straight by invisible strings. Their fingertips brushed, but they did not interlace their hands—this tiny, fragile contact was merely a silent confirmation: at least for now, we are still beside each other.
