6
Han Ling's back pressed tightly against the cold wooden door before he even had time to react.
A faint click broke the silence—the lock had been turned from the inside.
Leander stood before him, head slightly lowered, golden strands of hair falling over his forehead, half-shadowing those eyes that always carried a trace of a smile, yet at this moment were sharpened into unwavering focus. His breath was so close it nearly scorched Han Ling's cheek, every exhale carrying a faint warmth that stirred a feverish heat in his chest.
"You… what are you trying to do now?" Han Ling's brows drew together, but his tone lacked any real resistance.
