Wuchen stood up, letting his willow-green robes hang loosely off his shoulders. He deliberately swayed on his feet, letting out a soft, pained gasp as he took a step toward the center of the room.
He timed it perfectly. Just as Ji'an turned around from inspecting the window, Wuchen's knees "buckled."
He fell forward, reaching out a pale, trembling hand, aiming his descent directly toward Ji'an's chest. It was a classic, flawless maneuver.
Ji'an would have to catch him. She would have to wrap her arms around his waist to stabilize him.
Their faces would be inches apart, and Mo Wuchen would unleash the full, devastating power of his grateful, amber-eyed gaze.
But Lin Ji'an was not a normal protagonist. Lin Ji'an was a chef who had spent five years dodging falling pots of boiling water and slipping line cooks.
Her reflexes were entirely tuned to avoiding disaster, not catching it.
As Wuchen fell, Ji'an's eyes widened.
