Jiang Qingli fluffed up the blanket on the sofa, getting ready to sleep.
She had only just snuggled under the covers when Yuan Shimo, who was a short distance away, set down his book. He walked straight over, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked down at her.
The young man's eyelashes were lowered, and his backlit profile was obscured by shadows.
They were only an arm's length apart, yet Jiang Qingli found it difficult to read his expression. She could only feel his gaze fall upon her face, slowly wandering—as if in observation, or perhaps, in confusion.
After a moment, the young man's brows knitted together slightly.
Jiang Qingli asked, "Are you in a bad mood?"
'It makes sense,' she thought. 'He had a meeting yesterday, and now he's forced to share a room with me today.'
For Yuan Shimo, this was basically "working overtime."
Jiang Qingli said considerately, "If this is inconvenient for you, I can just leave."
As she spoke, she reached out to lift the blanket.
