Mo Beichen was on the treadmill, sweating profusely, pouring all his thoughts into running. After forty minutes, he stepped off the treadmill and picked up a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.
Then he walked over, grabbed a bottle of mineral water, and drank more than half. Indeed, he was the one who tortured himself half to death and still found it enjoyable.
Mo Beichen went to the liquor cabinet and got a bottle of wine, put it into the ice bucket, and sat there drinking alone.
Without some alcohol, he feared he'd have trouble sleeping tonight.
Mo Beichen drank more than half a bottle of whiskey, becoming more and more melancholy. The more he drank, the worse he felt. He got up and headed to the bedroom; the alcohol made him tipsy, and he walked as if on cotton.
When he reached the bedroom door, he looked up at the tightly closed guest room door and laughed silently. What could he say about this coward? Clearly, she liked him but insisted on pretending not to care.
