Almost by instinct, the hand that Shen Yuan had been holding tightly in his palm was no longer passive.
Feeling the heat and dampness of his palm, and the trembling he so clearly transmitted, Li Zhi's fingers suddenly curled and tightened in return.
Her slender, pale fingertips instantly dug in, gripping his sweaty hand just as tightly.
She didn't even realize how much force she was using, only that she instinctively needed to hold on to something.
It was as if only through their tightly clasped hands could they draw a sliver of oxygen from the suffocating tension, the feeling of a storm about to break.
Their eyes met.
The heat rising from the heater, tinged with the sweet scent of peaches, was so thick it was suffocating.
Shen Yuan took a deep breath, the sound sharp in the silence, as if trying to calm a frantic hawk in his chest.
His gaze was searing, no longer evasive.
