Song Qiao was not quite used to Lu Jingchen's sudden gentleness and approachability. Though tears were still swirling in her eyes, they no longer continued to fall. Blinking, she buried her face in the pillow and muttered, "Lu Jingchen, sometimes I really don't understand you?"
"You want to understand me?" Lu Jingchen's eyes revealed an enigmatic expression, his deep gaze fixed on her as he spoke in a low and pleasant voice.
Looking at her pale face buried in the pillow, almost indistinguishable from the white pillow itself, Lu Jingchen's hundred-year-old fingers stiffened slightly. He lifted his hand and began to play with her hair, then slowly leaned closer almost imperceptibly. The man bent slightly, bringing his handsome face close to hers, his gentle breath spreading across her face.
