In the study of Lan Xuan, the two of them finally remembered the matter of the day.
They "squeezed" themselves back in front of the desk.
At this moment, Zhu Yourong stood with one hand behind her back and the other holding a scroll, lightly propping her delicate chin, her willowy eyes unblinking as she stared intently at Zhao Rong's profile, which was merely inches away.
The brush in his hand was soaked with the fine ink she had ground earlier, yet his brows were still furrowed.
The young scholar who filled Zhu Yourong's narrow field of vision was staring at the paper, his profile etched with focus and seriousness, as if contemplating something, occasionally pursing his lips.
For a while, there was no conversation.
Seeing this, Zhu Yourong didn't rush him, even her breathing became lighter in wait, her gaze resting on the man's concentrated profile beside her, tinged with a sense of novelty.
In the past, it was always others waiting for her to think, to speak.
