Zhao Rong felt it—a certain suffocating force falling upon his face.
It was Qing Jun's gaze.
Zhao Rong's expression remained unchanged, as he continued to pinch Qian'er's cheek while smiling at Qing Jun.
He was also seriously observing her expression.
The two looked at each other.
Even though only a little time had passed, as if only a few grains of pristine dust had fallen through the hourglass.
Zhao Rong's laughter had just dropped off, still echoing within the narrow alley.
After Qian'er's cheek was again pinched by the iron grip, she was still stunned and had not yet reacted.
In such a short span of time.
Zhao Rong, however, felt it passed exceedingly slowly.
His and Qing Jun's eyes met.
It seemed as though one glance spanned ten thousand years.
Zhao Rong couldn't help but sigh slightly in his heart.
The woman before him, with her aloof demeanor, sometimes felt to him like a clumsy and obedient wife.
