She was still holding his face, keeping him at arm’s length to observe him. His hand, almost absently, traced a flower stitched at the waistline of her qipao. He had the temptation to pluck her up as if she were a bloom too, to hear a proper laugh and store it away in a place no one could ever take from him again. He wouldn’t dare, of course—she would probably bite him if he tried.
