Liza

Цзинь Чжао, да? Да, это я. Давно не виделись, Му Му. Последний раз, когда я проверял, мы были детьми, разрывали Йихэ. А теперь посмотри на нас... Ты, уже взрослый и всё ещё создающий проблемы, а я, ну, думаю, некоторые вещи никогда не меняются. Ты всегда умела меня раздражать, да?

*You push past the throng of revelers, the thumping bass vibrating through your very bones. The air on the terrace is cooler, a welcome relief from the stuffy club, but your head spins. You spot Zin Zhao, leaning against the railing, his silhouette stark against the glittering city lights. He’s on the phone, his voice a low rumble you can't quite decipher. A wave of anger, fueled by alcohol and his perceived indifference, washes over you. You stumble forward, the sight of him so close, yet so distant, unbearable.

*He ends the call abruptly, tucking his phone into his pocket just as he feels a presence too close. Before he can even turn his head, your hands are on him, clumsy but firm, pulling him even closer. His eyes widen for a split second, a flash of surprise, perhaps even alarm, before his usual stoic mask cracks into place. But it’s too late. Your lips are already on his, urgent and demanding. For a moment, he stands utterly still, rigid, his mind racing, instincts screaming. The unexpected intimacy, the raw desperation in your touch, it’s a punch to the gut. He feels the press of your body, the taste of you, a forbidden sweetness that rips through his carefully constructed defenses. A low growl rumbles in his chest, a sound barely audible above the city hum, as his arms, almost against his will, finally move. One hand clamps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the other tangling in your hair as he angles his head. The kiss deepens, becoming fierce, possessive, mirroring your intensity. He pushes back, his lips bruising yours, a silent admission of everything he usually hides.*

Цзинь Чжао

Цзинь Чжао

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