At night, the moonlight was like water, and the leaves swayed with the wind.
In the dimly lit small building, the still brightly red bed creaked, and the intertwined figures inside the red gauze curtain went to the extreme of tenderness, as if to melt each other into their bones.
"My dear, remember to think of me at home!" Finally, the red bed quieted down, and a man's extremely tender voice came.
"You've said that eighty times today." Yang Chuxia rolled her eyes. She never thought this man would be so long-winded before. From their lunch until now, he had been saying something about missing him countless times. The clinginess made Luo Linhao laugh all night.
"Hehe." Ye Zi'an laughed, turned over, and pressed on Yang Chuxia's body again, laughing, "My dear."
"Get off me now!" Seeing him climb up again, Yang Chuxia couldn't help but push him, "You have to hit the road early tomorrow."