Frustration fueled Ye Xinren's aggression, but before he could push again, Han Zhe caught his wrists—firm, but not bruising. His voice was low, almost pleading.
"You keep running from me." His dark eyes bore into Ye Xinren's, filled with something dangerously close to desperation. "I just want to talk."
Ye Xinren's jaw tightened. He struggled against Han Zhe's grip, but it was futile. The man's strength dwarfed his own. Even so, he refused to surrender.
"Isn't that exactly what I should be doing?" His voice was sharp, cutting. "I told you before—it meant nothing. I was just passing the time."
Han Zhe didn't let go. His expression didn't falter. "But we're not done."
"Says who?" Ye Xinren's breath hitched, but his voice didn't waver. "Ever since Yanxu came back to me, that was the end of it. No—" His lips curled into something cruel, something meant to wound. "I never really needed you at all."
For the first time, Han Zhe flinched.
