Di Yimo, with deep-set and somewhat cold eyes, arrogantly surveyed Nangong Xiao's room. In fact, he had been to Nangong Xiao's room many times before; it was very familiar to him.
So familiar that he wouldn't make a wrong turn even with his eyes closed, and familiar with the origins of many decorations here, even familiar with the room's scent.
Yet every time he looked, there was an indescribable feeling, a sort of nostalgia.
He gently walked behind Nangong Xiao, who was so absorbed in her task that she didn't notice someone behind her.
The young man's slender figure already revealed some charm and masculine toughness, with his hands in his pockets and a cool expression on his handsome, perfectly contoured face.
But that expression suddenly bit by bit solidified, turned cold, and then became icy.
