The afternoon sunlight grew increasingly lazy and languid.
A playful squirrel lived on the tree in the courtyard, jumping up and down tirelessly, full of charm.
Vermilion walls, glazed tiles, a strikingly picturesque view.
Jasmine Yale, satisfied after her meal, sat by the window, cupping a warm tea in her hands, reluctant to leave.
Sylvan Cheney lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and lounged on the sofa in the private room.
Jasmine admired the scenery, but most of the time, he was admiring her.
With her rosy lips, pearly teeth, and eyes bright with charm, Jasmine Yale was far more captivating in his eyes than any view.
"This little squirrel is so funny. If Chale were here, he'd definitely love it," Jasmine said, leaning on the windowsill, her eyes fixed on the squirrel darting around.
"He likes little foxes."
"Guess what I like?" Jasmine deliberately teased.
"Hmm? You like me."
"…" Jasmine rolled her eyes.
