Hannah's hand was held along with the umbrella ribs by him.
Under the canopy of this modest rain, the world beneath the umbrella seemed like a separate little world.
No matter how noisy it was outside, within his line of sight, there was only his figure.
"Staring for so long," he said gently, "like it that much?"
His lips curved into a smile, his eyes reflecting a fragmented light, hazy, exuding a tender, lingering smile, as if the fine rain, like needles and silk threads, gradually wrapped around one's heart.
Hannah averted her gaze, her lips straightened, "I wasn't looking at you, just the rain."
Arnold Simmons chuckled, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Fine, you were looking at the rain." He then deliberately moved closer, his voice lowered, "Not at me."
Having said that, he laughed again.
Unbearably narcissistic.
Hannah shot him a glance before returning her attention elsewhere, asking, "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for the bus."
