The door swings open and Sizhui's mouth is immediately dry at the sight before him; Jiang Cheng, dressed far more comfortably, though no less attractive in his slacks and deep purplish-red buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled. Thank Gods, the man moves aside so he can hurry inside, swallowing thickly in an attempt to clear the sudden golfball-sized lump trying to suffocate him. What the hell is it about rolled sleeves, anyway?

He makes a show of glancing around, back still turned to Jiang Cheng, at least until he starts talking. “I know,” comes the as-a-matter-of-fact response. “But we aren't there right now, are we?” And as he asks, he turns to face him, both hands curled in his sweater, barely tugging the hem up off his waist.