"Go back." Jasmine Yale said faintly.
"Okay."
Sylvan Cheney held a mobile phone in one hand and a bouquet of purple roses in the other. Although he stood by the corridor, his hair still got quite wet from the rain as he had no umbrella.
The purple roses were a unique splash of color in the corridor—bright, vibrant, and pleasantly aromatic.
The thorns on the roses had been patiently picked off by Sylvan Cheney one by one, afraid they might prick her hands.
The flowers were wrapped in transparent cellophane, tied with a pink silk ribbon into a bow. Though not as intricately packaged as those from a flower shop, he had put a lot of thought into it.
Unfortunately, Jasmine Yale didn't want them.
It was raining outside, the raindrops pattering down as the temperature sharply dropped. The autumn wind carried a chill.
A gust of wind lifted the hem of Sylvan Cheney's coat. He stood under the corridor, looking up at the building.
