Chapter 820

If Jonah was the blazing summer sun, then Douglas was like a spring breeze—warm, gentle, and soothing. He rarely showed strong emotions and was always gentle and accommodating. So, when he looked at me with such a sad and fragile expression, I found myself a bit flustered. "No, Douglas, I'm not mad." "Then, why do you keep declining my invitation to dinner?" He frowned, and there was a peculiar hint of hurt in his tone. "Do you hate me?" I felt like the world had flipped upside down. Jonah—that beat—patted my head and called me a kid, saying he'd look out for me. And now Douglas, who was usually so mature, looked surprisingly vulnerable. He was like a hurt child, softly asking if I hated him and why I wouldn't have dinner with him. I didn't know how to react. "No, Douglas, you've misunderstood me. How could I hate you? Why would I be mad at you? I genuinely have something else to do tonight and can't go to dinner with you." "What is it?" he pressed, asking what could possibly