Zhuang Xiyue first patted Yun Ya's hand, then fiercely glared at Yan Song: "See? Yun Ya is more sensible, willingly takes the blame for you. Do you have any guts at all? Aren't you ashamed?"
Yun Ya coughed: "Aunt Zhuang, it's really not Brother Yan's fault; it was my idea."
"Yun Ya, don't speak for him. I just know it must be this kid's idea. It's not the first time he's done something like this. When he was ten, during the Spring Festival, he left a note claiming he was 'traveling,' ran off and had us worried to death. We almost called the police. Meanwhile, he was having the time of his life out there."
Yun Ya raised an eyebrow at Yan Song, who calmly sipped tea, frowned and said, "Old stories, why dredge them up?"
