Yin Huo had never been one for writing under pressure, seeing a piece rushed ruined the beauty of the art of poetry.

Yet a rumour ruined Yin Huo's whole ideology, his blood ran cold. Someone else planned to confess to you? Now that was something he had to derive his attention to.

A poem on such short notice wouldn't be his best yet the thought of losing you drove him mad.

A rushed sonnet brushing over just how much he loved you, there was so much to write too little time.

He had to find you.