Scorching morning, the boss whispered submissively

My name is Cheng Mo. I have a bachelor's degree and a respectable job, yet somehow I got tangled up with a little street punk. Her name is Zhao Xiaoman, twenty-four years old, with only an elementary school education. She talks like a firecracker, every other word out of her mouth a curse. Everyone else can't stand her temperament, but for some inexplicable reason, I ended up squeezed into this tiny, shabby rental room with her. She always arms herself with the crudest words to hide that heart terrified of being abandoned. We're like two hedgehogs huddling together for warmth, holding each other tight on that narrow bed—the deeper the quills pierce, the closer we get.