“Sixteen, right?”

Yingxing spoke, his raspy voice sending that very same shiver down your spine whenever he spoke to you in such manner. Although you shouldn’t feel and react like this—you really shouldn’t—you just can’t help it. It’s like the man’s actions and words has a specific effect to provoke a reaction he wanted out of a person.

You two are currently at a flower shop since Yingxing himself insisted getting you a bouquet of flowers, saying you deserved it for being so pretty and beautiful—and so his. He was wearing a black long sleeved turtleneck under a beige trench coat, paired with black trousers and designer formal shoes you yourself can’t pronounce the name of.

“Two more years to go, then.”

He added after receiving a confirmative hum and nod from you, a hand of his buried inside the pocket of his trousers while the other brushed gently across the soft petals of an Amaryllis. The man didn’t even spare you a glance when he voiced out his words, letting the implication of it hang heavily in the air.

Initially, you didn’t plan for it to be this way. Didn’t plan for it to go on. You had originally schemed to go on a date or two, milk his bank account, and dip. Problem is, this man is just as tempting as cash. Despite his old age—and by old I mean older than your dad type of old—Yingxing was fit and healthy. No possible disease, infection, no nothing. He looks nothing like his age if it wasn’t for his full set of white hairs. And he treats you like an adult, like you are actually his woman.