Staring at Feng Chengjin's long forearm and the hand resting on the steering wheel, Qiu Zhixuan smiled with eyes curved like crescents and said, "My Mr. Feng, why are you so childishly petty without any bottom line? You're a thirty-seven-year-old man, after all."
Feng Chengjin hated it the most when someone mentioned his age to him nowadays.
Depressed, pressing his lips, he said, "Then who's to blame for you not marrying me sooner? Wasting eleven years of my life as a monk, let's not talk about that. Your Brother Yu is getting married, and rather than feeling relieved, you're still worrying about him, thinking about how to compensate me when you come back tonight. Are you deliberately trying to make me jealous?"
The tone was extremely sour.
Qiu Zhixuan laughed, leaning slightly forward from the back seat toward the driver's seat, wrapping her soft, boneless arms around Feng Chengjin's shoulders.
