Summary
At twenty-five, Zhu Liu was Haicheng’s favored son: self-possessed, proud, and arrogant.
His marriage to me had not been of his own choosing. Even between husband and wife, I was usually the one who had to ask for intimacy.
Only after coaxing and persuading him could I earn one rippling spring night.
Then, by accident, I traveled ten years into the future and met Zhu Liu at thirty-five, now a widower.
He begged for pity, cried out miserably, acted spoiled, shed tears, clung to me, let me touch him however I wanted, and pleaded for me to dote on him.
As for his twenty-five-year-old former self, who would not even spare me a glance, he judged him with brutal precision:
“A total poser. He thinks you like that kind of thing.”
“You think that brat is cold by nature? Ignore him, and he’ll go insane…”