The moment he mentioned being "almost forty," Lilian felt a twinge of discomfort and immediately shot back,
"You're not that old!"
Morrison laughed, planting a deep kiss on her lips before teasing,
"Am I not?"
Lilian looked up at him. Fine lines traced the corners of his eyes as he smiled, subtle marks of age that carried the charm of a man who had lived, experienced, and matured—not a hint of weariness or decline, only a magnetic allure.
Instinctively, she lifted her hand to brush lightly against the edge of his eye, her voice soft as she said,
"You're not old… I like it."
One moment she had been shooing him away, and now she was confessing she liked him. Lilian wondered if other girls in love felt the same way—how easily emotions could be swayed, how quickly hearts could be moved by a glance, a smile, a touch.
As soon as she spoke, Morrison wrapped her in his arms again, pressing his lips against hers in a lingering kiss.
