Kuroya Eina’s humble posture drew curious onlookers, which only made the supervisor feel awkward—he slipped away alone.

Once he was gone, she no longer needed to keep bowing. But as she slowly lifted her head with a faint, wry smile, she noticed someone still standing amid the dispersing crowd: her son, Kuroya Ayumu.

*If Xiao Bu saw me like this… he’d pretend not to know me. He’d look down on me even more… Sigh…*

Based on past experience, she expected Ayumu to scorn her further. Yet reality flipped that thought: her quiet resilience deepened his admiration for his single mother, sparking a genuine urge to protect this tender, humble love.

“Mom! So this is where you work? I had no idea, haha!”

Ayumu scratched his head, chuckled awkwardly, and stepped forward to greet her. His sudden approach left Kuroya Eina utterly flustered. She’d braced for silent disdain, for him to walk away coldly. Instead, he stayed—and spoke up. It felt like wishing the world would forget your embarrassment, only to have someone who knows you well insist on mentioning it right then.

“Xiao Bu… are you… buying groceries?” She stared at the bags in his hand, bewildered. Why would her son be shopping for food?

“Yeah! I’ve gotten into Chinese cooking lately. Learned a few dishes online. Anything you want? I’ll make it for you tonight.”

Though Ayumu was secretly a skilled cook, he held back slightly. A persona couldn’t shatter overnight—that’d raise suspicion, especially from someone as close as his mother. Change had to come gently, through small, believable steps.

“Chinese food… Hmm… Mapo… Tofu?”

Joy warmed Kuroya Eina’s heart. Since his discharge, Ayumu truly had changed. Every sacrifice felt worth it. Even reliving that humiliation wouldn’t leave a trace of bitterness now.

“Mapo Tofu? Got it!”

*Predictable,* Ayumu thought. *Of course Mapo Tofu tops Japan’s Chinese-food list.* The dish wasn’t hard, but his version wouldn’t be authentic. Bachelor cooking aimed for “edible,” not perfection. Who cared?

“I still need tofu. Where’s it sold?”

“Over there. But do you have enough money?”

She pointed, then pulled out her wallet. Only a few 1,000-yen bills remained. She reached for one—then added two more. Ayumu caught the tiny gesture.

He tried to refuse the money, but she said gently, “Xiao Bu… don’t take money from classmates. It’s not right.”

“Mm… I know.”

Words choked in his throat. No defense came. He swallowed them all.

“Xiao Bu got a haircut? You look really handsome!”

Sensing his dip in mood, she shifted topics kindly. He recognized the comfort—and didn’t push back. *Maybe repay that gullible guy next time…* He sighed inwardly. *Nah. Too many faces. Forget it.*

He accepted the money. No need for formality with his own mother. Taking it now meant he could give back just as naturally later.

Returning with tofu, he saw a customer browsing her fruit section and waited quietly. A glance at the price tags made him wince. *Only the seriously wealthy get “fruit freedom” here.*

He learned apples sold individually—2,000 yen (≈120 RMB) per piece, considered *average*. Strawberries? Grapes? Some cost even more. Today truly broadened his horizons. *“Developed country,” huh? Damn capitalism.*

To Japanese locals, fruit was luxury, not necessity. He knew high prices tied to farm protection policies. Still, it sharpened his longing for China—where summer meant endless watermelon, winter meant sweet oranges, no guilt, no restraint.

Even landing a Chinese-tutor gig tomorrow wouldn’t cover much. He’d been naive converting imagined earnings to RMB, ignoring Japan’s cost of living. *So foolish.*

Part-time work wouldn’t save enough for cram school. Asking his mom was impossible. Time to leverage the computer science knowledge in his head—and make something happen.

“Xiao Bu, head home first. I finish at eight.”

She’d wrapped up tasks and found him still waiting. Only five p.m.—no need to linger.

“Mm. Dinner’ll be ready when you get back. Promise it’s delicious,” Ayumu said, confidence bright in his voice.

“Then I’ll look forward to Xiao Bu’s Chinese cooking!”

After parting ways, Ayumu returned home. The Kuroyas lived in a cheap apartment—owning a house was impossible on her income alone. He didn’t mind. In his past life, Zhang Chufan had squeezed into a 10-square-meter “striver’s room” post-graduation. This felt spacious.

The apartment held essentials only. Open the door: living room with tatami mats (just a low table and wall-mounted TV fit inside). Kitchen? Barely two-person wide. Three tiny rooms completed it—Ayumu’s, his mother’s, the bathroom. Pocket-sized. Unremarkable.

He glanced around his new long-term home. Satisfied enough. Then he rolled up his sleeves and began preparing dinner.