By the time Chen Dao got home, it was already 7:30 p.m.

Climbing the stairs, he saw the light glowing outside his door—and a sudden warmth bloomed in his chest.

It reminded him of college days: rushing home on the high-speed train past midnight, only to find the porch light on. His parents would always be waiting, noodles already steaming on the table.

No wonder he felt quietly glad Xia Jiuli was here.

His apartment had no doorbell—just an old wooden door behind a metal security gate. Knocking felt like hammering sheet metal, especially against the wire mesh.

This time, even entering his own home required a gentle tap. Strange.

*Rustle.* *Thud.* The mesh shivered; the gate slammed against the frame—a messy, clattering duet.

Chen Dao winced, slightly embarrassed.

About five seconds later, a sliver of light spilled out as the wooden door opened.

A girl in a red apron and high ponytail leaped into view, unlatched the gate, then spun and dashed toward the kitchen.

She looked busy cooking.

Truth was, neither of them could cook. Yet seeing her in that apron gave her an unexpectedly homely, devoted air—Chen Dao froze for a moment.

He stepped inside, closed the door, slipped off his shoes, and glanced toward the kitchen. Thick smoke curled in the air. A petite figure bustled amid the haze.

A faint burnt scent lingered. The fan—usually in his room—now whirred by the window, fighting the range hood’s efforts.

*Failed attempt?*

Curious, Chen Dao walked closer.

The apron’s thin ties accentuated her slender waist. Her ponytail swayed gently. Her developing frame stretched the apron’s front slightly. Band-aid wrapped around her palm, she gripped the spatula with careful precision.

“Ah! Almost ready! Go wash your hands first?”

Xia Jiuli turned, cheeks stiff with fluster, urging him not to watch her embarrassment.

“Then I won’t stand on ceremony,” Chen Dao said.

He hadn’t even peeked at the table—but yeah, he smelled scrambled eggs with tomatoes.

Obediently, he ducked into the bathroom. When he returned, Xia Jiuli was carefully carrying a plate toward the table, steps cautious.

He stayed still, watching her set it down. Stir-fried pork with green peppers—both slightly charred.

Flaws aside, the aroma was genuinely appetizing.

She wiped her hands on her apron. Catching his gaze drop to her bandaged fingers, she hid them behind her back.

Eyes slightly swollen, gaze darting away, she nudged him:

“Come on! You must be exhausted. I spent three hours on these—my legs are sore!”

Her tone carried the gentle warmth of a wife soothing her husband.

Chen Dao moved past her like a robot and sat.

*Break the mood. Now.*

“So… why aren’t *you* sitting?”

*Hmph. Little Xia Jiuli, trying to shake my resolve? Not happening.*

He leaned back, smug, making zero move to serve rice.

Xia Jiuli pressed her lips tight, hiding a smile. *So stubborn.*

She quickly served rice, fetched chopsticks, and sat across from him.

Back home, her parents doted on her—studies only, no chores. Kitchen? Off-limits. Only dishwashing was “hers,” and she prided herself on it.

But now she was alone. Cooking was necessary. And… she wanted Chen Dao to see her capable side.

Following a supermarket cookbook, she’d made three dishes and a soup:

Stir-fried pork—slightly burnt.

Scrambled eggs with tomatoes—surprisingly sweet.

Grilled sausages—charred black.

Scallion egg soup—the only presentable one.

She’d tried so carefully… still cut her finger.

“Go on, try it?”

She pressed her lips, feigning indifference—but her eyes locked onto his chopsticks. Watched them lift a piece of pork. Slide into his mouth.

*Two lifetimes.* Since starting work, only Spring Festival meals came from his parents’ hands. Now, an odd mix of warmth and awkwardness swelled in his chest.

Grateful—but words about the food stuck in his throat.

So he just stared at her.

“Uh… not tasty?” she asked bluntly. She’d sneak-tasted it earlier and liked it.

“What if I said it wasn’t?” Chen Dao teased, face carefully neutral though deeply satisfied.

“Then I’ll practice more…” She blinked. *So strict.*

But his mischievous grin gave it away—he was joking.

“Still,” he said, popping a blackened sausage slice into his mouth, “for a first try? I accept it. Keep going. I’ll eat your cooking next time too.”

He’d already decided: finish every bite. Edible or not.

Xia Jiuli reached to stop him—too late.

Watching him eat heartily, she picked up her chopsticks. Hesitated.

“You weren’t scolded badly at school… right?”

Chen Dao swallowed, met her tender gaze.

“Hm? *You’re* the one. Didn’t your aunt cry with you? Your eyes are red.”

Xia Jiuli snatched her phone, used the screen as a mirror.

“Mmph… Don’t say that!” She pouted, looking away.

That afternoon, she’d talked with Aunt Xia Baixiao for hours—starting from the suicide mention, to running away, finally promising to return soon and sharing her location. Her aunt had panicked, sobbing, begging her to stay calm… until Xia Jiuli ended up comforting *her*.

“But… thank you.”

Her fingers brushed the shell bracelet on her wrist—just a drilled shell on red cord. Yet it felt more precious than any jewel she’d ever seen.

“Thank me?” Chen Dao grinned. “Then cook for me more often.”