The person I like is far away… yet right before my eyes.

But I won’t say it—you wouldn’t understand.

Gu Chuan’s hope to casually chat with a friend about girls came to nothing.

Wen Tinghan stammered, unable to form a proper reply.

She’d already spent every ounce of courage reclaiming her feminine identity—accepting herself as a girl, opening her heart to love.

But that initial surge had faded. Drained.

She lacked the bravery to confess to Gu Chuan now.

She feared losing even friendship.

Gu Chuan’s face fell with quiet disappointment.

Still, he recalled Wen Tinghan rarely noticed girls at school… except An Qianmeng?

She’d once asked about An Qianmeng—back when he and An Qianmeng were “dating.”

After his casual reply, Wen Tinghan’s gaze turned shadowy, unreadable.

Before Gu Chuan could ponder further, a crisp, girlish voice cut through the air.

“So… Gu Chuan, what kind of girl do you like?”

“Huh? Me?”

“Mm!” Wen Tinghan nodded eagerly, her jet-black bob swaying like tassels.

A familiar silhouette flashed in Gu Chuan’s mind. He rubbed his forehead, frowning.

So much time had passed since they parted.

Yet at the word *like*, her smile, her teasing pout, her enchanting grace—all surged back.

And… the chilling sting of her “cold-heartedness.”

“Maybe… a girl like a cat,” Gu Chuan murmured, gaze deep.

“Like a cat…?” Wen Tinghan blinked, puzzled.

His eyes drifted to Zaizai dozing on the floor. A soft laugh escaped him.

“Not a cat like Zaizai.”

As if catching the tease, Zaizai kicked its tiny legs and let out an indignant *“Meow!”*

Wen Tinghan giggled, eyes brimming with affection for the little cat.

*What kind of cat?*

*She’d wear cat ears. A collar. Wag her tail—just for you.*

But what slipped out was:

“Is… An Qianmeng like a cat?”

Gu Chuan glanced at Wen Tinghan—and suddenly saw it: the hidden current in her dark, deep eyes.

“Like a noble canary. Pampered. Willful. Fragile.”

She was the family’s little princess… and a caged bird.

…

Chicken soup simmered in a purple clay pot sent golden steam curling through the air, awakening every taste bud from across the room.

In a snow-white porcelain dish rested Shanghai-style braised pork—glossy, rich, perfectly glazed.

Wen Tinghan’s mother’s signature: stir-fried, then slow-braised.

Lean meat tender yet firm. Fat succulent, never greasy. Skin sticky with gentle chew. A symphony of texture.

Mapo tofu sat beside it, silken and fragrant. Minced beef, chili, and crimson oil formed a vibrant mosaic.

Stir-fried seasonal greens—vibrant, crisp oil greens—offered fresh relief after the savory feast.

Gu Chuan sat rigid at the table, swallowing hard. His nose breathed greedily.

“Don’t mind the humble spread,” Wen Tinghan’s mother said warmly. “Tinghan, serve your classmate rice!”

Wen Tinghan’s clear eyes widened slightly—such abundance was rare at home.

She nodded hastily. “O-okay…”

“No need, Auntie, I can—” Gu Chuan rose, but froze under her gently scolding, doting gaze.

“You silly child. Guests don’t serve themselves.”

Wen Tinghan hurried back with three steaming bowls. Plump grains gleamed; the scent of premium rice drifted warmly.

“Try the pork! Tinghan’s learned most of my skills. You’ll be spoiled soon,” her mother winked.

“Sure… uh…” Gu Chuan sensed a teasing lilt but accepted the bowl Wen Tinghan offered—her cheeks flushed crimson.

He lifted a glossy piece of pork. Popped it in.

Flavor exploded. He froze. Eyes wide. Breath caught.

Had all his past meals been mere survival?

Only now did he truly *taste*.

*The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.*

After this, ordinary food would taste like ash.

Unseen by Gu Chuan, Wen Tinghan’s mother’s eyes crinkled with quiet triumph.

Worth every minute in the kitchen—even the deliberate delays to leave the two alone upstairs.

Maybe soon… grandmotherhood would arrive earlier.

Worth teaching her “slow” daughter every recipe.

*The slow bird must fly early.* Her girl wasn’t quick, but love required cunning.

Without it, she’d watch her daughter drift toward spinsterhood—

Especially with *this* young man glowing like gold before her.

Grades? Irrelevant. She’d already picked her grandson’s name.

Under the table, a light poke to Wen Tinghan’s waist. *Seize the moment.*

Wen Tinghan choked mid-sip.

Lifting shame-pink eyes, she met his gaze—familiar, dreamlike—and the gentle water glass he offered.

“You okay, Tinghan?”

Her heartbeat stuttered.

*Let time stop here.*

But time flowed on.

*Cherish every moment with him. Hold the future tight.*

“I-I’m fine, Gu Chuan… If you don’t mind… can I make your lunchbox from now on?”