“Miss Yang,” he said, “to be honest, I don’t know much about these things. Could you recommend something? I trust your sense of style after seeing the cheongsams you make.”
Yang Zhiyan looked at him.
Under the living room lights, his eyes seemed deeper than usual. His dark irises resembled a lake in late autumn—still and shadowed, yet remarkably clear.
“Alright.” She lowered her head and continued taking notes on her phone. “I’ll put together a few design proposals first and send them to you. Would it be convenient for you to provide your mother’s height, weight, and measurements?”
Qin Yuzheng took out his phone and opened a message.
That morning, he had deliberately texted his mother:
“Mom, I’d like to have a cheongsam made for you. Could you send me your measurements?”
His mother had replied with a one-minute voice message, rambling about all sorts of things before finally listing her measurements at the very end.
He read the numbers aloud.
Yang Zhiyan recorded each one carefully. When she finished, she set her phone on the coffee table and looked up at him.
“Mr. Qin, the first sample should be ready in about two weeks. I’ll contact you then.”
“Alright.”
Their conversation came to a natural stop, as though they had reached the end of a road. Beyond it lay an open field, with no clear direction to continue.
Silence settled over the living room.
The second hand on the wall clock ticked steadily, each click amplified by the quiet.
From the kitchen came the gentle bubbling of something simmering.
It was the pork bone soup Yang Zhiyan had been cooking all afternoon. She had intentionally left a pot for tomorrow morning, planning to make noodles with it.
The rich aroma of pork bones and lotus root drifted out of the kitchen, spreading down the hallway into the living room.
It smelled incredible.
Qin Yuzheng’s nose twitched.
The scent was so enticing that his stomach tightened involuntarily.
He hadn’t really eaten all day.
He’d had a glass of milk in the morning. At noon, two phone calls and a stack of work had distracted him until he’d completely forgotten about lunch.
It happened often.
Eating alone simply wasn’t enjoyable.
“What smells so good?” he asked, glancing toward the kitchen.
“Bone soup.” Yang Zhiyan followed his gaze. “Lotus root and pork rib soup. It’s been simmering all afternoon.”
Qin Yuzheng looked away from the kitchen and at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table.
After hesitating for a moment, he spoke.
“Miss Yang…” His voice carried a cautious, almost embarrassed tone. “Could I… have a bowl?”
Yang Zhiyan looked at him.
He sat on the sofa in a light gray loungewear set and black casual pants. His hands rested on his knees, fingers interlocked while his thumbs unconsciously circled each other.
Right now, he didn’t look like the commanding man from the café.
Nor the man who had made her heart race at the cheongsam exhibition.
At this moment, he was simply…
…an ordinary man living alone, someone who hadn’t enjoyed a proper meal in a long time, a little awkward and a little lonely.
“You haven’t eaten yet?” she asked.
“I’ve been busy with work.” He lowered his eyes to his intertwined fingers. “Besides… eating alone just isn’t much fun.”
Yang Zhiyan suddenly remembered a phone call she’d had with Grandma Qin a few days earlier.
The elderly woman had chatted endlessly about family matters.
Though they were just everyday conversations, Yang Zhiyan had pieced together a picture.
Grandma Qin’s grandson lived alone at Shengshi Tianxi.
He was always busy, constantly working overtime, ate irregularly, and usually just grabbed whatever food was convenient.
When Grandma Qin talked about him, her voice had been full of concern—the kind every grandmother had for the grandson she adored.
“Ah Zheng,” Grandma Qin had sighed over the phone, “living alone means nobody looks after him. He barely eats properly. It worries me sick.”
Then, without warning, she’d changed the subject.
“Zhiyan, do you have a boyfriend?”
Yang Zhiyan had answered no.
“That’s good…” Grandma Qin’s voice had suddenly brightened before she quickly tried to hide it.
“Unlike my two grandsons. Neither of them wants to get married. They worry me to death.”
At the time, Yang Zhiyan had simply laughed without thinking much of it.
But now…
Thinking back, Grandma Qin had first asked whether she had a boyfriend, then immediately complained that her grandson refused to marry.
Putting those two remarks together…
…was there some hidden meaning she’d completely missed?
“Mr. Qin,” Yang Zhiyan said as she stood. “Please wait a moment. I’ll get you a bowl of soup and cook you some noodles.”
Qin Yuzheng looked up at her.
His eyes were noticeably brighter than before.
“Wouldn’t that be too much trouble?”
“Not at all.” She was already walking toward the kitchen. “I was going to cook anyway.”
She entered the kitchen and lifted the lid of the clay pot.
A cloud of white steam billowed upward, fogging her face.
She stirred the soup with a ladle.
The lotus root and pork ribs rolled gently through the creamy white broth. The savory richness of the bones blended with the sweetness of the lotus root into a warm, comforting fragrance that made anyone want to take a deep breath.
She filled a bowl with soup before placing another pot of water on to boil the noodles.
When the water reached a rolling boil, she dropped in the noodles and loosened them with chopsticks.
On the other burner, she reheated the braised chicken wings and boiled shrimp left over from lunch before quickly stir-frying a plate of greens.
From the living room, Qin Yuzheng listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
The scrape of the spatula.
The bubbling water.
The gentle clinking of bowls and plates.
The sounds blended into a busy, lively rhythm.
Suddenly…
The apartment felt alive.
Not the silent, empty kind of life that came with living alone.
But a home filled with warmth.
Filled with everyday life.
Filled with the comforting atmosphere of someone cooking.
He had never envied that sort of domestic warmth before.
Yet now, he found himself longing for it.
Was it because he was getting older?
Or…
…because of her?
Yang Zhiyan returned carrying a tray.
On it sat a bowl of soup, a bowl of noodles, a plate of chicken wings, a plate of shrimp, and a small dish of stir-fried greens.
She placed everything neatly on the coffee table before stepping back.
“Eat while it’s hot.”
Qin Yuzheng looked at the bowl of noodles.
Resting atop the noodles was a fried egg.
The egg white was snowy white, while the yolk remained soft, trembling slightly at the lightest touch.
A scattering of chopped scallions floated across the surface like tender green shoots in spring.
The creamy pork bone broth steamed gently, carrying the rich fragrance of pork and lotus root as warm, moist air brushed across his face.
He picked up his chopsticks.
Lifted a mouthful of noodles.
The moment they entered his mouth…
His chopsticks stopped.
It was unbelievably delicious.
The noodles were cooked to exactly the right firmness.
The broth was perfectly seasoned.
The edges of the fried egg were lightly crisp while the yolk remained beautifully runny. When he bit into it, the golden yolk flowed into the soup, making the broth even richer.
He took another bite.
Then another.
He never paused.
Yang Zhiyan sat across from him in the armchair, quietly sipping her own bowl of soup.
She watched him eat.
He ate quickly, yet not the slightest bit crudely.
His table manners were impeccable.
Silent.
Steady.
Even when lifting noodles with his chopsticks, not a strand slipped.
Halfway through the meal, he finally looked up.
“Miss Yang,” he said sincerely, without the slightest exaggeration, “you’re an excellent cook. This is the best bowl of noodles I’ve ever had.”
The praise made Yang Zhiyan blush.
She lowered her head and took another sip of soup, hiding half her face behind the bowl.
“They’re just ordinary noodles,” she said. “You’re hungry. Everything tastes good when you’re hungry.”
Qin Yuzheng shook his head without explaining.
He knew it wasn’t because he was hungry.
It was because this bowl of noodles carried a warmth—and a kindness—that made it different.
More importantly…
Because she had made it.
He finished every last noodle.
Drank every drop of soup.
Ate three chicken wings.
Five shrimp.
More than half the vegetables.
When he finally set down his chopsticks, he leaned back against the sofa, resting one hand on his stomach as he let out a long, satisfied breath.
“I’m full.”
His voice carried the simple contentment of a child who had finally gotten the candy he’d been craving.
Yang Zhiyan watched him.
The corners of her lips curved upward.
Seeing him enjoy the meal made her unexpectedly happy.
She didn’t dislike cooking.
What she hated was having people criticize everything she did.
Growing up in the Yang family, no one had ever praised her cooking.
If it tasted good, that was simply what she was supposed to do.
If it didn’t, she’d be scolded.
“Miss Yang.”
Qin Yuzheng looked at her.
There was a seriousness in his eyes, mixed with a hint of embarrassment.
“Could I… come over once in a while and mooch a meal?”
He hurriedly added,
“I’ll wash the dishes.”
Yang Zhiyan blinked in surprise.
“I know it’s an inappropriate request,” he said quickly. “If it’s inconvenient, just pretend I never asked. It’s just… eating alone really isn’t much fun. If you’re cooking, I’ll buy the groceries, wash the dishes, help with prep—I’ll do whatever’s needed.”