His physiological preference

"Miss Yang," he said, "to be honest, I don't know much about these things. Could you recommend some? I trust your taste in cheongsams."

Yang Zhiyan looked at him.

His eyes appeared darker than usual under the living room lights; the color of his pupils resembled the deep, dark, yet clean water of an autumn lake.

"Okay," she said, lowering her head to continue taking notes on her phone. "I'll come up with a few plans first and send them to you later. Could you please provide your mother's height, weight, and measurements?"

Qin Yuzheng took out his phone and found a message he had specifically asked his mother that morning, saying...

"Mom, I'd like to make you a cheongsam. Please give me your measurements." His mother replied with a 60-second voice message, in which she rambled on for a long time before finally giving him a few numbers.

He read those numbers to Yang Zhiyan.

Yang Zhiyan wrote everything down. After she finished, she put her phone on the coffee table and looked up at him.

"Mr. Qin, the first sample should be ready in about two weeks. I will contact you then."

"Okay," he said.

The conversation between the two ended there, like a road reaching its end, with wasteland ahead and no idea which way to go.

The living room fell silent. The second hand of the wall clock ticked away, its sound amplified in the quiet.

Something was bubbling in the kitchen; it was the bone broth Yang Zhiyan had made that afternoon. She had saved a pot to use for noodles the next morning.

The aroma of pork ribs and lotus root wafted from the kitchen, spreading down the hallway into the living room; it smelled wonderful.

Qin Yuzheng's nose twitched.

The aroma was so strong that his stomach involuntarily contracted. He hadn't eaten much all day. He drank a glass of milk in the morning, answered two phone calls at noon, handled some work matters, and then forgot to eat.

This happens often; I feel it's no fun eating alone.

"What smells so good?" he asked, looking toward the kitchen.

"Bone broth," Yang Zhiyan glanced at the kitchen following his gaze, "lotus root and pork rib soup, it's been simmering all afternoon."

Qin Yuzheng turned his gaze from the kitchen to the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. He hesitated for a moment.

"Miss Yang," he said, his voice hesitant and somewhat embarrassed, "may I have a bowl?"

Yang Zhiyan looked at him.

He sat on the sofa, wearing light gray loungewear and black casual pants. His hands were on his knees, his fingers interlaced, his thumbs unconsciously twirling.

At this moment, he didn't seem like the man with a powerful aura in the coffee shop, nor the man who made her heart race at the cheongsam culture exhibition.

At this moment, he was just an ordinary person, living alone, who hadn't had a proper meal in a long time and was a bit clumsy.

"You haven't eaten yet?" she asked.

"I'm busy with work," he said, looking down at his interlaced fingers. "And eating alone isn't quite right."

Yang Zhiyan recalled that when she called Grandma Qin a couple of days ago, the old lady talked on and on.

They were talking about everyday family matters, but Yang Zhiyan pieced together a picture from their chatter: Grandma Qin's grandson lived alone in Shengshi Tianxi, was busy with work, often worked overtime, had irregular eating habits, and ate whatever he could find when he was alone.

When Grandma Qin said this, her tone was full of heartache, just like any grandmother who dotes on her grandson.

"Ah Zheng," Grandma Qin said on the phone, "he lives alone, no one takes care of him, and he just eats whatever's available. I'm so worried about him."

Then Grandma Qin changed the subject and asked her, "Zhiyan, do you have a boyfriend?"

Yang Zhiyan said no.

"No, it's not good," Grandma Qin's voice suddenly brightened, but she quickly changed the subject, afraid of being obvious.

"Don't let them end up like my two grandsons, neither of them getting married. It's driving me crazy."

Yang Zhiyan just smiled at the time and didn't think much of it.

Looking back now, when Grandma Qin asked her if she had a boyfriend and mentioned that her grandson wasn't getting married, was there something she didn't understand in those two sentences?

"Mr. Qin," Yang Zhiyan stood up, "please wait a moment, I'll serve you a bowl of soup first, then cook you a bowl of noodles."

Qin Yuzheng looked up at her, his eyes shining brighter than before.

"Wouldn't this be too much trouble for you?"

"No," Yang Zhiyan said, already heading towards the kitchen. "I was going to cook anyway."

She went into the kitchen and opened the lid of the casserole. White steam billowed out of the pot, smearing her face.

She stirred the soup in the pot with a ladle. The lotus root and pork ribs tumbled in the milky white broth, the freshness of the bones and the sweetness of the lotus root mingling together, rich, warm, and making one want to take a deep breath.

She ladled out a bowl of soup, then took an empty bowl and started cooking noodles. Once the water boiled, she added the noodles and stirred them with chopsticks.

On the other stove, she heated up the leftover braised chicken wings and boiled shrimp from lunch, and stir-fried some greens.

Qin Yuzheng sat in the living room and heard the sounds of spatulas stirring, water boiling, and dishes clattering coming from the kitchen.

The sounds were all mixed together, noisy and busy, but it made him feel that the room had suddenly come alive.

It's not the kind of quiet, empty life where you live alone; it's a life full of life, warmth, and human connection.

He used to never envy this kind of everyday life, but now he finds himself longing for it. Is it because he's getting older? Or is it because of her?

Yang Zhiyan came out carrying a tray. On the tray were a bowl of soup, a bowl of noodles, a plate of chicken wings, a plate of shrimp, and a small dish of green vegetables.

She placed the tray on the coffee table, arranged the bowls and chopsticks one by one, then stepped back and looked at Qin Yuzheng.

"Eat it while it's hot," she said.

Qin Yuzheng looked at the bowl of noodles in front of him.

The noodles lay in the soup, with a poached egg on top. The egg white was snow-white, and the yolk was half-cooked, trembling at the slightest touch.

A few chopped scallions are sprinkled on the soup noodles, their vibrant green color resembling newly sprouted grass shoots in spring.

The soup was bone broth, milky white and rich, with steam rising from the rim of the bowl, carrying the aroma of pork bones and lotus root, warm and moistening his face.

He picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of noodles.

The moment the noodles touched his mouth, his chopsticks paused.

It was so delicious! The noodles were cooked to the perfect firmness, the soup was perfectly salty, and the fried egg was fried until the edges were slightly crispy while the yolk was still runny. When you bit into it, the yolk flowed out and mixed into the soup, making it even richer.

He took a second bite. A third bite. He didn't stop.

Yang Zhiyan sat on the single sofa opposite, holding her bowl of soup in her hand, sipping it slowly.

She watched Qin Yuzheng eat noodles; he ate quickly but not at all rudely. He ate gracefully, without making a sound, holding his chopsticks steadily so that the noodles wouldn't fall.

He only looked up at her when they were halfway through the meal.

"Miss Yang, your cooking is excellent," he said sincerely and without embellishment. "This is the best noodles I've ever had."

Yang Zhiyan felt a little embarrassed by his praise, so she lowered her head, took a sip of soup, and used the bowl to cover half of her face.

"It's just regular noodles," she said. "When you're hungry, anything tastes good."

Qin Yuzheng shook his head, offering no explanation. He knew it wasn't because he was hungry, but because the temperature of the noodles and the sentiment behind them were truly different. And even more so because of her.

He finished a bowl of noodles. He also finished the soup. He ate three chicken wings, five shrimp, and most of a plate of vegetables.

When he put down his chopsticks, he leaned back on the sofa, placed one hand on his stomach, and let out a long breath.

"I'm full," he said, his tone filled with satisfaction, like a child finally getting the candy they'd been craving.

Yang Zhiyan smiled slightly as she looked at him. Seeing him eat so happily made her smile happily too.

Yang Zhiyan doesn't dislike cooking, but she dislikes being told what to do. In the Yang family, her cooking never received praise; if it was good, it was expected, and if it wasn't, she would be scolded.

"Miss Yang," Qin Yuzheng looked at her, his eyes filled with a solemn, earnest, yet embarrassed request, "Could I occasionally come over for a meal? I'll do the dishes."

Yang Zhiyan was stunned for a moment.

"I know this request is presumptuous," he quickly added, "If it's inconvenient for you, then forget it. I just feel that eating alone is really not very interesting. If you cook, I'll take care of buying groceries, washing dishes, helping out, anything is fine."