Feng Yizhou moved effortlessly around the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he opened the fridge. Qingran leaned against the couch, watching him with barely concealed suspicion.
"What are you making?"
"You'll see." He pulled out a few ingredients, setting them on the counter. His movements were confident, practiced even, which only made Qingran more wary.
"You cook often?" she asked, arms crossed.
"On occasion," he admitted, grabbing a knife. "Can't always rely on takeout."
Qingran narrowed her eyes. "I still don't trust it."
Feng Yizhou chuckled as he started chopping. "You wound me, darling."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the space, surprisingly soothing.
After a few minutes, a savory aroma filled the air, making Qingran's stomach betray her with an audible growl. Feng Yizhou smirked but said nothing, only plating up the dish and setting it in front of her.
