Shen Jing followed the cat's meows, turned her head, and her movements froze as her voice also halted in time.
Zhou Luchen stood between the doorways, the silvery white crystal lamps above casting light on his face, which bore an ingrained sense of cold fatigue.
After a few breaths, Shen Jing covered her face. Had she spoken ill of him? Definitely not. Even if she had, she wouldn't admit it.
Zhuang Ming, very sensibly, stepped forward to take the document bag from Zhou Luchen's hand.
"The main course was personally cooked by Miss Shen."
Zhou Luchen's gaze shifted to the dining table where the steaming hot dishes had just been served.
Then he looked back at Shen Jing, who was wearing a white apron with half of her hair pinned up with a hair stick.
For no apparent reason, a picture of peaceful times emerged, as if she was specifically waiting for him to come home.
