Wen Mian pursed her lips and shook her head, "It's nothing."
Pei Zhiyao didn't press further. He placed the dinner plate in his hands on the table—it was a dinner he had made himself.
The fragrant dishes exuded steam, filling the entire dining room with an enticing aroma.
He sat opposite Wen Mian and watched her tenderly, "Eat it, or it won't taste good once it gets cold."
His voice was deep and soft, like the melody of a cello.
Wen Mian looked down at the delicious food on the table, gently picked up a piece of chicken, and chewed slowly.
The chicken was tender and juicy, with a hint of freshness that made her squint her eyes slightly.
Seeing her contented expression, a warmth surged in Pei Zhiyao's heart.
"Delicious."
It's not that she couldn't cook, she just didn't like the greasy feeling of the kitchen.
Only in front of Pei Zhiyao could she genuinely let go of that resistance in her heart.
