Cozy Morning

He did not go upstairs immediately. Instead, he sat on the Sofa for a while.

He took his phone from his pocket, hesitated for a long time, then decided not to contact Zhang Qingxue.

Here, under his father's roof, he had to be even more cautious.

Still, he knew the plan was already half successful.

Yet his conversation with Su Wantang tonight had planted an unexpected seed, one that would sooner or later take root and sprout.

He had seen the softness within her, the regrets she kept buried deep down, and that suppressed longing for warmth and meaning.

Perhaps this would become a breakthrough more important than that 5% stake.

He rose and headed for the room on the second floor that had "always been kept for him."

The hallway was silent, its lighting dim.

When he pushed open the door, the room was indeed as neat as a hotel suite, without the slightest trace of personal life.

The sheets were smooth, the curtains tightly drawn, and the air carried that faint, impersonal scent unique to a Guest Room.

This truly was only a "room," not a "home."

Zhao Chen shut the door without turning on the main light, switching on only a warm yellow lamp by the bed.

He sat at the bedside and typed a few words into a hidden note-taking app on his phone:

"Su. 5%. Art. Child. Loneliness. Can win over."

Then he deleted the entry.

He lay down and closed his eyes.

The fog outside the window seemed to drift in, wrapping even his consciousness in haze.

Just before he slipped into sleep, the last image in his mind was Su Wantang's eyes when she spoke of her child—eyes that had suddenly dimmed, yet glimmered faintly again when she recalled her days teaching in rural areas.

And that heartfelt truth she herself had not realized she had spoken, about "shares" and "leaving," filled with helplessness.

In this cold home, perhaps they were both prisoners, merely trapped in different cages.

Morning Light struggled through the thick fog, seeping through the gap in the second-floor room's curtains and casting several hazy streaks across the dark Wooden Floor.

When Zhao Chen woke up, he was disoriented for a few seconds.

An unfamiliar ceiling, an overly soft mattress, and the faint scent of disinfectant in the air—this was the distinctive smell of the Guest Room at home: clean, attentive, yet so desolate it held not a trace of human warmth.

He sat up and rubbed his brow.

His conversation with Su Wantang last night—those quiet words about art, children, and loneliness—still lingered in his mind like the night fog, not yet fully dispersed.

He clearly remembered her final, sincere smile, as well as the helplessness deeply hidden in her words.

After washing up, Zhao Chen changed into the clean clothes he had brought and opened his door.

Faint sounds drifted up from downstairs, along with a scent... more homey than Wang Ma's usual cooking.

He went down the spiral staircase, then paused slightly at the sight in the Dining Table area.

The long Dining Table was not laden with a dazzling spread of breakfast dishes. In front of his usual seat sat only a bowl of clear-broth noodles, accompanied by a dish of bright green blanched vegetables and a small saucer of Red Oil dipping sauce.

Each noodle strand was distinct, the broth clear and bright. A perfectly fried egg lay on top, its edges lightly browned.

Su Wantang stood with her back to him, busy with something at the open Western Kitchen Island.

Today, she wore a light gray loungewear set, her hair loosely pinned behind her head to reveal her fair neck.

Morning light streamed in through the large side window, outlining her in a soft glow.

Wang Ma emerged from the Kitchen carrying a pot of freshly squeezed Soy Milk. The moment she saw Zhao Chen, her face broke into a broad smile. Lowering her voice, she said, "Xiao Chen, you're up? Come sit down and eat while the noodles are hot.

Xiao Su got up early and made these for you herself—kneading the dough, rolling the noodles, simmering the Soup. She's been busy for nearly an hour!"

Her tone held undisguised admiration, along with a touch of sentiment. "Your dad hasn't had this kind of treat in years."

Hearing that, Su Wantang turned around, still holding a cotton cloth for drying her hands.

When she saw Zhao Chen, a gentle smile appeared on her face. There was a faint weariness at the corners of her eyes, but her gaze was clear.

"You're awake?" She walked over, set the cloth aside, and spoke softly.

"I don't know whether it suits your taste. Give it a try..."

Zhao Chen stood where he was, his gaze shifting from the steaming bowl of noodles on the table to Su Wantang's face, which carried a hint of nervousness and anticipation.

Somewhere in his Chest Cavity, it felt as if warm tides had gently washed over him, bringing an unfamiliar ache and softness.

He had not experienced this feeling of being thought of, of someone silently putting that care into action, for a very, very long time—not since his mother passed away.

Even at his lowest point in his Previous Life, Su Wantang's visits had brought the difficult warmth of the world beyond prison, but never anything as... ordinary and tangible as this moment.

After several seconds of silence, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Looking up at Su Wantang, he spoke with rare seriousness and gentleness. "Thank you... Porce—... you worked hard."

He could no longer bring himself to call her "Porcelain Azalea"!

"It's okay!" Su Wantang said without minding. "Call me what you used to!"

Su Wantang noticed the subtle change in Zhao Chen's mood.

Her eyes curved as the nervousness faded, replaced by a soft satisfaction. "It wasn't hard. Hurry and try it."

Zhao Chen picked up his chopsticks and first took a sip of the Soup. The broth was clear, yet rich with the fragrance of bones and a faint umami note of mushrooms, balancing the greasiness perfectly.