Leng Zimo raised his hand to support Luo Xiaoqian's shoulder, pushed her to sit by the dining table, took a napkin and placed it on her lap, then opened the thermos box, taking out the steaming hot wonton soup, and served a bowl to her.
"I made it myself."
In the bowl, the beautifully wrapped wontons had a faint fresh aroma, the taste of chicken broth.
This was her favorite breakfast, chicken broth wonton soup.
There was no cilantro inside, neither he nor she liked it.
Later, she tried to make it many times, but she could never replicate the taste he made.
Reaching over, he placed a porcelain spoon in her bowl, raised an eyebrow, "You don't like it?"
"No..."
Luo Xiaoqian picked up the spoon, scooped up a spoonful of soup, and gently drank a small mouthful. The familiar taste was just like five years ago.
Her nose, involuntarily, started to feel sour.
