When An Ning and Jiang Xia sat down to eat, An Ning stared blankly at the pot of noodles in the center of the table.
"There's so much?"
"Yeah."
"I don't remember putting this much in."
Jiang Xia looked at An Ning, who was rarely so unskilled at something, and said, "It's fine. I know how to cook."
The sentence carried a hint of a confession, and An Ning heard it.
But with her unusually wired brain, currently preoccupied with the mystery of the multiplying noodles, she didn't quite process it.
"I think you're right. It's best to leave professional matters to the professionals."
'A professional?'
Jiang Xia's heart hammered in his chest, his smile so strained he could have cried. Since when had he become a professional chef?
Regardless, after taking that tiny step, Jiang Xia discovered that confessing one's feelings was truly exhilarating. Just that small test had left him covered in sweat.
"Are you hot?"
"Yes, yes, it's a little hot! I'll go get the soy sauce."
