The warm yellow light cast upon him, softening his overly cold and hard features. Even his lenses seemed to be covered with a layer of warm vapor.
The way he concentrated on stirring the soup spoon, the lines of his profile in the light and shadow seemed unexpectedly...soft? Even with a hint of homely warmth.
Mu Xinrong stood at the door of the restaurant, watching this scene, almost forgetting to breathe.
Ye Qingliu, the academic genius who was always meticulous and like a precision instrument in school, the observer who recorded indifferently in countless world lines... at this moment, was actually making porridge for him and Chao Youye?
This huge contrast made the last bit of uneasiness in Mu Xinrong's heart disappear, leaving only a full, almost overflowing warmth and... a strange urge to laugh.
Qingliu...he is so cute!
As if hearing footsteps, Ye Qingliu stopped stirring and turned around.
Seeing Mu Xinrong wearing home clothes and with slightly wet hair, his gray-blue eyes flashed behind the lenses. He looked him up and down, as if to confirm that he was in good condition, and then nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Sit down." Ye Qingliu gestured with his eyes to the high chair next to the center island, his words concise and to the point.
Then he picked up a clean white porcelain bowl and used a spoon to scoop out a full bowl of steaming porridge from the casserole.
The porridge was cooked perfectly, the rice grains had fully blossomed, presenting a crystal clear gelatinous texture and just the right thickness.
The porridge is filled with finely shredded chicken, which is tender white in color, and is garnished with very finely chopped ginger and green chopped green onions.
Ye Qingliu gently placed the bowl on the center island in front of Mu Xinrong and placed a porcelain spoon on it. His movements were natural and smooth, as if it was just an ordinary thing.
"Eat something first." Amidst the warm aroma and light, Ye Qingliu's voice seemed to have lost some of its usual coldness and become more subtly gentle. "He's stable for now. The nurse will be watching him. You can't fall down again."
His eyes fell on Mu Xinrong's still pale face, with a concern that needed no words between friends.
Mu Xinrong looked at the bowl of steaming and fragrant chicken porridge in front of him, then looked up at Ye Qingliu.
Under the warm yellow light, Ye Qingliu's gray-blue eyes, which always seemed too calm, seemed to reflect a little warm light.
Mu Xinrong's nose began to feel sore again, but this time it was not because of despair, but because of a full emotion called warmth and security.
He picked up the spoon, scooped up a spoonful of porridge, blew on it, and carefully put it into his mouth. The temperature was just right, not too hot.
The porridge has a dense and smooth texture, with the sweetness of rice and the mellow and fresh aroma of chicken broth. The shredded chicken is tender and not dry, the ginger strips bring a perfect warmth, and the chopped green onions add a refreshing taste.
"Delicious..." Mu Xinrong muttered vaguely, his voice a little choked, but more of satisfaction.
He lowered his head and began to eat with big mouthfuls. As the hot porridge went down his throat, warmth quickly spread to every part of his body. His cold body was finally completely warmed up, and his fatigue seemed to be dispelled a lot by the warm food.
Ye Qingliu looked at Mu Xinrong wolfing down the food, and his eyes behind the lenses seemed to soften for a moment.
He didn't say anything, but picked up another clean bowl and scooped a full bowl of porridge into it. Then he turned around, holding the bowl, and walked steadily towards the guest room where Youye was.
Mu Xinrong stopped the spoon and watched Ye Qingliu's back disappear around the corner of the corridor.
He understood that Qingliu was going to prepare a bowl of hot porridge for Chao Youye as well. Although he might not be able to eat it now, this bowl of porridge, like Qingliu's silent protection and care, would remain warm there, waiting for him to wake up.
Mu Xinrong was the only one left in the restaurant. He ate the warm porridge in his bowl slowly, mouthful by mouthful, listening to the steady beeping of the electrocardiogram monitor faintly coming from the guest room in the distance, feeling the warmth rising in his stomach and heart.
The wind and snow outside the window seemed to have faded away, and the villa was warm, quiet, and safe. The clear stream was there, the porridge was there, and so was hope.
At this moment, Mu Xinrong was absolutely certain. No matter what Ye Qingliu's identity was in other worlds, in this world, he was their most trustworthy friend, their path home on snowy nights, and their bowl of hot porridge in times of despair.
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