Chapter 9

For a moment, I felt like we were back in our old days together.

When we rented a place in college, he’d sometimes act like this too.

But I'd always end up dragging him by the ear into the kitchen to cook himself.

He once indulged me without limits.

He'd stay up all night organizing notes to help me get into the same university.

In college, he gave up his study abroad slot because he saw me secretly crying.

That slot later went to Liam, my best friend.

I pulled myself out of memory lane, seeing Julian still sprawled on the sofa, unmoving.

He really did have a stomachache.

I’d noticed on the way back that his脸色 didn't look good.

His stomach issues were hereditary, something he'd had since childhood.

He was also very particular about what he ate, needing bland, nourishing food.

I went out and bought some groceries.

He didn't stop me, probably because he had my phone and wasn't afraid I'd run.

I bought millet, jujube seeds, and some herbs.

A soft, comforting millet porridge, paired with jujube seed soup – good for appetite and digestion.

All these years, I still remembered them clearly.

Porridge takes time to cook, and jujube seed soup is also complicated.

I spent nearly three hours in the kitchen.

It was deep into the night when both the porridge and soup were finally ready.

Midway, Julian came into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, teasing me.

“Chloe, are you deliberately trying to spend the night here?”

I remembered some past things and couldn’t help but blush.

I stammered a bit, “Are you hungry? Maybe I can make something else first, just to tie you over?”

Julian just dropped a curt “Not hungry” and went back to the living room.

He seemed to be in a better mood.

But when I brought out the porridge and soup, his face was stony again.

He was still sitting on the sofa.

A pet dog he owned sat beside his feet.

I cleared the dining table and set everything out.

Julian walked over, the dog following him.

He reached the table, picked up the large pot of soup, and directly poured it into the pot of porridge.

I was startled. “They’re supposed to be drunk separately, you can’t mix them!”

As I said it, I suddenly remembered: this wasn’t the first time he’d eaten these.

I used to make them for him often; he couldn’t possibly not know.

Julian mixed the two items together.

Then he casually picked up a pair of forks, expressionlessly stirring the mess.

I watched three hours of my effort turn into a disaster in his hands.

He picked up the porridge pot, dumped it on the floor, and beckoned to the dog.

“Here, eat.”