Chapter 84

Chapter 84: The Best Actor’s Feeding?

Fu Yan Shi had seen too many beautiful people—inside the industry and outside it. Faces sculpted by money, bodies polished by cameras, smiles rehearsed until they shone.

But no one was like her.

It was as if she had been born to perform. She could be alluring and bold, charming and dangerous, seductive enough to make people forget to breathe—and the next moment, she could look so clean she seemed untouched by the mortal world.

Qiao Qing Yan glanced at the untouched breakfast box on the table and lifted one brow. Then she sat down in the dining chair beside it.

“The breakfast outside the building is pretty good,” she said. “A lot of artists make their assistants stand in line forever just to buy it.”

She opened the box. The scent of meat buns rose warm and rich into the air.

“If you don’t like it,” she added, reaching inside, “you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Her fingers hadn’t even closed around a bun when a long hand reached over and pressed gently on the back of her hand.

“I’ll cook,” Fu Yan Shi said.

His voice was still low and hoarse from sleep—rougher than usual, not as clear or pleasant, but somehow more intimate for it.

“Wait for me.”

Qiao Qing Yan looked back at him. Her expression turned faintly skeptical.

“I’ve never been in a kitchen,” she said, as if that alone should end the discussion.

“Noodles and eggs are enough.”

His brows dipped slightly, and in that subtle movement there was a tenderness even he didn’t seem to notice.

For a moment, Qiao Qing Yan stared into his eyes—deep, quiet—and saw her own face reflected there, delicate and clear.

She was always calm. Always controlled.

But something in that look loosened her, just a little.

“Fine,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “As you wish.”

The fridge did, by chance, have noodles and eggs.

Eggs were the kind of thing every female celebrity kept around, whether they ate them or not. And the noodles… she vaguely remembered buying something at the supermarket a few days ago and getting them as a promotion.

They’d also given her a potted plant.

That pothos was on the balcony.

Fu Yan Shi handed her the soy milk, as if appeasing her. “Drink this first. I’ll be quick.”

Then Qiao Qing Yan watched as the tall, outstanding, noble man rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove competence.

The apartment had been assigned by the company, so of course it had a kitchen. But the original host had never stepped into it. Everything inside existed—but it might as well have been unopened.

The kitchen and living room were connected as an open space originally.

Yet someone had sealed it off.

As if the kitchen itself offended her.

Now it felt small and faintly oppressive, cramped and uncomfortable—especially for someone like Fu Yan Shi, nearly 1.9 meters tall. When he stepped in, it was like watching a man walk into a tight little box.

He didn’t seem affected at all.

He lit the stove. Boiled water. Dropped in the noodles. Fried the egg.

Each motion flowed neatly into the next—swift, clean, steady.

For the first time, the apartment felt like it held a trace of ordinary life. Warmth rose in the steam and the scent, and yet it still seemed to keep its distance from him, unwilling to stain him with anything too mundane.

Qiao Qing Yan had expected disaster—pots clanging, chaos everywhere.

Instead, she found herself watching him the way people watched a performance: unwilling to look away.

A wicked thought lifted its head in her mind.

If she could make this man cook her breakfast for the rest of her life… that didn’t sound bad at all.

“It’s ready,” Fu Yan Shi said, setting down a bowl. “Taste it and see if it’s too salty.”