When Grandpa Shao heard Wen Yin name the soup, a smile eased across his face that hadn’t been there before.
Honestly, he’d never been much for soups. It was Wen Yin’s cooking that had coaxed his appetite awake again. He hadn’t expected the girl’s simple meals to taste so homey and yet so fresh—just the kind of food he liked. Seeing him enjoy it made Wen Yin’s face brighten in return.
“You feeling any better these days, Grandpa?” she asked, reaching for the teacup.
“And is this sort of food sitting well with you?”
She asked the questions she always asked—after all, he was a patient; his stomach couldn’t be treated like anyone else’s. Every recovery stage had its own menu plan, and Wen Yin adjusted it all herself.
Grandpa Shao saw the concern in her eyes and waved a hand, chuckling. “I’m much better than I was. You’ve been working hard.”
If she hadn’t bothered to vary his meals so carefully, he might never have recovered the energy he had now. He knew she had a lot on her plate—her studio, the patisserie, and now looking after him. The thought made him wrinkle his eyes with concern for her as well.
Wen Yin smiled, relieved. “Chef Li said you weren’t much for soup before. If you like this one, I’ll try a few more recipes—soup’s good for the stomach, and that’s what you need.”
Her earnestness touched him. He reached out and patted her hand, eyes misting for just a beat. “Wen, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t say that, Grandpa,” she replied quickly. “I told you before—when I look at you, it’s like seeing my grandmother. Mine passed away years ago. Seeing you… it’s like I have something to hold onto again. Just get better—that’s thanks enough.”
She spoke slowly, each word sincere. The normally stubborn old man didn’t know how to answer and simply nodded, over and over. “All right. I’ll take care of myself. I won’t let you down.”
They fixed the time for her next visit and Wen Yin left, unaware that as soon as she was gone Grandpa Shao had called Li Xiangwei over.
Li rushed in at his summons, expecting trouble. Instead she found the old man with color in his cheeks and a spring to his step—his improvement was obvious. Only weeks ago he had barely been kept alive by daily glucose infusions; now he looked almost robust.
“Wen’s dietary therapy is working,” Li said, folding her hands politely. “Does she still cook what you like?”
“Ah, that girl has been diligent. I owe my vigor to her,” the old man said.
Li hesitated, then asked, “Is she busy these days? I keep seeing her hurrying about.”
Grandpa Shao frowned slightly. He probably hadn’t been told about Wen Yin and Shao Yinan’s wedding—none of them had mentioned it. Li, who knew something but no more than the others, deflected. “She’s tied up with the patisserie. She checks every cake herself. She’s taken on an apprentice, but she still pops in to oversee things. Don’t worry—no matter how busy she gets, she’ll always come to cook for you.”
He waved away her concern. “I’m not worried about the shop. I’m just afraid she’ll tire herself out.”
Li assured him again that Wen Yin wasn’t overworking, and only then did he relax. As she left, a small doubt nagged Li’s mind: Wen hadn’t told Grandpa about the wedding—had Shao Yinan told him? Did a son really marry without informing his father? It wasn’t her place to pry.
Wen Yin had been busy—less often at the patisserie, the apprentice had copied her techniques well enough that fans still lined up for her cakes. Her attention had mostly been on the wedding dress. Li had recommended a few reputable designers; Wen Yin was arranging fittings and looking at samples. She had considered making the gown herself, but the labor and time required would have been enormous. Shao Yinan had insisted he could find top designers, at home or abroad, to make a custom dress for her. He didn’t want her exhausted over stitches. Reluctantly, she let the idea go.
A few days later a renowned foreign couturier arrived and took her measurements. After the fitting Wen Yin slipped away to prepare Grandpa’s dinner at the hotel kitchen.
She planned noodle soup with poached eggs and a clear broth. Her hands moved with practiced confidence—kneading, rolling, cutting the dough into long, even strands. Her knife work had been honed into a quiet precision: the noodles came out uniform, slender, almost elegant.
While the water warmed, she cracked two eggs into it, poaching them gently. She had a feel for the flame; the whites set around the yolks while she left the centers soft, the yolks still slightly runny on purpose. When she lifted them free, the eggs held their shape but promised that molten heart inside—silky whites giving way to warm, golden yolk. It would be a simple bowl, but every element was tended to, the way she tended to people.