In the seafood section, Sophie's gaze was irresistibly drawn to a lively crab that flailed its large claws, as though issuing a challenge to us. "Darling, shall we buy a crab to steam at home?" she asked, gripping my hand, her eyes brimming with anticipation and delight.

I couldn't help but laugh, gently squeezing her fingers. "Weren't we planning to steam fish instead?"

A fleeting trace of disappointment crossed Sophie's face, but her eyes remained fixed on the crab, as though locked in a silent conversation with it. Seeing her crestfallen expression, my heart softened. I reached out and placed several crabs into the shopping bag.

Her face lit up instantly, her earlier disappointment giving way to pure joy. Her eyes sparkled as she threw her arms around me, clinging to me like a playful child. "Ryan, you're the best," she murmured, her voice dripping with affection.

In that moment, I almost wondered if I were dreaming. Could this truly be the usually composed and rational Sophie? I couldn't recall a single instance when she had ever expressed such heartfelt gratitude toward me.

After finishing our shopping, we pushed the cart to the checkout area. Sophie clung tightly to my arm, unwilling to let go for even a second. Her warmth radiated into me, spreading through my chest like a gentle current.

As we waited in line, Sophie suddenly turned her gaze to me, her expression tender. "Ryan, thank you. I'm truly happy," she said, her voice soft and melodious, like a beautiful tune lingering in the air.

I gently clasped her hand and replied with equal tenderness, "I'm happy too." Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears—tears born of happiness.

After checking out, we carried our bags brimming with groceries out of the store. Sunlight bathed us, casting long shadows on the ground. Sophie leaned close to me, chatting animatedly as we walked.

"Ryan, when we get home, can you prepare the crab for me?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of coquettishness, her eyes glinting with excitement.

"Let's have fish for lunch; it won't stay fresh otherwise. Crabs are hardier—we'll make them tonight," I said with a smile as I drove, my mind replaying the blend of fear and expectation in her gaze.

Her face blossomed with a radiant smile, as warm and bright as the sun. "I love eating crab, but I don't dare to handle them myself. I'm scared of them," she confessed, her voice quivering slightly as though the crabs might leap out from her imagination.

When we arrived home, I carried the groceries into the kitchen and began unpacking. She stood silently beside me, watching with an expression of curiosity and nostalgia. Unable to suppress my curiosity, I asked, "How long has it been since you last cooked at home? Most of these utensils look brand new."

Her mood shifted briefly, her voice tinged with melancholy. "Since moving here, it's just been me. I haven't cooked at all—I've lost the heart for it."

As I busied myself with the preparations, I casually remarked, "Why don't we start cooking dinner at home together from now on?"

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Alright, but only if you do the cooking!" she retorted playfully, her earlier sadness vanishing as if it had never existed.

"Why should I be the one to cook?" I grumbled in mock protest, though warmth swelled in my chest.

"Because I cooked for you for a whole year. With interest, that means you owe me a lifetime of meals," Sophie declared with mock seriousness, her gaze sparkling with mischief.

Her words sent a jolt through my heart—was this a confession of her feelings? No, it couldn't be. Surely, she only meant for me to spend a lifetime repaying her kindness. I tried to steady my racing thoughts as I replied, "That won't do. Now that you have a boyfriend, you should have him cook for you—or better yet, cook for him yourself."

Sophie turned and left the kitchen, leaving my mind tangled in confusion. What was she thinking? Although I had dreamt of rekindling our connection, in reality, I didn't dare entertain such thoughts. It was impossible between us—she hated me. At least, that's what I told myself in an attempt to quell my turmoil.

I busied myself in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans echoing like a symphony of nerves. My hands moved automatically, yet my thoughts were a chaotic mess. The open window let in a soft breeze, carrying a hint of coolness, but it did little to soothe the anxiety within me. As I stirred the contents of the pan, my eyes frequently darted toward the living room.

"Dinner's ready!" I called out, carrying a steaming dish out of the kitchen. Sophie was seated on the sofa, engrossed in her phone. At the sound of my voice, she barely glanced up before walking indifferently to the dining table. Her aloofness weighed on me like a stone, pressing against my chest and making it hard to breathe.

She sat down, picked up her chopsticks, and took a bite of the food. I stood by nervously, my gaze following her every movement. Her expression remained neutral—neither pleased nor displeased—which only heightened my unease. Mustering a strained smile, I asked tentatively, "Is it alright?"

She didn't respond, continuing to eat in silence. Her wordlessness chilled me to the bone, like being plunged into icy waters. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for—perhaps a word of praise, a reprimand, or even a simple acknowledgment. But she said nothing, and that silence stung more deeply than any rebuke.

I sat down quietly, picking up my chopsticks and eating mechanically. Every bite felt tasteless, as if I were chewing wax. The oppressive silence at the table was suffocating, an invisible cord tightening around my throat. Desperate to break the tension, I ventured hesitantly, "Um… was the food a bit too salty today?"

She shot me a sidelong glance. We seemed to be playing a game of charades, yet her mood appeared to improve slightly. After dinner, as if trying to make amends, I went back to the kitchen to clean up.

When I returned, I found her asleep on the sofa. Her illness hadn't fully subsided. I gently touched her forehead with the back of my hand—it felt normal. "Go to the bedroom to rest," I said softly. "You might catch a chill out here."

Her cheeks flushed faintly as she kept her eyes closed, stretching out her arms as if signaling for me to carry her. I lifted her gently, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. Carrying her to the bed, I laid her down carefully. She refused to release her hold on me until I impulsively placed a light kiss on her forehead. Only then did she loosen her grip. I pulled the blanket over her and sat quietly by her side, gazing at her beautiful yet unfamiliar face.

I suddenly remembered that Sophie hadn't taken her medicine since we returned home. I quickly went to prepare the correct dosage, cooling a glass of water before bringing it into the room. The dim light cast soft shadows over her pale face as she lay curled up under the blanket, resembling a wounded animal. Gently, I nudged her. "Sophie, wake up and take your medicine."

She opened one eye, frowning slightly, her expression filled with reluctance. "I'm fine now. I don't need it," she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of petulance, as if protesting against my insistence.

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "I've already brought it over. Come on, take it and then you can go back to sleep."

She mumbled something under her breath and pretended to fall back asleep. Sighing, I carefully helped her sit up, one arm supporting her back. She leaned against me weakly, as if drained of all strength. With my free hand, I handed her the medicine, speaking gently, "Here, take it quickly."