Chapter 62: The Kitchen Knife (Part 1)

Early in the morning, Yu Ling was sunk deep into a mattress so soft it felt as though it might swallow her whole, her consciousness struggling on the precipice between wakefulness and slumber.

With her eyes closed, the tip of her nose nonetheless sharply captured a trace of an unusual and enticing aroma—not the crisp scent of mountain grass and trees, but a deeply rich, assertive meaty fragrance, carrying the caramelized fat and the complex scent of assorted spices, drifting in wisps that stubbornly pierced the heavy door crack and burrowed straight into her nasal passages.

Her sense of hunger was instantly ignited by this scent, and her stomach traitorously gave a soft, restless churn.

With some effort, she forced her eyes open. Sunlight filtered through the sheer gauze curtains, casting mottled patterns of light and shadow upon the pristine teak wood flooring. The space beside her was empty, leaving only an indentation and the uniquely crisp, steady scent that belonged to him.

Yu Ling sat up, clutching a light quilt around her as the silk coverlet slipped down to reveal several ambiguous red marks across her shoulders and neck. Her cheeks grew slightly warm. Pulling her robe around her, she stepped barefoot onto the warm wooden floor. Following that increasingly rich meaty fragrance as if guided by an invisible thread, she silently pushed open the door connecting the bedroom to the open-concept kitchen.

The scene before her made Yu Ling instantly hold her breath and wake up completely.

The morning light, like a spotlight on a stage, beat down precisely upon the tall and upright figure in the center of the kitchen.

Zhao Chen had his back to her, wearing a loosely tied dark blue cotton apron that had been washed until it faded, with edges that were slightly frayed. The apron strings were casually knotted around his lean, taut waist, outlining a smooth waistline. The hem of the apron barely covered his long legs encased in dark gray athletic sweatpants.

He was slightly hunched over, utterly absorbed as he faced a massive solid-wood preparation counter. On the tabletop, ingredients were laid out in meticulous order: plump, glossy pork belly cut into neat squares, emerald-green scallion sections, tender yellow ginger slices, deep red dried chili peppers, and spices like star anise and cinnamon resting like soldiers awaiting inspection.

Yet what captured the entirety of Yu Ling's gaze was the knife held in his right hand.

It was a thick-spined Chinese kitchen knife, archaic in design to the point of appearing clumsy. The blade was broad and thick, with clean, fluid lines devoid of any flashy decoration. The handle was made of deep red sandalwood, its color profound and so oiled it seemed to absorb all light, inlaid with some subtle ornamentation that occasionally flashed a restrained, dim radiance under the morning light.

At this moment, this seemingly ordinary, even somewhat rustic thick-spined knife was held firmly in Zhao Chen's grasp. His movements flowed like moving clouds and flowing water, imbued with an indescribable sense of rhythm.

The tip of the knife lightly touched the cutting board, his wrist flicking slightly without any visible exertion, and that square block of pork belly was evenly divided into uniform dice the size of mahjong tiles, parting as easily as docile silk. As the blade sliced through the alternating layers of fat and lean meat, it emitted an exceptionally faint "crunching" sound—crisp and decisive, as if cutting not through tough meat, but through the most tender tofu.

The meat cubes were pushed aside to wait. Next, he picked up a thick scallion. The blade sliced diagonally into the white stalk, his wrist vibrating at high speed with a microscopic tremor virtually imperceptible to the naked eye, moving so fast it left only a blurred silver afterimage! A dense rat-a-tat-tat echoed, sounding like spring rain pattering against banana leaves, with a rhythm as steady as the most precise metronome.

The sound stopped abruptly.

Zhao Chen lifted his wrist slightly, the blade leaving the cutting board. That single scallion had already been transformed into a pile of onion shreds as fine as hair, completely uniform in length and thickness! Each strand was crystal clear, seemingly translucent.

This miraculous display left Yu Ling dumbfounded! Was her husband dicing vegetables or performing high art?!

Following that, he switched to a light and nimble willow-leaf knife. A tender yellow piece of ginger spun between his fingertips, the tip of the knife fluttering as nimbly as a butterfly's wings. In the blink of an eye, the ginger chunk vanished, leaving on the cutting board only a pile of diamond-shaped ginger slices as thin as cicada wings and nearly transparent, gleaming with a warm luster in the morning light.

Having finished processing the side ingredients, Zhao Chen casually swiped the thick-spined knife twice across the whetstone nearby—his motion so nonchalant it seemed perfunctory, the blade grazing the stone to produce two crisp "swish-swish" sounds. Then, he turned and walked over to a thick clay casserole that was bubbling away on a high-end enamel cast-iron stove.

The moment he lifted the lid, a complex aroma—even richer and more dominant, fusing the sweet scent of caramel, rich fats, and mellow spices—swept across the entire open-concept space like a physical wave! That fragrance drilled into Yu Ling's nasal passages, dominantly awakening every single taste bud, and saliva instantly began to secrete frantically!

Inside the casserole, the broth presented an alluring, deep and rich date-red hue, thick enough to coat the sides of the pot, as fine bubbles rolled and churned within.

The pork belly cubes cut earlier bobbed up and down within it, each piece evenly coated in the seductive sauce. They were brightly red and translucent; the fatty portions exhibited a semi-transparent, gelatinous texture, while the lean sections displayed distinct grain, having absorbed the very essence of the broth. Star anise, cinnamon, and other spices drifted in and out of view amidst the boiling broth, releasing their final dregs of flavor.

Zhao Chen picked up a long-handled white porcelain spoon, scooped up a bit of the thick broth, tilted his head slightly, and blew on it gently. The morning light outlined the sharp contours of his focused profile—a high bridge of the nose and a decisive jawline. He extended the tip of his tongue, extremely carefully and with a reverence bordering on the sacred, and licked the edge of the spoon.

The movement was as natural as breathing.

Yet this extremely subtle action struck Yu Ling behind the door like a million-volt bolt of electricity!

Her cheeks flushed bright red, the heat rushing from her earlobes all the way down to her neck! Her heart hammered frantically inside her chest, as though it might leap out the very next second! Her mind buzzed, and certain passionate, lingering, and blush-inducing scenes from last night uncontrollably surged back up, instantly overlapping with the image of the man standing there in an apron, intently tasting his cooking!

How could the way he licked the edge of the spoon be so... so utterly sexy?! Yu Ling felt as though she were about to combust! She covered her burning cheeks with a sudden gasp, feeling like a thief caught in the act, and rapidly retreated behind the door. Pressing her back against the cool wooden panel, she took deep, ragged breaths, attempting to calm her runaway heartbeat.

No! This visual was far too stimulating! It had to be recorded!

Yu Ling took a few deep breaths, struggling to suppress the heat on her face and the wild thumping of her heart. She quietly drew out her smartphone and aimed the camera at the man in the kitchen who remained completely oblivious, still utterly immersed in his culinary world.

She zoomed in, focusing on his slender fingers gripping the spoon handle—distinctly jointed, clean, and powerful. Then she zoomed in further on his slightly pursed thin lips, the corners of which seemed to still bear a trace of enticing brown sauce. Finally, the camera inevitably captured the heavy, archaic, sandalwood-handled kitchen knife gripped in his other hand.

The sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling unreservedly across the blade.

Yu Ling clearly saw on her phone screen that near the spot where the sandalwood handle met the blade, there was an extremely tiny emblem inlaid. It was a complex and ancient crest outlined in some kind of dark gold metal—a soaring eagle with wings spread, clutching a scepter and a sheaf of wheat in its talons, surrounded by intricate, delicate vine ornamentation.

This crest... Yu Ling inexplicably felt it looked somewhat familiar, though for a moment she couldn't recall where she had seen it. Pushing the thought aside, her finger swiftly pressed the shutter button.

Click.

The slight electronic shutter sound was exceptionally crisp in the quiet space!

Zhao Chen's movements abruptly halted! His hand holding the spoon froze mid-air.

Yu Ling's heart tightened, and she silently cursed herself—terrible! She'd been caught red-handed taking a sneak photo!

Just as she intended to slip away as if nothing had happened, Zhao Chen had already turned around. The morning light fell upon his face; he squinted slightly, resembling a startled, languid yet dangerous leopard, and his gaze locked precisely onto Yu Ling, who had only half her head exposed from behind the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes darting away in evasion.

The awkwardness of being caught and the impact brought on by that "spoon-licking" scene washed over her simultaneously. Yu Ling's face turned even redder, and she wished she could find a crack in the ground to crawl into.

Watching her ostrich-like display, Zhao Chen's eyes first flashed with a trace of surprise, which was instantly replaced by a deeper, teasing, and knowing amusement. He put down the spoon, the corners of his lips curving into a meaningful arc, and strolled leisurely toward her.

"Lingling," he said, his voice carrying the slight morning hoarseness along with an imperceptible trace of lazy amusement, "taking sneak photos of me?"

The momentum of his step-by-step advance forced Yu Ling to subconsciously step backward until her spine once again met the cool door panel, leaving her with nowhere left to retreat. She raised her phone to shield her chest like a mischievous child caught in the act, her gaze drifting as she spoke in a voice no louder than a mosquito's buzz: "N... no! I was just... just seeing that you were cooking so earnestly... documenting life..."

Zhao Chen had already reached her, his tall figure completely enveloping her. He still carried the warm, earthy scent of the kitchen and that alluring meaty aroma, blending with his own crisp, clean scent to form an aggressively potent hormonal storm. He leaned down slightly, his amber eyes holding all-knowing amusement as he firmly locked onto her evasive gaze.

"Oh? Documenting life?" He drew out the syllables, his gaze sweeping over her earlobes which were red enough to drip blood, his Adam's apple seemingly rolling gently. He reached out—not to take her phone, but to press his hand against the door panel beside her shoulder, completely trapping her within the perimeter of his scent.

"Then..." He lowered his head, his warm breath brushing against Yu Ling's sensitive neck, his voice dropping low like a whisper, laced with a hint of temptation, "did you capture me tasting the food? Do you think... the way your husband licked the spoon looked good or not?"

Boom!

Yu Ling felt as though a bomb had been dropped inside her head, rendering it instantly blank! Blood rushed frantically to her cheeks, staining even her neck a deep crimson! He... how did he know?! And how could he actually ask out loud?!

"You... you hooligan!" Overcome with embarrassment and annoyance, she raised a small fist to beat at his chest, only for her wrist to be effortlessly caught in Zhao Chen's grasp.

His palm was blazing hot, and the calloused pad of his thumb gently rubbed against the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist, sending a shiver of tiny tremors through her.

"A hooligan?" Zhao Chen let out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating slightly as he watched her look like an agitated little kitten, equal parts shy and vexed. The amusement in his eyes deepened, carrying heavy indulgence and undisguised possessiveness. Far from letting go, he used the momentum of holding her wrist to apply a slight force, pulling her entire body straight into his embrace.

Caught off guard, Yu Ling bumped her nose against his solid, warm chest. That blend of meaty fragrance and his distinctive scent grew even more intense, dizzying her senses.

"Acting like a hooligan with my own wife is only natural and righteous." His low, amused declaration sounded right above her head, carrying unquestionable dominance. Then, lowering his head with a clear target, he kissed her, precisely capturing her lips that were slightly parted in astonishment.

This kiss carried the crisp freshness of morning and the savory aroma of braised pork, sweeping gently yet forcefully through all her senses.

The remnants of Yu Ling's will to resist instantly crumbled into dust in the face of this familiar, intoxicating scent. Letting out a soft murmur, her body went limp, and she was tightly held in his arms, passively enduring this sweet "punishment."

After a long while, Zhao Chen finally released her with apparent reluctance. Pressing his forehead against hers, his breathing slightly rapid, his amber eyes held lingering passion and a trace of cunning craftiness: "Taking sneak photos comes with a price, Mrs. Zhao. Now, go wash up and get ready for breakfast." He gave her rear a light, intimate, and entirely natural pat.

Left dizzy by the kiss, her cheeks burning and her legs still somewhat weak, Yu Ling had long since forgotten about the sneak photo. Glaring at him with a blushing face, she turned and bolted like a fugitive into the bathroom.

Not until the warm water rushed over her body did Yu Ling's racing heart finally begin to calm slightly. Staring at her still-flush face in the mirror, she tapped her forehead in vexation. Truly, beauty could ruin one's concentration! She'd almost forgotten the real business at hand!