Ayase Apartment, Morimoto Family.
Aozawa rode the elevator to the sixth floor, walked to door 601, and turned the door handle, saying, "Chitose, I'm back."
In the kitchen, BEEP. The induction cooker turned off.
Morimoto Chiyoda turned around, her forehead faintly covered in a layer of sweat, and smiled. "Go wash your hands and let's eat."
Aozawa closed the door behind him and approached, asking, "What's for dinner today?"
"I made your favorite braised pork."
"Then I'll have to have a good taste."
Aozawa's eyes sparkled. He didn't like plain fatty meat at all, finding it too greasy. But braised pork and pork with preserved vegetables were different—fatty but not greasy, tender and fragrant. Such fatty meat was worth tasting.
"I've worked up quite a sweat making this, so even if it's not delicious, you have to finish it," Chiyoda threatened, deliberately adopting a very stern attitude. "If you dare say a single bad word about it, you'll get a taste of the Tyrant Iron Fist!"
