Mu Qiu returned to her room and opened the small box, revealing a tiny piece of sandwich inside. It mostly contained vegetables with just a small piece of chicken breast.
It was really tiny. She could hold it with two fingers and finish it in about two bites.
Cheng Zhirang must have lowered his head and carefully cut these two small pieces, Mu Qiu thought while taking a bite. The gloom in her heart vanished, and a sense of curiosity and secret excitement bubbled from within.
How should one write to portray the tenderness of a man privately cutting sandwiches for a child? Is his gentleness the kind of serene existence, spending a day sipping tea and reading on a rattan chair at home? Or is it the kind where a thirty-year-old man finds nothing to care about?
Once she started imagining, she couldn't stop. The excitement drove her to keep thinking, constantly revising an image, and then thinking again.
