"They can sit next to me on a couch; they can offer me tonics, but they are never going to get what they want."
She let go of one of his lapels, reaching out to gently tap her index finger against the center of his chest, right over his heart.
"Because my kitchen," Ji'an murmured, a soft, warm, slightly flushed smile touching her lips, "only has one designated vegetable-chopper. And he is currently standing right in front of me, having an unnecessary existential crisis."
Wangchen stared down at her.
The corrosive poison of his jealousy dissolved.
The blinding light of her reassurance obliterated the weight pressing down on his soul.
She was telling him, in her own roundabout, chef-coded way, that the others meant nothing.
That his place by her side was undisputed.
That the throne belonged exclusively to him.
An exhale tore from Wangchen's lips.
The tension drained from his broad shoulders, leaving him feeling light.
