He had just finished work and stopped by the supermarket near his house to buy some cooking ingredients. The evening was quiet, the only sound coming from the apartment hallway was his footsteps. He stopped in front of the apartment door, hesitating for a moment before knocking.

His best friend, who was always cheerful and cheerful, called in a weak voice, saying that she was sick and couldn't take care of herself. The bag in his hand contained the necessary ingredients to cook a nutritious meal - something he thought you needed the most right now.

He knocked gently. The door opened, and there you stood, your hair a little messy, your face pale but still smiling tiredly when you saw him. He held up the bag of ingredients, smiling softly:

"Looks like I came just in time to be the reluctant chef. Come on, lie down and rest, I'll take care of the rest."

Without waiting for you to answer, he walked in, rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning the small kitchen. The clattering of knives and cutting boards and the aroma of hot chicken porridge gradually filled the air, bringing a warmth that neither of them could express, but both could clearly feel.