020 Sharing One Chopstick, Bound by Reluctance to Part

I pressed my lips together, feeling a bit dazed. "Teach you... how to use chopsticks?" It sounded strange in my mind, as if I were instructing a child how to eat.

"Yes," Musa nodded earnestly, his golden-brown eyes clear and bright, shimmering as if holding water. Seeing my hesitation, his gaze softened and he hesitated before asking, "Is it inconvenient?"

"No, not at all." Just his eyes alone made refusal impossible. I picked up my own chopsticks and demonstrated, "Look, you hold them like this."

He leaned forward, studying my grip closely, meticulously aligning each finger on his own chopsticks with mine, his focus unwavering.

His eyes fixed on my fingers, and a flush rose to my cheeks. Yet, seeing Musa’s undistracted expression, I no longer felt uneasy and simply let him watch.

"And then?" he asked, having positioned his fingers.

"You move the joints of your index finger, middle finger, and thumb, like this." I showed him, and he imitated my movements, but couldn’t quite steady the chopsticks—one slipped to the floor immediately.

I stood and went to the kitchen to fetch another pair, handing them to Musa. "Don’t use force; technique is what matters. Relax, like this."

By now, my earlier embarrassment had faded, and naturally, I took his hand in mine, guiding the stretch of his fingers.

His palm was warm. I felt his arm stiffen and tremble slightly.

I didn’t think much of it, assuming he just hadn’t mastered holding chopsticks yet, and continued to lead his larger hand with my smaller one, intent and patient.

After several tries, I sensed the tension in Musa’s muscles ease, his grip soften. I guided him to pick up a piece of beef; we held the chopsticks together as I brought the meat to his mouth.

As he hesitated, chewing the beef, I suddenly realized how intimate and tender that moment had been. My hand in his, moving together with the chopsticks, the warmth of his palm seeping into mine, stirring a fluttering heartbeat.

I quickly withdrew my hand, lowering my gaze silently.

Not to mention, Musa, a white-robed Muslim who had never shared such close contact with a woman, must have felt even more embarrassed. After that, perhaps he would think me extremely improper and never want to speak to me again.

At the thought, a sudden pang of sorrow and melancholy welled up inside me, tightening my brow.

"Hey, what’s wrong?"

Startled, I looked up to see Musa’s expression unchanged. I stammered, "N-nothing..." If he didn’t mind, how could I say anything? My face flushed slightly as I stood, deliberately avoiding his eyes. Softly, I said, "I’ll go get you a knife and fork instead."

"Okay." This time, he did not refuse, nor was there any trace of anger.

I sighed in relief, secretly thinking perhaps the white-robed man wasn’t as rigid and conservative as I had imagined.

Using our familiar utensils, the meal went much more smoothly. We tacitly agreed to forget the earlier incident, speaking little, exchanging only occasional light remarks.

But soon, a new problem arose.

Since Musa had planned to eat out alone, he had only brought enough food for one person. For the two of us, starving after a whole day, it was barely half enough. Such an obvious issue hadn’t even crossed my mind at first.

Or perhaps, deep down, I had already realized it but still wanted to keep him here.

Even now, despite the awkwardness just past, I found myself reluctant to see him leave. Maybe it was the debt I felt toward him for delivering food and thoughtfully buying medicine, I told myself.

After a moment’s hesitation, I tentatively asked, "I still have plenty of ingredients in my fridge. How about I cook some Chinese dishes for us to share?"