021 An Intimate Dab of Sweat, Then a Sudden Pause

Musa looked up at me, the light casting a gentle glow on his sharply defined features, as if a faint halo was shimmering around him. But the most striking thing was his eyes, sparkling with amusement and tinged with a hint of surprise. "You can cook?"

"Any Chinese student abroad knows how to cook," I replied without hesitation. Then, after a moment's thought, I added, "In Dubai, women’s duty is to support their husbands and raise children; I suppose many of them are quite skilled in the kitchen."

Hearing this, Musa shook his head. "Not all of us. Most of us have servants who cook."

I nearly forgot that local Dubai residents enjoy generous benefits and have no need to handle such chores themselves. I waved my hand dismissively. "Well, then I’ll just pretend to be a servant this once."

There was a hint of self-deprecation in my tone, just a joke tossed out casually—yet Musa immediately stopped me. "You mustn’t think like that."

"Hm?"

His eyelashes fluttered slightly. After a brief pause, he spoke earnestly, "You… are exceptional. I didn’t mean to see you as a servant. I’ve always thought cooking is a joyful thing, and I brought it up because I admire you, without any intention of belittling."

Suddenly, it all made sense. I had merely joked, but he took it seriously and explained with such care. Warmth blossomed in my chest. This delicate consideration gave me a real, tangible sense of a single word—respect.

The last time, he had casually renamed my photo files without permission, provoking my anger; this time, he was learning to perceive the unspoken in my words, filling me with genuine emotion.

Who says Middle Eastern men are all extreme and violent? At least the man before me was gentle, gentlemanly, dignified, and willing to observe others’ temperaments and learn to honor them.

He was adaptable—only that pure white robe he wore remained immutable.

I composed myself, returning his sincerity with a bright smile. "Alright, alright, I was just joking. It’s nothing serious. If we don’t start cooking soon, we’ll all starve."

Having said that, I dared not look at his handsome face again. I turned quickly and rushed to the fridge, picking out a few quick ingredients before setting to work without pause.

As I fumbled with the vegetables, I suddenly heard faint footsteps. Turning my head, I saw Musa leaning against the doorframe, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched me.

Wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I felt a bit embarrassed. "Don’t look at me like that. When someone watches me cook, I get nervous."

At my words, his smile deepened. "Alright, I won’t watch."

He turned his head away but didn’t move an inch. I saw him reach into his pocket, pull out a tissue, and stroll over to me.

I dared not meet his eyes. As he drew closer, I could hear my heart pounding all the louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his long, strong hand lift gently. His touch was soft, his breath warm, as he reached out to wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead.

The contact was fleeting, as light as a feather’s caress, yet it sent a thrilling shiver from my brow to every part of me.

But just then, Musa’s hand froze abruptly, as if he suddenly remembered something. Slowly, he lowered his hand and his voice became calm and clear. "You’ve worked hard. Here, use this to wipe your sweat. I’ll wait for you in the living room."

With that, he placed the tissue on the stove and turned away swiftly, leaving me standing there, utterly at a loss, uncertain of what had just transpired.