Mother Huo briskly lifted the lid off the iron pot, and a massive plume of white steam surged upward with a hiss. The water inside was rolling in dense bubbles, boiling at the absolute peak of perfection.
She reached right into her woven bamboo basket and grabbed a handful of hand-rolled noodles she had prepped and left to dry earlier. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the noodles scattered neatly and slid into the boiling water.
Her long chopsticks followed instantly, diving along the rim of the pot with a smooth swipe and twist so that every single strand loosened up and fanned out in the clear, rolling broth.
In no time at all, the noodles were cooked. She scooped them into bowls, ladled the broth over them, and garnished them with a few vibrant green cabbage leaves.
To top it all off, she dropped a plump, glossy fried egg into each bowl.
“We saved back a bit of white flour at home, just enough to cobble together this pot of noodles. That wife of yours has a delicate frame—she can’t handle you acting this reckless! Take these in right away, talk to her properly, and make sure she eats!”
Mother Huo nagged as she shoved two heaping bowls of noodles into Huo Xiangbei’s hands, then forced the chopsticks into his fingers along with them.
“She looked completely out of it today, running off before noon without touching a bite. Hope she isn’t half-starved by now.”
Lowering her voice, she added a final jab: “You’ve been tossing her around all afternoon; even an ox needs to stop for grass.”
She paused, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her weathered neck as she added sternly: “Keep the noise down, too. There’s… well, the neighbors might have cleared out, but just mind yourself.”
Huo Xiangbei’s ears burned red, though his face remained a mask of stoic indifference. He let out a low grunt of acknowledgment, took the bowls and chopsticks, and turned to head back to the room.
“You hurry up and eat too! Finish up and go straight to sleep—aren’t you tired after rushing back across two days of travel?”
Mother Huo called out behind him, watching her son’s tall, yet distinctly eager stride with an involuntary shake of her head.
The stubborn block of wood had finally figured things out, but his way of showing affection… was definitely a bit too hard on his wife.
Inside the room.
Listening to the footsteps fade away, Shen Qianqian pulled her thin quilt around her shoulders and slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position.
Her entire body felt as though it had been dismantled and bolted back together; every single joint radiated a deep, aching soreness, particularly her lower back and legs.
Enduring the discomfort, she reached for the clothes resting near the edge of the Kang.
The fabric was ordinary, but laundered clean, carrying the crisp, sunny scent of soap—items she had changed out of a few days earlier, which Mother Huo had washed and neatly folded for her.
In her past life, she had sneered at these as “country bumpkin” rags, but right now, that unpretentious cleanliness felt wonderfully comforting.
She slowly dressed herself, then began to look closely around the “bridal room” she had once despised with every fiber of her being and been so desperate to escape.
The mud-brick walls were pasted over with yellowed old newspapers.
There was a single table, a chair, a Kang, a chipped low cabinet, and a heavy, old-fashioned wooden wardrobe.
Leaning against the wall, a brand-new “Phoenix” brand sewing machine stood out as the most valuable—and thoroughly out-of-place—item in the room.
A small hole in the window lattice had been carefully patched with a neat square of old newspaper, through which the heavy indigo of the approaching night bled inside.
This was the home she and Huo Xiangbei shared in the countryside.
In her previous life, she loathed the earthy smell of the place, loathed the lingering presence of Huo Xiangbei, and despised how the location symbolized her “fallen” marriage.
Because of that, she spent most of her time holed up in the educated youth point’s communal dorm, crammed tightly in with the other female youths.
It was only whenever Huo Xiangbei returned on leave that she would be hauled back here, forced to endure a few days of “marital life” on this hard Kang that left her feeling deeply humiliated and utterly helpless.
It was the dead of summer right now, and the youth point was crowded and reeked of sweat. Craving the quiet seclusion and cool breeze of this standalone house, she had brought over a few changes of clothes just a few days ago to stay temporarily.
She never could have anticipated that Huo Xiangbei would return right then, catching her in the middle of her “secret plot” with Xu Yanqing.
Heavy, steady footsteps sounded outside the door once more, and Huo Xiangbei returned carrying two large, deep bowls.
He set the bowls down on the edge of the Kang, pivoted to fetch half an enamel mug of warm water from the bamboo-shell thermos sitting on the low cabinet, tested the temperature against his wrist, and handed it to her.
“Drink it slowly,” he said in a low, raspy voice.
Shen Qianqian was indeed desperately thirsty. She took the mug and sipped the water in small intervals.
The warm liquid soothed her parched throat, while also waking up the sharp, hollow rumbling in her stomach.
Once she finished the water, she let out a breath and lifted her gaze to look at Huo Xiangbei.
His expression remained unreadable, but the hair at his temples was damp, and a fine layer of sweat sheened his forehead.
“Eat this to line your stomach first. Tomorrow I’ll head into town and buy some fine grain.”
As he spoke, Huo Xiangbei unfolded a low Kang table, placing the two bowls of noodles squarely on top.
Then, reaching for the old palm-leaf fan with its frayed edges from the head of the Kang, he sat sideways on the edge of the bed and began gently fanning her bowl of noodles to help cool the scalding broth down faster.
The dim, warm lamplight softened the harsh lines of his profile, and his focused, rhythmic fanning动作 carried a clumsy, unexpected gentleness.
After a few moments, he carefully tested the temperature with the tip of his chopsticks. Deciding it was just right, he nudged the bowl a bit closer to her.
Then, with absolute naturalness, he fished the fried egg out of his own bowl and transferred it securely into hers.
His gaze accidentally swept across her exposed neck and collarbone, where a constellation of the intimate red marks he had left behind still bloomed against her skin.
His eyes darkened abruptly, his throat bobbing as he quickly looked away with an awkward stiffness, fixing his attention entirely on his own bowl of plain, eggless noodles.
[My wife is too thin, I need to fatten her up.] [I’ll check the town for some meat tomorrow.] [Did my wife just say earlier that she ‘hasn’t had meat in ages’… her body couldn’t take the strain…] [I’ve got a decent stack of cash and ration tickets saved from my last mission bonus—I’ll spend it all on good food to build her back up.]
Shen Qianqian was starving to the point where her chest felt glued to her spine, her stomach hollow and faint.
She took the bowl, picked up a mouthful of noodles that had cooled to a comfortable warmth, and carefully brought them to her lips.
The noodles were hand-rolled and wonderfully chewy. Though the broth was light, it carried the natural sweetness of wheat flour and the rich, savory coating of pork lard.
The fried egg was cooked to absolute perfection—crispy and golden at the edges with a runny, molten center. Mixed into the clear broth, it was an immense comfort to her empty stomach.
She ate with a bit of urgency, though her manners remained intact; she simply moved faster than usual.
Midway through her meal, she caught the tail end of his inner monologue—specifically his train of thought regarding “eating meat.”
Before she could process it, a mouthful of noodle soup slipped down the wrong pipe, triggering a sudden, violent fit of coughing that flushed her face bright red.
“Cough, cough, cough…!!”
“What’s wrong? Is it not good? Or does something hurt?”
Huo Xiangbei instantly tensed up, lunging forward with his upper body. He raised a hand as if to touch her, but pulled back mid-air, his hard face painted with complete helplessness and panic.
Watching her cough until tears pricked the corners of her eyes, he finally mustered the courage to bring his large, calloused palm down to pat her back with an awkward, feather-light touch. “Slow down, eat slow, no need to rush.”
[My wife let me touch her!] [My wife actually didn’t dodge away!] [She’s really willing to build a life with me now!] [Did I pat her too hard? Will it hurt?]
Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, the pressure of his hand instantly lightened even further.
He didn’t care in the least that the microscopic specks of soup flying from her cough were landing directly on his face and the collar of his shirt.
Shen Qianqian finally managed to catch her breath, though her face remained stubbornly flushed—partly from choking, partly from sheer mortification.
—Where on earth did his mind wander?! Is that what she meant by “eating meat”? She was clearly just reflecting on how she had deprived herself of good food for decades after her divorce in her past life!
Noticing the soup droplets spattered across his face, Shen Qianqian felt a twinge of embarrassment and moved to grab a towel to wipe him down.
“Don’t move, just sit.”
Huo Xiangbei pressed a hand firmly against her shoulder to keep her from getting up, stood up himself, strode to the corner of the outer parlor, and yanked his semi-worn grey towel off the washstand.
He gave his face and arms a few rough swipes, sat right back down on the edge of the Kang, and fixed his gaze back onto her face with lingering concern. “Feeling better?”
Shen Qianqian nodded, catching her breath fully before picking up her chopsticks again. She ate a bit more slowly this time, though every bite tasted incredible.
She methodically finished off the better part of a bowl of noodles and one and a half fried eggs.
Once her stomach registered a solid, cozy warmth and could genuinely hold no more, she finally set her chopsticks down and let out a soft sigh of relief.
Only then did she notice that Huo Xiangbei’s own bowl of noodles remained completely untouched from start to finish.
He was just sitting sideways on the edge of the Kang, maintaining that slightly rigid posture, quietly watching her eat.