In the following days, Lin Qianqian was like a taut string, every movement careful, every touch of ingredients measured and precise, her nose almost buried in the produce as she checked repeatedly.
Even Chun Tao noticed her unusual behavior and whispered, asking if she felt unwell.
Lin Qianqian could only shake her head, burying her vigilance deep in her heart.
Her habit of storing ingredients separately seemed to work—medicinal herbs and poultry delivered were clean and intact. Yet the prickling sense of danger never fully dissipated.
That evening, fine rain fell from the sky, carrying the chill of late autumn.
But inside the small kitchen, the warmth from the stove made the air cozy. Lin Qianqian was preparing the evening soup—a simple Cabbage and Tofu Nourishing Broth, using only cabbage hearts, tender tofu, and a touch of dried scallops to enrich the flavor, emphasizing clarity and warmth.
Just as the soup was finished, not yet ladled, footsteps sounded outside—slightly earlier than Leng Feng usually came.
Instinctively, Lin Qianqian looked up and saw a corner of black robes slipping across the threshold, carrying the damp chill of the rain. It was… Xiao Yu himself.
He had no umbrella; droplets of rain clung to his dark hair and shoulders, catching the dim kitchen light and refracting faint glimmers. His complexion was paler than usual, lips slightly pale, brows marked with lingering fatigue. Even his deep, sharp eyes now seemed veiled with a mist, softened, touched with a subtle… vulnerability.
“Your Highness,” Lin Qianqian and Chun Tao bowed immediately, hearts filled with surprise. Why would the prince come to the small kitchen at this hour, in the rain?
Xiao Yu’s gaze immediately landed on the steaming clay pot on the stove, his Adam’s apple shifting ever so slightly. “Is the soup ready?” His voice was hoarse, lower than usual.
“It has just been prepared, Your Highness, waiting to be served,” Lin Qianqian replied, head bowed, her heart inexplicably racing. He looked… unwell.
“Hm,” Xiao Yu murmured, giving no indication of leaving. Instead, he approached a simple wooden stool nearby, usually used by the staff, brushed off his robes, and sat. One hand rested casually on his knee, the other pressed unconsciously against his upper abdomen.
Lin Qianqian noticed the subtle gesture immediately. His stomach ailment, it seemed, had struck again—and worse than previous times. Otherwise, with his temperament, he would not have come in person, let alone display such discomfort.
“Ladle a bowl,” he instructed, a barely perceptible urgency in his tone.
“Yes,” Lin Qianqian said without hesitation. She carefully picked up a celadon bowl, using a cloth to protect her hands, and gently lifted the lid of the clay pot. A thick white steam billowed forth, carrying the sweet freshness of cabbage and the savory aroma of dried scallops.
She focused intently on scooping the soup, moving silently. As she poured the broth into the bowl, a faint gurgle escaped. Just as she prepared to carry it over, she caught sight of Xiao Yu pressing his hand against his abdomen, knuckles slightly whitening.
Instinctively, she paused, retrieving a small ceramic dish from the cabinet, quickly placing two pieces of sweet-and-sour, tender pickled ginger beside the soup.
With both hands, she carried the steaming soup and the small dish to Xiao Yu, bowing slightly:“Your Highness, the soup is hot—please be careful.”
Xiao Yu looked up, eyes sweeping over the soup, finally resting on the translucent yellow ginger. His gaze flickered.
He did not immediately reach for the soup bowl.
Instead, he extended his hand—long, knuckled, callused from martial training—and picked up a piece of the ginger. In that instant, their fingers brushed briefly as she handed him the dish.
Her fingertips were warm, slightly rough from years of handling water and fire.
His, however, carried the cool touch of rain, along with a subtle tremor born of restrained pain.
The fleeting cold brushed past her own fingertips, sending a small shiver through her, making her heart recoil slightly.
He placed the ginger in his mouth. The tart-sweet, slightly spicy juice spread across his tongue, warming him as it slid down, easing the chill and ache in his stomach. Only then did he take the soup bowl.
Without a spoon, he drank carefully from the edge of the bowl, small sips of the warm broth flowing into his chilled stomach, each sip smoothing away the sharp pangs of pain. He closed his eyes, releasing a faint breath, the tight crease between his brows relaxing slightly.
He ate in silence, occasionally pairing a small piece of ginger with the broth. The kitchen held only the sound of raindrops pattering against the window and the quiet swallowing.
Lin Qianqian stood with her hands folded, careful not to disturb him, yet keenly aware that the oppressive chill he carried seemed to be gradually dispelled by this humble bowl of soup.
She watched his pale face regain a hint of color, his lips loosen from tension, and felt a subtle relief herself.
Even someone of his power and rank could be tormented by such ordinary suffering. Even the simplest foods she made could bring him tangible comfort.
This realization stirred a faint sense of worth deep within her, beneath the constant vigilance and unease.
The soup was quickly finished, the ginger eaten entirely.
Xiao Yu set down the bowl, fingertips lingering against its warm surface, as if savoring the residual heat. He raised his eyes to Lin Qianqian, who stood silently, her bowed posture radiating obedience. His gaze lingered on her lowered features a moment longer.
“This ginger… good,” he said unexpectedly, his voice softer than when he arrived, carrying a subtle warmth after the broth had soothed him.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lin Qianqian whispered.
He stood, the tall silhouette casting a shadow that seemed to envelop her entirely. He did not leave immediately, but stepped closer.
The distance closed instantly. Lin Qianqian could now smell the faint scent of rain-soaked earth clinging to him, mixed with a subtle medicinal bitterness.
Her body tensed, head bowed lower, sensing his gaze on her hair, assessing… perhaps something more.
“Tomorrow…” he paused, voice low, almost whispering above her, “shred the ginger into the soup.”
“…Yes, Your Highness, I will obey,” Lin Qianqian held her breath.
He said nothing more, turning, black robes trailing a cool draft as he stepped back into the dense rain outside, disappearing into the deepening night.
Only then did the oppressive presence fully dissipate. Lin Qianqian slowly lifted her head, staring at the empty doorway, slightly dazed. Her fingertips still tingled faintly from that brief icy touch.
His last words were a command… yet also… a subtle hint of reliance?