"—the dumplings," Linyue cut in smoothly. "If they're good enough."
He Yuying nearly choked on his own laugh, covering his mouth with one sleeve.
Song Meiyu clapped her hands. "Perfect answer!"
And just like that, the four of them turned together and started walking away, robes swaying, expressions calm and dignified. Behind them, a tragic voice echoed.
"Wait," Prince Lu called out. "Are you all forgetting something? Aren't you here to send me off?"
Linyue didn't even glance back. "We've walked quite far already. You have your fancy royal escort. We did our duty."
The others nodded in agreement. Not one of them looked even slightly guilty. Their minds were already filled with visions of steaming noodles, spicy broth, and soft, chewy dumplings.
Prince Lu's voice cracked with betrayal. "I… a noble prince… am being abandoned… for dumplings?"
The four of them stopped. Slowly, they turned back as one, and nodded with perfect synchronization.
"Without a doubt," He Yuying said.
"Goodbye, Prince Dumpling," Song Meiyu added cheerfully.
Linyue raised one hand in a lazy, dismissive wave before continuing down the road. "Travel safe. Don't get eaten by geese."
He Yuying added dryly, "Don't lose your pants again."
Prince Lu yelled. "Stop talking about my pants!"
Shen Zhenyu gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Right. Carry extra belts next time."
His guards, who were very much paid to keep a straight face, wisely said nothing and stared hard at the horizon. A few of them trembled suspiciously.
Prince Lu opened his mouth to defend his honor, but it was too late. The four traitors were already strolling away, completely ignoring him, their voices carrying back as they argued about chili spice levels.
"No, no, medium spice is the perfect balance!" Song Meiyu insisted.
"Medium is for cowards," He Yuying replied. "Go big or go home."
"Brother Zhenyu can't even handle black pepper," Song Meiyu pointed out.
"I am simply… selective," Shen Zhenyu said calmly.
Prince Lu groaned loudly. "Betrayed by friendship… and flour… and pants."
One of the guards coughed into his fist. Another's shoulders began to shake.
Prince Lu turned to them with a sharp glare. "Not. A. Word. And if a single whisper of this reaches my sister, I will personally feed you to the geese."
The guards snapped to attention, faces stiff, but one of them looked dangerously close to bursting into laughter.
Meanwhile, just a few paces ahead, the group was still locked in what could only be described as a world-shaking debate over whether the dumplings came in "mildly spicy" or "crying in public spicy." He Yuying was passionately arguing for maximum tears. Song Meiyu was insisting they play it safe to avoid death by chili oil. Shen Zhenyu was claiming he could handle it, though nobody believed him.
Suddenly, the air changed. It was subtle at first—a small shift, a drop in temperature—but enough to silence them all mid-argument. The birds stopped singing. A nearby squirrel ran for its life. Every step of their chatter died in an instant. Because there, standing in the middle of the path like a final boss, was Shu Mingye. He had just dismounted his horse in one smooth, slow motion, his black robes flaring behind him. His eyes were sharp, fixed on one person only.
Song Meiyu made a tiny, high-pitched squeak and grabbed Linyue's sleeve with both hands. "See? I told you."
Linyue blinked once. "Which one? You've told me a lot of things, Sister Meiyu. Most of them were questionable."
"I told you he cares," Song Meiyu whispered, still clutching Linyue's arm.
Linyue tilted her head. "Cares? About what? Spicy dumpling noodles?"
Song Meiyu looked ready to faint from frustration.
He Yuying chimed in with a straight face, "Does he also want to eat spicy dumpling noodles?"
Shen Zhenyu, who had been holding himself together admirably, pressed his knuckles to his mouth to smother the laugh threatening to break free. These people… they had absolutely no sense of danger. Shu Mingye looked like he had just risen from the underworld, and they were wondering about his noodle preferences.
Song Meiyu seemed undeterred by the oppressive aura in the air. She leaned toward Linyue again and whispered, "Maybe he came here for you. Like a true romantic hero. Or a possessive villain. Either way, I approve."
Linyue only raised a brow, entirely unimpressed. "Or maybe he's here for the dumplings."
Shen Zhenyu sighed. He glanced back at Shu Mingye, whose smoldering gaze hadn't wavered from Linyue and then at Linyue herself, who looked more curious than concerned.
Song Meiyu wasn't wrong. Yes. The man definitely cared. Too much, maybe. And Linyue, bless her dense, emotionally stunted heart, hadn't the faintest clue.
Shen Zhenyu wasn't sure if it was a disaster waiting to happen or the beginning of something weirdly beautiful. One thing he was certain of: Shu Mingye hadn't fallen for Linyue's beauty alone. No, it was something deeper. Something more dangerous. Still, considering how loud and chaotic their group was, the fact Shu Mingye hadn't tried to murder even one of them yet? That was actually a very promising start.
Shu Mingye approached them slowly. The cheerful, spicy-noodle-filled air from earlier was gone. Replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to press down on them.
Song Meiyu took a discreet step back. She reached out and tugged on He Yuying's sleeve. "Come on. Don't block the view. This feels like one of those intense romance scenes from my storybooks."
He Yuying stepped back too, already munching on a snack he had produced from… somewhere.
Linyue noticed their movement and frowned. Why are they stepping back? Are we dodging arrows again?
Just in case, she copied them and shifted one tiny step back. But she didn't get far. A strong hand caught hers before her foot even touched the ground.
Linyue blinked. Hard.
Shu Mingye was holding her hand. His grip wasn't tight, but firm. Possessive in a quiet, unspoken way. His hand was cold—so cold it could rival hers, which was saying something. She caught the faint scent of bitter medicine clinging to his skin, mixed with that subtle smoky warmth that was uniquely him. His face was pale. Lips almost white. He looked like a ghost. A very angry, very handsome ghost who had escaped from his bed just to haunt her personally.
Had he just risen from the dead? Was he mad about something? He did look like someone who just woke up after six days of being a grumpy Sleeping Beauty. And clearly, he hadn't come for the spicy dumpling noodles.
His dark eyes locked on hers. "Are you leaving?" he asked.
Behind them, Song Meiyu let out a sharp gasp. Both hands flew to her mouth, her eyes sparkling with scandalous delight. He Yuying, utterly unbothered, pulled out a second snack from somewhere in his robes and took a slow bite like he was watching a live opera. Shen Zhenyu sighed, and prepared himself mentally to be the only adult in this situation.
Linyue tilted her head. "You look like ghost," she said honestly.
Shu Mingye didn't even blink. "Answer the question."
Linyue paused. What was the question again?
Oh, right. Are you leaving?
She gave a small nod and answered calmly, "Yes."
…For spicy dumpling noodles, she added silently in her heart. Obviously.
Shu Mingye's dark eyes narrowed. His fingers curled tighter around hers, not enough to hurt, just enough to say don't you dare without actually saying it. There was something in his grip that felt almost… desperate. Like if he let go now, she'd slip away forever.
"And you didn't even say goodbye?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.
Linyue was honestly confused. "Do I have to?" she asked.
Technically, she had left Prince Lu without saying goodbye. And yet, Shu Mingye cared? This was the same man who scowled every time the prince so much as breathed in his direction.
Shu Mingye didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on Linyue, studying every tiny flicker of her expression. His heart was beating too fast in his chest, but his face stayed still and cold, like always. But in his head, a dangerous thought spiraled.
If he hadn't woken up a little earlier… If he hadn't dragged himself out here today… would she really have gone? No note. No farewell. No one last sarcastic comment or awkward stare thrown over her shoulder. The thought hit harder than it should. Something twisted sharp and unpleasant in his chest.
He had told himself over and over: let her go. She was free, and he had no right to ask her to stay. No one owned her—not even him, not someone like him. He had repeated that in his head like a chant, a desperate attempt at self-control. But now she was standing right here, and he was holding her hand, and the thought of letting go felt unbearable. He didn't know when it started. This wanting. This ache in his chest every time she looked somewhere else. All he knew was: he was not ready to see her walk away.