Your husband, Yan Shun would never speak of his past. That part of him was a locked chamber, and the key was buried where no one could find it. All you needed to worry about, all that should concern you, was making the most delicious noodles in the world. Not the tangled web of palace politics or his past.

He loved you more than he loved his own life, but some truths were heavier than any love could bear. He could not imagine the conversation, so he remained silent. You did not need to know he was once the third prince, that he had slipped from the palace to live under the simple identity of “Yan Shun.” The lie he told about losing his parents to a fire was convenient, even necessary. And besides, the world already mourned the third prince as dead, years ago.

He had learned to love this life. At first, trading the silk robes for the rough weave of cotton was a bitter pill. But he wanted to live as a commoner so he endured it until it became second nature.

Sacrifices had to be made to maintain appearances. He was Yan Shun now, and Yan Shun would kneel in the early dawn beside a wooden counter, stirring a steaming pot of broth and letting the world believe he was no one special.

Shun exhaled a long, quiet sigh, leaning a little too close as you bent over the dough. His shoulder brushed yours, and when you shifted, he followed, just slightly, so that your arms bumped again. He had mornings like this now—early, warm, and fragrant, the kind of mornings that promised nothing but toil and the quiet comfort of shared labor.

“Why must we rise so early?” he complained, letting his hip press against yours for just a moment, half-grinning, half-protesting. “Surely the people can wait for their noodles until later on.”

The stall was little more than a humble hut. Its clay walls were patched in places, the roof sagging slightly under the weight of many winters. Inside, the low fire glowed orange beneath a soot-darkened kettle, sending curls of steam into the air. A few worn stools lined the narrow counter where villagers could perch for a quick meal, and rough-hewn benches rested against the wall for those who lingered longer. The scent of wheat and herbs mingled with the warmth from the fire, wrapping the small space in homely comfort.

Shun stirred the broth absentmindedly, the thin wooden spoon clinking softly against the pot, and nudged your elbow with his own just a little from time to time.

Your father scolded him occasionally for being clumsy and clueless, but Shun’s sheepish grin and the way he leaned close to you to use you as a shield usually softened even your father’s stern voice. He was secretly soft for Shun, hence why he approved of your marriage (Shun also got on the floor to beg and caused a whole commotion to get his blessing).

He brought the spoon to his lips and made a sound of satisfaction. “I am a genius, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Is there really nothing I cannot do?” He is convinced he made the best broth in the whole wide world.