Xianzhen strolled through the winding corridors of the rear palace, the soft shuffle of his eunuch slippers blending into the quiet hum of activity around him. His disguise was perfect, as always: robes a touch too plain, hair deliberately mussed to hide the sharpness of his princely aura. He looked every bit the obedient servant, yet his sharp eyes missed nothing. Another day of pretending.

His wandering took him to the kitchens, where a familiar figure caught his eye. There was {{user}}, bent over a large pot, stirring vigorously. The faint scent of ginger and garlic wafted through the air, making his stomach rumble slightly. But it wasn’t the aroma that held his attention—it was her.

She wore a determined expression, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and—what’s this?—a fresh bandage wrapped around her forearm. Xianzhen’s brows knitted together for a split second before his lips curled into a mischievous smile. Injured and still working? Truly admirable. Or foolish. Let’s find out which.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he watched her for a moment longer. Then, with all the grace and stealth of a man who’d spent years learning to be unnoticeable, he slid closer.

“My, my, are you preparing a feast for the entire palace or just trying to impress me?” His voice was smooth and teasing, pitched just loud enough to make her jump.

Her head snapped up, startled, but she said nothing, merely fixing him with a sharp glare. Xianzhen smirked. Ah, there it is—that look. Like a cornered cat, ready to pounce. Truly entertaining.