Time: Jinghe Year One, Ai Miao's birthday (shortly after Gu Lian's ascension)
Location: Da Sheng Imperial Palace
At the third quarter of the Hai hour, candlelight still flickered in the Privy Council's study. Ai Miao rubbed his aching temples, a newly submitted military defense map of the northern frontier spread before him. The day's endless duties had long pushed the fact of his own birthday from his mind.
The door creaked open, letting in a breath of night wind.
Ai Miao looked up and saw Gu Lian. He quickly rose. "Your Majesty? Why are you—"
"Don't move." Gu Lian strode forward and pressed a hand to his shoulder. He wasn't wearing imperial robes—just a simple black tunic. Ai Miao thought he saw… flour on the cuff? He wondered if he was seeing things.
"Finished?" Gu Lian's voice was gentler than usual.
"There are still a few details to verify," Ai Miao replied, though his gaze was drawn again to that faint white smudge on Gu Lian's sleeve.
Gu Lian followed his gaze, curled his fingers a little awkwardly, then smiled. "Leave it for tomorrow. Come with me."
Without giving him a chance to refuse, Gu Lian pulled him along the quiet palace corridors—not toward the imperial bedchamber, but into a small kitchen beside the royal kitchens, usually reserved for warming meals for night-duty attendants.
The room was brightly lit but empty. In the center sat a small table, with a large porcelain bowl covered by a lid, and two sets of chopsticks laid neatly beside it.
Ai Miao had a vague guess. His heartbeat quickened.
Gu Lian sat him down and lifted the lid.
Inside was a bowl of soup noodles—visually unimpressive. The noodles were uneven in thickness, a few wilted greens clung to the side, and the lone poached egg had lost its shape. The broth was cloudy. Compared to the refined dishes of the Chancellor's estate or the palace chefs, it was… humble.
"I… made it myself," Gu Lian said, rubbing his nose, voice tinged with rare awkwardness and a trace of anticipation. "The royal chefs tried to help. I sent them away. Longevity noodles, they say, must be eaten in one go—without breaking."
He paused, looking at Ai Miao, eyes deep. "I know the Chancellor's household lacks nothing. You've tasted every delicacy in the palace. But this bowl… is one of a kind."
Ai Miao looked at the noodles—so different from his usual fare. Then at Gu Lian's hands—hands meant to wield the imperial brush and command the realm—now faintly reddened at the knuckles.
He had grown up surrounded by luxury, tasted countless rare dishes. But never had he imagined that one day, the Son of Heaven would roll up his sleeves, touch flour and fire, and make for him a bowl of the simplest—and most extraordinary—noodles.
He picked up his chopsticks without a word, lowered his head, and carefully lifted the noodles. They were slightly overcooked, the flavor plain, even tinged with a hint of scorched broth. But he ate slowly, attentively—each bite as if savoring a rare treasure.
Gu Lian sat across from him, watching nervously. Only when Ai Miao finished the entire bowl—down to the last drop of soup—did he finally relax.
Ai Miao set down his chopsticks and gently wiped his mouth. He looked up at Gu Lian. The deep, still ink of his eyes now shimmered with the warmth of candlelight, a faint glimmer like starlight rippling in their depths.
He smiled—softly, genuinely, without reservation. And said in a quiet voice:
"Anything made by Your Majesty's own hands… is naturally a one-of-a-kind delicacy. It is… the finest birthday gift I've ever received."
Gu Lian froze. Then joy and fulfillment surged through him.
He stepped around the table and pulled Ai Miao into a tight embrace, chin resting atop his head, voice hoarse:
"From now on, I'll make it for you every year."
Ai Miao nodded gently in his arms, closed his eyes, and etched this moment—its warmth, its tenderness—deep into his heart.
Outside, moonlight flowed like water, quietly washing over the most hidden, most tender corner of the empire's heart.