The Fake Son Wants to Live [BL]-Chapter 125 - A Bowl of Noodles

Bian quietly followed behind the Farian, watching the way he limped with each step. The alien man balanced himself with his long sword, not for show but out of necessity. His leg was clearly hurt, and yet he moved as if nothing was wrong, pushing forward without pause.

Bian sped up, keeping his head low.

"Please... You’ll hurt your leg more," he said gently. "Lean on me. I’ll help you."

He wasn’t entirely lying. He did want to help. But he also wanted to get close. The Farian was his chance—his chance to gather information, maybe even learn about General Xing. But the alien man didn’t even look at him kindly.

"It will heal soon," the Farian replied coldly, then kept walking, ignoring him.

Bian lowered his eyes and followed in silence.

As they passed a ruined street, the Farian suddenly paused in front of a partially burned noodle shop. His eyes locked on the cracked sign, and he licked his lips faintly. Bian followed his gaze.

The shop was mostly intact, though blackened by smoke and ash. The scent of old broth and flour still lingered in the air. Despite the damage, it somehow felt... familiar.

’He’s hungry,’ Bian realized. ’Maybe I can use this.’

He walked up beside him.

"That noodle shop’s famous," he offered. "Why don’t we eat something? We haven’t had anything in a day."

The Farian raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"It’s closed."

"They’ll still serve if we ask." Bian gently tugged on the edge of the man’s coat. "Please... I’m hungry."

That last part was true. His stomach ached from emptiness. But more than food, he wanted to see if this man—this Farian—could be reached.

The alien stared at him in silence for a moment.

Dican stepped up to the door and gave it a firm knock.

After a few tense seconds, the door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged woman with flour-dusted hands and tired eyes. She looked them over, her expression cautious. "We’re closed," she said briskly. "Not serving customers anymore."

But then her gaze landed on Bian. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Kid... You’re alive. Oh thank God." Without hesitation, she pulled him in, her face breaking into a relieved smile. "Come in, come in!"

Bian blinked in confusion, but quickly caught on and gave a small nod, playing along.

"It’s been so long since you quit working here," the woman continued warmly, ushering him inside. "How have you been? How’s school? Are you studying well?"

Bian gave an awkward smile and nodded politely, letting her chatter without correcting her.

Dican followed behind them, his steps slow and thoughtful. He hadn’t expected anyone to react like this—to greet the clingy human so openly, with real joy. It wasn’t just politeness. This woman genuinely cared.

It seems this human... is well-liked.

A good sign.

For the first time, Dican felt the faintest hint of trust stir within him.

The middle-aged woman led Bian into the warm, dimly lit kitchen, still bustling with the lingering scent of spices and oil clinging to the air despite its recent disuse.

"Who’s that handsome guy you brought in?" she asked, glancing back toward the dining area where Dican sat, his posture upright yet guarded. "He looks like a foreigner. Is he a friend?" Her eyes narrowed slightly with a hint of protectiveness.

Bian gave a small nod, his tone soft but distant. "He’s... a friend."

She eyed him a moment longer, then tilted her head. "Your voice sounds different. Do you have a cold?"

Bian’s throat tightened. He gave a vague nod again, not trusting his voice.

"Wait here, I’ll make you some ginger chicken soup. That should help." She smiled warmly and turned her back to him, going about the kitchen with practiced familiarity.

Bian stood still in the center of the kitchen, eyes scanning the worn-down counters, the cracked spice rack, the old pans that still hung above the stove. His gaze cooled, sharp and calculating.

’So this must be the place Jian worked... No wonder the woman mistook me for him.’ His fingers brushed the dusty edge of the counter. ’Tch. It’s a good thing, I suppose. If people loved Jian here, then this illusion will help me too.’

His lips curled into a faint smile. He moved to help, handing her ingredients, passing the ladle, pouring water into the pot. He didn’t know what he was doing half the time, but the woman’s cheerful, motherly chatter filled in the silence and kept things flowing.

"Go on, sit down," she said at last, placing two bowls of steaming soupy noodles on a tray alongside a plate of sautéed mutton. "I’ll bring it out for you."

Bian nodded, dusting his hands and quietly slipping back into the dining area. Dican was still there, inspecting a pair of wooden chopsticks he’d picked up from the holder at the side of the table.

Bian walked over and sat opposite him, brushing down his lap as he sat. "Oh, those are chopsticks. You just—"

Before he could finish, Dican already peeled off the paper wrapping with precise fingers, snapped them apart neatly, then rubbed the ends together to smooth away the splinters. His movements were fluid, practiced, and oddly graceful.

He raised an amused brow. "Hmm. You were saying?"

Bian’s mouth hung open for a second, then he let out an awkward laugh. "N-Nothing. You already know how to use them?"

"I’ve been on this planet long enough," Dican said, his tone teasing but unreadable.

Just then, the woman walked out with the tray and placed the food in front of them. She ruffled Bian’s hair affectionately, smiling.

"Eat up. You look like skin and bones." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"Thank you," Bian said, his tone laced with unusual softness as he accepted the bowl.

Dican glanced at the two of them, then picked up the chopsticks and tasted the noodles. The warmth of the broth spread through his tongue and seeped down into his stomach. He blinked slowly.

"...Good." Dican let out a small smile as he slurped the noodles.

"You look good when you smile," Bian muttered shyly.

Dican raised a brow but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his eyes toward the window, watching the faint golden hue of dusk rolling in, streaking the dust-covered shop with soft amber light.

The conversation lulled again as they ate. Every now and then, the woman bustled back in to top off their water or offer more side dishes. She didn’t ask questions about the destruction outside, or why the boy who once worked for her had returned looking a little too different. She simply treated them both like family. It felt surreal.

And perhaps, in a strange way, Bian began to feel... almost comforted.

After they finished the meal, Dican leaned back slightly, his injured leg stretched under the table. Bian looked at him hesitantly.

"Does it still hurt?"

Dican’s gaze met his, unreadable. "Not as much."

"...Thank you. For saving me earlier." Bian lowered his eyes. "I know I was a burden. But thank you anyway."

Dican looked at him for a long moment. The vulnerability in the boy’s voice wasn’t faked — at least, not all of it.

"You scream like a dying bird," he said flatly. "But you didn’t run."

"I-I didn’t?"

"No." Dican’s eyes lingered on him. "You clung to me like a leech."

Bian’s face flushed. "I was scared!"

"Mm. Next time, scream quieter."

Despite the sharp tone, Bian found his lips twitching into a smile. Somehow, that counted as a compliment.