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“Oh! And do me a favour, Zichen: take care of the flowers while I’m gone.”
“I will.”
“The watering can–”
“I know where the watering can is, father.”
“And don’t forget to–”
“I’ve got it covered. Come on, father, the taxi is waiting.”
In hindsight, Song Lan can pinpoint this to have been the exact moment when he jinxed things. He should have known better.
Alas, he did not, and this is how he finds himself walking down the street from his parents’ house, glaring at the withering plant in his hands. The orchid had been sprouting the finest white blossoms when he had left the house together with his father. Upon returning the same evening, it had greeted Song Lan with all of its petals strewn over the floor, sad leaves pointing at him like accusing fingers. As if the plant was quietly judging him for his arrogance mere hours ago. Not to mention that Song Lan had spent the rest of the week trying to nurse the thing back to health before his father’s return. Unsuccessfully, of course.
He sighs and takes a sharp left, glancing at the grey afternoon sky. Clouds are piling up into dark mountains above him, heralding the coming of rain for the evening. The scent of petrichor flies on the chilly wind, tangling in his jacket as he weaves through the people coming towards him, the potted flower held against his chest.
Song Lan stops in front of a tiny store, emerging out of the stream of pedestrians to take cover beneath a faded green awning. Baskets with plants and flowers are dangling down next to vines crawling up the old brick wall. A wind chime dances in the breeze, its gentle sound swallowed by the noise of the city. Song Lan evades a low hanging basket on his way to the door, glancing at the elegant sign above it that reads Frostbloom Flowers. He has walked past the shop many times when visiting his father and never set a foot inside it. The name, however, is odd enough to have left an impression on him. His eyes linger for a second, then he shrugs and pushes the door open.
It’s like stepping into a glasshouse.
A bell tinkles faintly as the door falls shut, cutting off all noise from the people and the traffic outside. The air is humid and sweet with the scent of flowers and earth, engulfing Song Lan like a soft blanket. Tiny round lamps illuminate the room, dipping everything into a warm glow like the sun does on a lazy afternoon. One wall is covered entirely in foliage, water dripping down along the leaves. It turns into a miniature waterfall further down, caught by a small well at the bottom. The calming rhythm of the water mixes with the quiet music coming from an old radio sitting on the counter.
Plants of all sizes and varieties cover the shop, forming a carpet of green, dotted with droplets of colourful blossoms and golden light. Some flowers are arranged in neat bouquets and fragile vases, others grow in planters or hanging baskets. It looks as if someone decided to fill every space of the tiny shop with the brightest and biggest plants possible, and when the space on the floor ran out, they continued by filling the walls and ceiling instead. Song Lan can see some shelves along the walls, bending beneath the heavy weight of flowerpots and plants. He takes a deep breath, tasting the earthy air on his tongue, his eyes roaming over what looks more like a jungle than a room in a building made of bricks and stone.
“Can I help you?”
Song Lan startles and looks around, trying to find the owner of the voice.
A young girl looks at him from behind the counter with grey eyes. Strands of her dark hair stick out of her bun in unruly strands and she is wearing a dark sweater with a university logo, the name of it obscured by a green apron. A student, Song Lan concludes and turns toward her.
He needs five steps to cross a distance that would usually take him barely two, having to tiptoe around pots and vases, careful not to knock anything over as he approaches the counter. He ends up bumping his shoulder against a hanging basket anyway, tall as he is, and the girl grins.
“Sorry, it’s a bit cramped in here,” she leans against the counter. “The boss can’t bring himself to throw anything out.”
Song Lan makes a noncommittal sound. Cramped is not the word he would have used. Lush, perhaps.
He catches the basket hanging next to him with one hand to keep it from swinging back and forth and puts the orchid down on the counter. The girl raises an eyebrow and throws him a questioning look before she turns toward the flower. She picks it up gently and examines it. Song Lan waits until she sets it back down again, opening his mouth to explain.
“We don’t do refunds.”
And shuts it again with an audible click. He blinks, takes a deep breath, and tries again.
“I’m not here for a refund.”
“Oh,” the girl nods. “In that case, the delivery entrance is on the backside of the building. It’s hard to find, but if you–”
“I’m not here to make a delivery,” Song Lan clarifies indignantly.
He throws her a warning glare, usually rather effective at work. It doesn’t seem to leave any lasting impression on her.
“Are you not?”
“Do I look like a delivery man?”
The girl gives him a cat-like smile.
“No, you look like someone who’s easy to rile up.”
She giggles, what about Song Lan can only guess, and he ponders lecturing her about customer service. Instead, he takes a deep breath, the earthy scent of the shop calming him slightly.
“I need some help,” he says, trying not to sound grumpy. “It threw off all of its blooms some days ago.”
It comes out grumpy anyway.
“Yeah, I can see that,” the girl chuckles and picks the plant up again. “The poor thing looks like you tried to drown it. What is it?”
“It’s an orchid.”
She rolls her eyes and has the nerve to chide him.
“Tsk, I can see that. What kind of orchid is it?” she holds the flower up, as if it hid the answer to her question at the bottom of its pot. “Dendrobium? Cymbidium? It looks like ordinary grass.”
Song Lan watches, feeling helpless.
“It’s an orchid,” he repeats. “I don’t know what kind.”
“Yeah, neither do I,” is the professional judgement he gets in reply. “Doesn’t look like a run-of-the-mill orchid to me.”
The girl puts the flower down again, tapping a finger against her chin.
“Do you have a moment? I’ll go get the boss; he’ll know.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning around and vanishing through a door behind the counter, a long white curtain fluttering behind her in the doorframe. Song Lan remains with only the withering orchid and the soft music from the radio for company. He watches the curtain until it has stopped fluttering, then gives in to the urge to unzip his jacket and slip out of it. It’s terribly warm inside the shop, and he also unbuttons the collar of his shirt.
Song Lan starts wandering– no, wandering is the wrong word.
Wandering needs space, legroom, and the flower shop has anything but that. He starts inching, slowly making his way from one flower-laden wall to the next, admiring the many petals and blossoms. The plants almost seem to turn toward him, as if they were demanding his attention, begging to be touched. He doesn’t touch them, of course.
He remembers his mother being peculiar about which of her flowers he could touch, and which were too fragile. Song Lan has always been helpless with plants, neither sharing his mother’s passion for anything living and blooming nor her green fingers. He likes books and rules, principles and straight lines. Things that are neat. Things that are orderly.
Dead things, as his mother would sometimes say, but she’d always accompany it with an understanding smile and water her flowers under Song Lan’s admiring gaze, once more naming all the plants for him. He remembers none of these names anymore. But he remembers his mother’s smile, her kind eyes and the scent of lilies. She would have loved a place like this.
He pulls himself from his reverie at the sound of soft footsteps nearing, turning back to the counter.
The white curtain flutters again, revealing the most beautiful man Song Lan has ever seen.
He keeps his dark hair together in a short, messy ponytail, wayward strands falling into his face, clinging to his high cheekbones. A knitted sweater hangs too loosely on his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the low-cut collar revealing a stripe of the white t-shirt beneath. He is wearing a dark apron that seems to consist entirely out of earthy stains and tiny pockets. He’s tall, long limbs moving elegantly through the tiny space of the shop in fluid motions.
Song Lan swallows.
He tries to speak, finds no words, and remains silent.
“Apologies,” the florist says while he pulls off his gloves and stuffs them into a pocket on his apron.
They reveal soft hands with slender fingers and pale wrists.
“I was in the middle of repotting some peonies, special order, stubborn little things–”
The young man halts himself for a second, blinks, and takes a deep breath. Then he turns to Song Lan with warm brown eyes, giving him the most gorgeous smile he has ever seen. Song Lan swears he can see the plants turning towards this man, eager to gobble up the light from his smile.
His stomach lurches like he had just missed a step on the stairs.
Oh shit.
“But you’re not here to listen to me rambling,” the florist’s voice is soft, even when he jests.
Song Lan notices a light smudge of dirt across his nose. It stands out noticeably against his otherwise pale skin.
“Xiao Xingchen,” the man introduces himself, still smiling. “What can I do for you?”
In the blink of an eye, a million answers to this question explode in Song Lan’s mind, burning on his tongue. He swallows, again, and tries to speak around all the words that want to tumble from his lips.
“Song Lan,” is the first thing that comes out, sounding shakier than he should when just giving his own name. “I brought my orchid.”
The moment the words have left his mouth, he wants to snatch them up and stuff them back down his throat. Or fall through a hole in the floor. Yes, that would be an acceptable alternative. Song Lan soldiers on, trying not to sound like a complete fool.
“I think it’s dying.”
There, much better. Now it’s awkward and dramatic.
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps smiling, chuckles even, and reaches for the flower with his slender, gentle fingers.
“No, she’s not,” he reassures Song Lan as he examines the plant and soil with practised moves. “A bit too dry, perhaps? But nothing she won’t recover from.”
“It lost all blooms the other day,” Song Lan says.
“Orchids may do that from time to time,” Xiao Xingchen pats the pockets of his apron hastily, until his hand seems to land on whatever he is searching for. A second later, he unfolds a thin-rimmed pair of large glasses and pushes them up his nose.
Internally, Song Lan starts screaming.
Externally, he presses his lips into a very thin and rigid line. Xiao Xingchen leans over the flower, carefully looking at each of its thin green leaves.
“They can be a bit… difficult,” he continues, fidgeting with his glasses. “Did you change anything? New fertiliser, new pot?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Relocation then, perhaps? Orchids can be peculiar about light and humidity.”
“She’s been standing in the same place for almost ten years.”
Xiao Xingchen, still crouched low over the orchid, glances at him over the rim of his glasses. Song Lan’s insides spontaneously combust.
“Ten years? Remarkable,” Xiao Xingchen chuckles to himself. “Quite the specimen, too.”
Song Lan shrugs.
It’s an orchid. He’s content with having that much figured out by himself. That is probably more than he can ever expect to know about any flower put under his care.
“Habenaria radiata, the egret flower,” Xiao Xingchen’s eyes shine like that of a child in a toy store. “It’s called Heron Grass in Japan because its blooms resemble birds in flight.”
Song Lan dimly remembers the shape of the petals he picked up from the floor last week. Not so much heron-like, more akin to a dead dove with floppy feathers. However, he understands where the idea for the name might have come from.
“They’re rather rare in the wild,” Xiao Xingchen straightens his back, eyes darting between the plant and Song Lan. “How did you come by it?”
Here comes the embarrassing part Song Lan has been dreading since entering the shop. And that was before he met the beautiful man owning the business. He clears his throat, staring at the orchid instead of the Xiao Xingchen.
“It doesn’t belong to me,” his eyes are lingering on the pretty fingers resting against the plant. “I’m just the one taking care of it.”
The music from the radio is the only thing filling the silence between them. Xiao Xingchen makes a soft noise in his throat, indicating that he understands. Song Lan watches as his fingers gently tap against the soil in the pot, as if they were patting the plant to express his sympathy.
“I see,” he pushes his glasses up and crosses his arms. “I hope you’re not looking for a replacement. Egret flowers are not something I have in stock.”
Aside from that, Xiao Xingchen doesn’t seem too fond of the idea of replacing a flower just to hide a slip-up. Song Lan can tell from the way he raises his eyebrows and lowers his chin, all softness bleeding away from him. Sadly, it doesn’t make him less handsome.
“Although I suppose I could get my hands on one, if you give me a week,” Xiao Xingchen bites his lip, fingers fluttering away from the orchid to find something to write.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Ah.”
Song Lan fidgets, smoothing out imaginary crinkles in the jacket hanging over his arm.
“I was hoping to coax her back to life, that’s all. But I’m at my wit’s end.”
Not that he ever had much wits to begin with when it comes to flowers.
Xiao Xingchen hums, bracing his hands against the counter. His edges, sharp and prominent just a second ago, seem to vanish, once more overtaken by gentle kindness. Just like vines growing over the rough edges of a building, turning hard concrete into soft foliage. Xiao Xingchen leans in as he speaks, and Song Lan can smell the familiar scent of lilies clinging to him.
His stomach does the tingly thing again.
“Egret flowers don’t bloom easily. This one probably won’t either, not at least until next summer. Or longer,” the words, although soft, carry a warning.
Song Lan recognises a challenge when he hears one. It makes dealing with the charming florist a bit easier. He leans in, for once not evading Xiao Xingchen’s brown eyes gazing at him. The scent of lilies grows stronger, tasting sweet on his tongue.
“But there’s a chance, right?”
“With proper care and patience? Sure, there is,” Xiao Xingchen tilts his head, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “No promises, though. Plants are… not exactly a science. More like a probability. A possibility.”
A labour of love and endurance. He doesn’t say it, but Song Lan has learned that much from years and years of watching his mother dote on her flowers.
“Stochastic, then. I can deal with that,” because that is something dead, a tool meant to make even chaos orderly.
It’s something he can work with, something he is a good at. Chances and explicit instructions. Unlike the unsteady tingling in his stomach that gets worse with every breath of lily-scented air he takes. Song Lan tries to ignore it and concentrates on putting on a smile instead.
“A few pointers would be nice, though.”
Brown eyes stare at him intently before the edges around them turn soft and crinkle, the gentle smile returning. The tingling (he’s not calling it butterflies, no way) in Song Lan’s stomach hitches, ceases, and then returns with a vengeance. It feels like falling through the floor in all the right ways.
“Well, you’re determined, I’ll give you that,” Xiao Xingchen gives a pleased chuckle, the sound as bright as the little wind chime outside the shop. “I’m sure we can figure something out to set you up.”
Song Lan soon realises that ‘setting him up’ involves a lot more than just a few words of advice. Instead, he finds himself roped into what can only be called an in-depth counselling session as he follows Xiao Xingchen through his shop and listens to him listing all the Dos and Don’ts of orchid care. He can barely keep up, getting lost somewhere between “Not too much light, egret flowers are a swamp dwelling kind” and “Don’t overwater them, most orchids take poorly to having wet feet”. Thus, he ends up with a handwritten list of instructions by Xiao Xingchen, meticulously detailing how to nurse the flower back to health after what must have been the better part of an hour.
The florist slips the folded list into one of the paper bags Song Lan is holding, giving him a playful wink. One bag holds the orchid, wrapped in paper and plastic (“Can’t have the poor thing die from the cold on your way home, can we?”), the other contains a small pouch with orchid soil, fertiliser and a dozen other things Xiao Xingchen told him would come in handy.
“There,” Xiao Xingchen smiles, handing over the change. “I’d say you’re ready to go.”
His glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose, and even though Song Lan’s head is swimming with extra information, the only thing he can think about is how adorable that makes Xiao Xingchen look. He feels his ears grow hot and looks away, feigning to cough into his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he says, the bags dangling around his wrists. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time.”
Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, more strands from his ponytail coming loose to frame his beautiful face. He raises his hands as if to wave the apology away.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he gives an embarrassed laugh, pushing his glasses back up. “It’s not like there’s much business on a day like this.”
No other customer has entered the shop since Song Lan came in. For the last hour it has just been the two of them, awkwardly hovering around each other in the tiny space of the shop to not bump into each other. Even the assistant has been oddly absent.
“Mh, business is going slowly then?”
Nothing to lighten the mood like talking about the possibly declining business of the shop. Song Lan bites his tongue, too late, and wishes his hands weren’t full so he could smack himself in the face. Once more he is saved by the seemingly endless patience and kindness Xiao Xingchen must be blessed with.
“Not usually, no, thankfully not,” one hand tangles in his hair, toying with a loose strand resting against his neck. “Just the weather today, you know? Few people are out.”
Song Lan has almost forgotten the grey sky outside, dimly remembering his phone chiming some time ago with what must have been a long overdue warning against heavy rainfall. All of this seems far away in the confines of the tiny flower shop where everything is warm and cosy.
“Right,” he says, and cranes his neck back to catch a glimpse out of the window.
The clouds that were mountains before are on their way to turn into giants, their colour having gone from steel grey to that of charcoal. Even the humid air in the flower shop carries a tang of electricity. Song Lan can taste it on his tongue, sour and tingling. It mixes badly with the scent of lilies.
“It’s the season,” Xiao Xingchen shrugs. “Nothing we can do about it. But you should probably get going, I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the storm.”
Song Lan looks from the sky outside to Xiao Xingchen who shoots him a bashful smile, the barest shadow of pink dusting his cheeks while his eyes dart to the bags Song Lan is holding. In the past hour, the stomach-tingling has wandered upwards, settling down in the centre of his chest as a warm, fluttering thing. It makes Song Lan’s heart stutter in the worst best way.
“The flower wouldn’t take very well too it,” Xiao Xingchen adds, slipping past the counter.
He seems to glide through the tiny shop, like he has been the entire time, floating to the door. Song Lan stares at Xiao Xingchen’s slim shoulders and quickly tears his gaze away. He clears his throat, and when his voice won’t work right away, he has to fake another cough.
“Yeah, I should,” he says, his voice coming out breathily.
He follows Xiao Xingchen towards the door, moving not half as gracefully, the bags rustling in his hands.
“That’d be wise,” Xiao Xingchen nods. “Let me hold the door for you.”
He flits around Song Lan with feline grace to push the door open. Song Lan turns around clumsily, laden with his bags, and, despite his best efforts, he can’t help but brush against Xiao Xingchen’s outstretched arm. The tiny accidental touch is enough to make his skin tingle beneath the fabric of his jacket.
“Thank you again,” he repeats, ignoring the tingling that keeps running up his arm to his chest.
“It was my pleasure,” Xiao Xingchen gives him another of his breath-taking smiles, a beautiful thing with soft crinkles around his eyes and a lopsided curve of his pretty lips. “If anything comes up with the orchid, please drop by again.”
He takes a step to the side, almost melting into the wall to make some space. When Song Lan walks past him, he can smell the fragrance of lilies radiating from the florist, more intense than before. His heartbeat is so loud that Xiao Xingchen must be able to hear it.
“Even if everything is fine, feel free to come by anytime if you’re in the area. I’d love to hear how things are going,” Xiao Xingchen says, completely unaware of Song Lan’s pulse droning in his ears.
To Song Lan, this sounds like the perfect pretence to pause on the doorstep, turn around and ask the charming man out for a coffee. Just to keep him updated, of course. Everything inside of him is screaming to open his mouth, extend an invitation for lunch, do something, heart hammering in his chest like a bird in a small cage.
Song Lan swallows all of it down, the clumsy invitation, the fluttering in his chest, the taste of lilies on his tongue. Instead he nods, leaving the comfortable warmth of the flower shop behind and steps out into the brewing storm.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says with a last glance over his shoulder.
Xiao Xingchen nods in reply, waving at him with a polite smile – not the warm one from before – and closes the door. Song Lan pointedly looks the other way, not wanting to come across even more weird, and promptly bumps his head against another of the hanging baskets. He curses under his breath, a flush spreading across his face as he takes an ungainly sidestep, using all his willpower to not throw an embarrassed look back.
Of all the voices inside of him screaming and calling him an idiot and a coward, a frustrated sigh is the only thing fierce enough to make it past his lips. Song Lan tells himself he can come back here anytime, a few more visits, and maybe then he’ll say something. In the distance, the first thunder growls, and he falls into a quick stride, not wanting to be caught in the downpour.
Xiao Xingchen hides his fond chuckle behind his hand when Song Lan walks into the hanging basket, watching him through the fogged-up windows of the store. He keeps staring until the tall man has been swallowed up by the city, his broad shoulders just a vague shadow in the faceless crowd. A quiet breath tumbles from his lips and he turns back towards the counter, shooting the white curtain wafting in the doorframe a telling look.
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, A-Qing,” he chides, but his voice is devoid of any true ire.
The girl sticks her head into the room, pushing out a tongue at him.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she says.
Xiao Xingchen pulls the tie keeping his hair together free and shakes his head.
“I see,” he raises an eyebrow at her. “You just happened to be standing behind the curtain the entire time, completely by chance.”
She purses her lips. “…not the entire time.”
She then drops a worn book on the counter with a dull thud, not even waiting for Xiao Xingchen to finish retying his hair. (It’s pointless anyway, still looking as messy as before.)
“White Egret Flower, also known as Fringed Orchid or Egret Flower,” she says, her finger tapping against a faded photograph at the bottom of the page. “Never seen that one before. Looks pretty, though.”
Xiao Xingchen leans against the other side of the counter with his hip, turning the book towards him. He takes a quick glance at its spine, labelling the book as The New Encyclopaedia of Orchids. It looks anything but new; he can’t even remember owning such a book. Then again, he doesn’t have to, his mind is a much more faithful guide when it comes to flowers than any book could ever be.
“Where did you find that?”
“It’s the book that keeps the workbench from wobbling,” A-Qing shrugs. “I replaced it with the one about psychoactive plants.”
Before Xiao Xingchen can ask her about that book as well (another one he didn’t even know he possessed), A-Qing shoves her phone into his hands. He takes it, pushing up his glasses so he can get a better view. The display shows another image of an egret flower in full bloom, next to it an adult’s hand to show the scale of the plant. Its blossoms are barely big enough to cover the thumbnail of the hand holding it.
“Such tiny blooms!” A-Qing makes a surprised noise. “Hardly worth all the effort.”
“…as few things in life are,” Xiao Xingchen says, handing her the phone back. “Did you finish repotting the peonies for me?”
His assistant stares at him incredulously.
“What do you think of me? Potted, watered, and ready for pickup tomorrow,” she crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Somebody has to keep this shop running, since you’re so busy flirting.”
“Flirting?” Xiao Xingchen can feel his face warming up.
“Don’t act like you weren’t,” A-Qing leans back on her heels. “That guy was exactly your type.”
“Ah,” Xiao Xingchen makes, trying to gloss over his blush with a charming smile. “I have a type now?”
A-Qing blinks at him and rolls her eyes, reaching for the book instead.
“Don’t play dumb,” she snaps the book closed, tucking it under her arm. “Tall, dark, moody. A bit of a weirdo.”
Xiao Xingchen gives an indignant huff, joining her behind the counter.
“Sounds like a type to me,” A-Qing says. “Your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
A snicker falls from A-Qing’s lips as she shakes her head and makes her way to the back of the shop.
“Hey, I’ve seen the last guy you’ve been dating. Trust me, you have a type.”
Xiao Xingchen is right on her heels, holding the curtain back for her. His stomach has been doing flips non-stop for the last hour, but A-Qing doesn’t need to know that. Yet.
He clears his throat.
“We weren’t dating.”
“Cool. If this is the lie you need to tell yourself to get some sleep at night, that’s fine with me.”
“Not. Dating.”
A-Qing shrugs and turns around, walking backwards through the rows of planters and shelves lining the back room of the shop. Xiao Xingchen follows her, eyes trained on anything behind her to make sure she isn’t walking herself into another accident.
“Fine,” she tilts her head. “Friends with benefits, then.”
“A-Qing,” for the first time, Xiao Xingchen’s voice takes on a serious tone.
She doesn’t seem impressed by it.
“Anyway,” A-Qing stops in front of a shelf, one half lined with bags of soil, the other half lined with books. “This guy right now? Leagues better. His weirdo-air wasn’t as bad either.”
Xiao Xingchen gives an exhausted sigh while he watches her search for an empty spot on the shelf to put the book down. When she makes one out at the very top, he wordlessly takes it from her and puts the book in its new place.
“Thank you for your unsolicited opinion on my not-dating choices and your heartfelt blessing,” he says, exhaustion crawling up his spine.
“Hmph,” A-Qing pushes her lower lip out in a pout.
It has no effect on Xiao Xingchen, whose eyes dart to the old-fashioned clock over the workbench. It is earlier than usual, but with the storm brewing outside they can’t expect much business for today anyway.
“Let’s clean and close up,” he says, not willing to indulge his assistant’s interest in his love life any further. “We can order food afterwards.”
That at least seems to take her mind off things.
“As long as you’re paying,” she grins, quickly diving out of his reach when he tries to give her a pat on the head.
“Only if you keep your tongue in check,” Xiao Xingchen threatens half-heartedly.
A-Qing salutes, gesturing that she is locking her mouth and throwing the key away.
“Not a word,” she promises, and then theatrically throws hear head back with a hand against her forehead. “But know this: you can buy my silence, but my heart will remain free!”
Xiao Xingchen snorts, rolling his eyes at her good-naturedly.
“Get to work!”
The two of them work together in quiet efficiency, A-Qing being busy with pondering about what food to order while Xiao Xingchen focuses on not thinking about the handsome customer with his orchid while he heaves in the flowers displayed in front of the shop.
The cold autumn air crawls inside whenever he opens the door, the first drops of rain already pattering down on the awning. Xiao Xingchen huffs and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand once the last large flowerpot is back inside the shop. His resolution not to think about orchid man shatters the moment he locks the front door. As his eyes dart to the sky, he can’t help but hope that Song Lan and his flower have made it home without getting caught in the rain.
“You should have given him your number,” A-Qing singsongs from where she is sweeping the floor behind the counter, as if she knew exactly what Xiao Xingchen is thinking of.
He chuckles under his breath and proceeds locking the door, then turns around to look at his assistant from between two large gum trees, their lush leaves almost completely hiding his slender frame. A-Qing shoots him a sceptical look, eyebrows raised. Xiao Xingchen smiles at her, half of his face obscured by thick green leaves.
“Who says I didn’t?”
At home, Song Lan stares at his purchases from the flower shop scattered over the kitchen table. The orchid, unwrapped from its protective coat of paper and plastic, already occupies its new spot on the windowsill. Half-shaded, the window facing south. Just as Xiao Xingchen has told him.
Song Lan is trying to make sense of the myriad of other things he has bought at the flower shop. And he absolutely does not think about the fluffy feeling in his chest. Or what he should or could have said to Xiao Xingchen.
Whom he is not crushing on. Hard.
…who is he kidding?
Song Lan sighs, slumping over the table in defeat. With a tired groan, he fishes the sheet of paper from the otherwise empty bag, slowly unfolding it. Rows and rows of instructions present themselves, jotted down in neat handwriting and green colour. Song Lan skims through the list, putting the items on the table in the corresponding order.
A business card is attached to the end of the list, an elegant design framing the address and contact number of Frostbloom Flowers. Next to it, in the same graceful font as the rest of the list, a reminder to Feel free to contact us if you need further advice or have any questions. The card smells of lilies.
Song Lan picks it up, the fine paper smooth against his fingertips. His eyes linger on the odd name, turning the card in his hands. He expects the back to be empty, except for the simple designs decorating the card, and raises an eyebrow in surprise when it isn’t. Instead, there is another message, in the same pretty handwriting, penned with the same green ink.
Alternatively, you could always ask me out for a cup of tea if you’re interested. My treat.
Next to the note is a hasty scribble of a flower giving Song Lan a wink. Beneath is a phone number.
Song Lan’s stomach does a triple flip and once more, he feels like screaming.
He adds Xiao Xingchen to his contacts about ten minutes later.
Another ten minutes, and Song Lan has three unread messages and a date on Sunday.
This time, he screams for real.