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The workshop was tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind of place you didn’t stumble upon unless you were looking—or, in Xie Lian’s case, unless you had someone like Shi Qingxuan marching you there with all the determination of a prophet dragging their chosen to revelation.
A vintage vinyl shop sat on one side, its window filled with cracked album covers promising the Greatest Hits of the '80s, while on the other, a tarot reader leaned against her shopfront, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She locked eyes with Xie Lian as he passed, her gaze unsettlingly sharp, and gave him a knowing smile. He wasn’t sure why that made him nervous.
The sign above the café door read Brew & Bloom, the name written in loopy gold script that belonged on a wedding invitation—or, perhaps, the sort of aspirational Pinterest board that tried to convince you life could be distilled into aesthetic moments. The sunlight streaming through the glass scattered across the polished countertops inside, faint halos of gold spilling over the espresso machines lined in neat rows like sentinels at attention.
Xie Lian hovered outside, his feet catching on cobblestones worn smooth by a hundred lifetimes of passerby. His hesitation lingered just long enough for Shi Qingxuan to barrel into him from behind.
“Why are you just standing there?!” Shi Qingxuan’s voice rose in mock scandal, her arms flailing for emphasis. “You look like you’re afraid the coffee will eat you,” Shi Qingxuan gasped, looking deeply offended. “Xie Lian, it’s just coffee!”
“I’m not scared,” Xie Lian said, even as his shoulders tensed under the weight of the blatant lie. “It’s just—” he waved a hand vaguely at the door—“do people really care that much about what their coffee looks like? Can’t we just… drink it?”
Shi Qingxuan gave him a look of abject betrayal. “Yes. Yes, they do. And so should you!”
“Oh my god,” she gasped, clutching at her chest like he’d insulted her family lineage. “Xie Lian! What happened to trying new things? Expanding your horizons? Being adventurous?”
“I—” He floundered, but the resistance was already leaving his body in increments. “I didn’t mean—”
“You said, ‘Shi Qingxuan, I need to get out more.’ You said, ‘Shi Qingxuan, broaden my horizons!’ You said—”
“I get it,” Xie Lian interrupted before the list of alleged declarations could spiral further. He exhaled and tried again, softer. “It’s not that I don’t want to try. It’s just—what if I’m bad at it?”
Shi Qingxuan tilted her head, her expression softening. “Of course you’ll be bad at it. It’s your first time.”
Grabbing Xie Lian by the wrist, she all but dragged him through the door. “Come on, don’t be such a grandpa.”
Inside, the café was as warm and inviting as the name suggested. Natural light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on the neat rows of ceramic mugs, carefully labeled syrups, and pitchers polished to a mirror finish. The air smelled rich, earthy, and sweet, underpinned by the comforting hum of an espresso machine at work.
Xie Lian scanned the room, suddenly aware of the too-bright white shirt he’d chosen to wear. Any spill would be a scarlet letter, proclaiming his incompetence to the world.
The workshop itself was small and intimate, with only a handful of participants already gathered at their stations. A semicircle of stations stood ready for the workshop, each equipped with its own machine, milk pitchers, and tools that looked suspiciously more like scientific apparatus than anything meant for coffee.
And behind the central counter stood two tall men who could not have been more different, yet perfectly balanced—like a painting that dared you to look closer, to dissect its quiet mastery.
The first man moved with an unsettling precision, each motion pared down to its most efficient form, like clockwork built not to err but to endure. His long, ink-dark hair was tied back with martial neatness, save for one rebellious strand that fell forward, framing an eye of molten gold—a color that did not just shine but smoldered, daring one to hold its gaze and risk being burned.
There was no wasted gesture, no accidental posture; he carried himself with the gravity of a man who had long ago mastered the art of existing without excess.
The other man leaned casually against the counter, the line of his body fluid and roguish. His eyes glinted with quiet mischief, though his hands moved with the confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. Where his companion exuded grace, he carried an easy kind of danger, his dark hair falling in unruly waves that framed his sharp, wolfish grin. He was already flipping a milk pitcher between his fingers, showboating with the kind of casual flair that didn’t ask for attention—it commanded it.
The taller man looked up first, his gaze locking onto Xie Lian’s with startling intensity. It was a quiet, deliberate thing, like being pinned under the weight of a spotlight that illuminated far more than you were prepared to share. When he spoke, his voice was deep and steady, its warmth surprisingly unexpected.
“Welcome to Brew & Bloom,” the man said, his voice deep and measured. “I’m Hua Cheng, and this is He Xuan. We’ll be your instructors today.”
Shi Qingxuan, who had been suspiciously quiet since they entered, suddenly leaned toward Xie Lian with wide, sparkling eyes. “Okay,” he whispered loudly, “this was a great idea.”
Hua Cheng’s name hung in Xie Lian’s mind like an uncut gem—heavy, unpolished, and unnervingly sharp around the edges. And yet, when Hua Cheng stepped closer, it didn’t feel like the weight was something he had to bear. It felt like the weight chose him.
What followed was a slow unraveling of pretense. Latte art, as it turned out, was an absurd exercise in precision and instinct. Xie Lian’s fingers betrayed him at every turn—too much pressure, too little control, the milk swirling into shapeless blobs instead of the elegant forms Hua Cheng demonstrated. And yet, every time Xie Lian fumbled, Hua Cheng was there, patient and steady, his hands guiding Xie Lian’s with a gentleness that felt unearned. Unfair.
Hua Cheng’s hands were warm, a fact that Xie Lian became painfully aware of as soon as they rested over his own. “You’re pouring too fast,” Hua Cheng said, his voice low, his breath brushing the edge of Xie Lian’s ear. Xie Lian’s breath hitched. The warmth of Hua Cheng’s hand over his own was distracting in a way that felt impossible to name. “Slow it down. Let the milk stretch.”
“I’m trying,” Xie Lian replied, though his trembling fingers weren’t exactly selling his competence.
Hua Cheng chuckled, the sound rich and full of something Xie Lian couldn’t place. “I know you are,” he said simply, as if that were enough.
Hua Cheng’s thumb moved slightly, guiding Xie Lian’s wrist into a steadier angle. The milk began to fold into the espresso, swirling in soft curves that almost resembled a heart before collapsing into an uneven blob.
“That’s…” Hua Cheng tilted his head, inspecting the design. “Almost it.”
He Xuan, standing a few feet away, didn’t bother suppressing a snicker. “Looks like a ghost.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Hua Cheng said firmly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re doing great.”
Xie Lian sighed, stepping back. His elbow caught on the milk pitcher, sending it wobbling dangerously. Hua Cheng caught it in one fluid motion, his reflexes sharp and practiced.
“Bad luck?” Hua Cheng asked, a flicker of amusement in his golden eye.
“Bad coordination,” Xie Lian muttered, flushing.
Xie Lian booked the second workshop on impulse.
The first was a disaster, objectively speaking. He had failed to produce anything resembling latte art, spilled coffee on his sleeve, and almost set a towel on fire when he forgot the steam wand was still on. And yet.
Hua Cheng had leaned close every time, guiding his hands with a patience that felt impossible but never insincere. There had been a moment, brief but vivid, when Hua Cheng had reached for the towel Xie Lian was holding, their fingers brushing for just a second longer than necessary. He had smiled then—just the smallest curve of his lips, something soft and unguarded—and Xie Lian had walked home with that smile lodged somewhere under his skin.
By the third workshop, Xie Lian stopped pretending it was just for practice. The pretense had grown too heavy, a fragile thing straining under the weight of Hua Cheng’s gaze. Every time their hands brushed—Hua Cheng guiding his clumsy fingers over wire, or smoothing the curve of a petal—it felt less like instruction and more like an invitation. And Xie Lian, hesitant but unable to stop himself, was beginning to accept.
By the fourth, Hua Cheng didn’t let go of his hand. His grip was steady, firm but unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to share. Xie Lian tried to focus on the delicate loop of the stem he was shaping, but Hua Cheng’s warmth was a distraction, his thumb resting lightly against Xie Lian’s palm as though it belonged there.
Xie Lian said nothing, not even when the room fell silent except for the faint scrape of metal and the soft timbre of Hua Cheng’s voice murmuring encouragements. He was too afraid to speak, too afraid the spell might break.
By the fifth, Xie Lian finally managed a heart-shaped design. It wasn’t perfect—he could see where the edges wavered, where the curve was just slightly off-center—but Hua Cheng only laughed softly, a sound that settled in Xie Lian’s chest like an ember catching flame. Leaning down, Hua Cheng’s breath ghosted against his ear, and his voice was low, unshakable.
“Perfect,” he murmured, as though there was no room for argument.
And against all odds, Xie Lian believed him. Believed it not because of the piece in his hands, but because of the way Hua Cheng said it—like perfection wasn’t about symmetry or technique, but the mere fact that it had come from Xie Lian’s hands. The realization gripped him, quiet and devastating, as Hua Cheng’s hand lingered against his own, his fingers curling just slightly tighter, as though to hold him in place.
In that moment, Xie Lian understood: it had never really been about the workshops. Not about practice, or technique, or even the delicate shapes they molded together. It had always been about Hua Cheng—his laughter, his warmth, the steady presence that made Xie Lian feel, perhaps for the first time, that he wasn’t trying too hard or reaching too far. That he could simply be, and that was enough.
By the sixth workshop, Xie Lian began to notice things.
Not the obvious things—Hua Cheng’s sharp cheekbones, his arresting gaze, the way his hands seemed to move with the quiet confidence of someone who never second-guessed a single decision in his life. Those had all hit Xie Lian like a runaway cart the first time they met. No, what he noticed now were the softer details, the ones that didn’t announce themselves.
Like the way Hua Cheng always rolled up his sleeves just enough to reveal the thin cord of a red bracelet on his wrist, its thread fraying in places but carefully knotted. Or the way he tilted his head ever so slightly when he was concentrating, as if he were listening for something only he could hear. He even noticed how Hua Cheng seemed to remember the exact way Xie Lian liked his coffee: a single sugar, no more, no less. Not that Xie Lian had asked for it again—he hadn’t needed to. Every time Hua Cheng handed him a cup, it was perfect.
By now, Xie Lian should have felt more at ease. He had spent hours here, fumbling his way through milk pitchers and espresso shots, with Hua Cheng standing just close enough to be a steadying presence. Yet every time Hua Cheng leaned down, his breath warm on Xie Lian’s neck as he corrected his hand placement or murmured a quiet encouragement, Xie Lian’s pulse quickened like it was the first time all over again.
“Still struggling with the rosetta?” Hua Cheng asked one evening, his voice low and full of teasing warmth.
Xie Lian was painfully aware of Hua Cheng’s hand brushing against his own as he reached for the steam wand. His fingers were steady, a sharp contrast to the way Xie Lian’s were shaking like leaves. “It’s not my fault it keeps turning into…whatever that is,” Xie Lian muttered, gesturing to the cup in front of him.
Hua Cheng tilted his head, inspecting the design—or, rather, the lack of one. “A comet, maybe,” he said after a moment, his tone generous. “Or a ghost.”
Xie Lian groaned, planting his face in his hands. “A ghost.”
Hua Cheng chuckled softly. “If it’s a ghost, it’s a very happy one.”
“I think the ghost’s happier than I am,” Xie Lian replied, peeking at him through his fingers. “What’s your secret? You make it look effortless.”
“It’s not about trying to control it too much,” he said, his voice quiet but intent. “It’s about guiding it. Let it flow where it needs to go.”
“I feel like you’re talking about something other than coffee,” Xie Lian said before he could stop himself.
Hua Cheng paused, his gaze steady. Then, to Xie Lian’s surprise, he smiled—a small, private thing, like they were sharing a secret no one else in the world could understand. “Maybe,” he said simply.
By the seventh workshop, Xie Lian knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Shi Qingxuan’s exasperated commentary only confirmed it. “At this point,” Shi Qingxuan declared, “you should be a latte art expert. What’s your real goal here, huh? Don’t tell me you just like it here for the vibes!”
Xie Lian didn’t answer, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking to the counter where Hua Cheng stood. Hua Cheng caught the glance immediately, his expression softening into something unreadable but unmistakably warm.
Later, as the workshop wrapped up, Hua Cheng lingered by Xie Lian’s station. The café was quieter now, the other participants filtering out into the evening.
“You stayed late,” Hua Cheng said, his voice quieter now, low and steady.
“So did you,” Xie Lian replied, not quite meeting his gaze.
Hua Cheng chuckled. “Fair enough.” He tilted his head, the soft light catching on the red bracelet tied around his wrist. “Are you planning to come back tomorrow?”
Xie Lian hesitated, then nodded. “If that’s okay?”
“It’s more than okay,” Hua Cheng said, his lips curving into a smile that made Xie Lian feel like he’d just taken the first sip of something warm and endlessly comforting.
He would return. And maybe, just maybe, he’d figure out whether his heart was in the coffee—or in the hands guiding him toward it.
The door chimed as Xie Lian stepped out of shop, the faint warmth of the café still clinging to him like a coat he wasn’t quite ready to shed. He could feel the night pressing in around him, cool and quiet, but his thoughts were anything but. His mind replayed the evening's moments—the way Hua Cheng’s fingers had brushed over his, the steadiness of his voice, the way his golden eye had held Xie Lian’s gaze like it was the only thing in the room worth focusing on.
He could almost still feel Hua Cheng’s hand guiding his, the warmth lingering there like an echo he couldn't shake. He’d stayed late again, fumbling through another round of latte art with barely an ounce of skill to show for it, but Hua Cheng had been patient, so patient, even as Xie Lian stumbled over the simplest motions. And then that smile—soft, but with an intensity that made Xie Lian wonder if he was seeing something Hua Cheng hadn’t shown to anyone else.
Xie Lian glanced at his phone, blinking at the message from Shi Qingxuan that he’d forgotten to answer.
Qingxuan: Sooo, what’s the deal with you and the gorgeous barista, huhh? ( ◔ ౪◔)
He sighed, pocketing the phone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to answer—it was that he didn’t have an answer to give. Not a clear one, anyway. His feelings were tangled up in the soft pressure of Hua Cheng’s hands, in the gentleness of his voice as he guided Xie Lian through the steps, in the unexpected connection that seemed to spark between them each time they met.
It wasn’t about the latte art. It hadn’t been for a very long time
The days that bled into weeks, the time Xie Lian spent at the café stretching far beyond the neatly packaged hours the workshops were meant to fill—it all began to revolve around him. Around Hua Cheng’s quiet warmth, the steady certainty in his movements, the way he carried himself with an ease that belied how carefully he noticed everything. Hua Cheng had the kind of presence that wasn’t loud but impossible to ignore, a constant hum of energy that seemed to anchor the room without effort, without demand.
There was a grace to Hua Cheng that mesmerized Xie Lian, a precision softened by something deeper, something more human. The way his hands moved with practiced ease, guiding a milk pitcher or pulling an espresso shot, as if every small motion carried weight. As if he could turn the ordinary into art, not just through skill, but through the sheer conviction that it mattered. Hua Cheng didn’t smile often, but when he did, it felt like the room shifted. It wasn’t grand or showy, but quiet and intimate, a soft curve of his lips that spoke of understanding rather than mirth, of seeing and being seen.
Hua Cheng looked at Xie Lian like he was worth the time it took to notice. Like he was a puzzle not to be solved, but to be understood—one intricate piece at a time, no matter how long it took. It wasn’t just his patience, though that was part of it. It was the quiet way he believed in Xie Lian’s efforts, even when Xie Lian couldn’t believe in them himself.
And maybe that was why Xie Lian kept coming back, long after he should have mastered the basics, long after he’d run out of excuses for why his latte art still wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t for the coffee, and it wasn’t for the fumbled hearts or the poorly-poured rosettas.
It was for the way Hua Cheng could hold the stillness between them like it was the only thing that mattered, the way he smiled as if waiting for Xie Lian to see himself the way Hua Cheng already seemed to—worth noticing, worth waiting for.
The next evening, Xie Lian returned to Brew & Bloom, a flutter of nerves settling in his stomach even before he stepped through the door. He almost wished for a moment that he could walk in without feeling so conspicuous, but the truth was, every time he saw Hua Cheng, it felt like the world narrowed to just the two of them.
And yet, when he walked up to the counter, Hua Cheng greeted him with the same warm smile, the same quiet confidence. “Back for more practice?” he asked, his voice smooth and steady.
“More practice,” Xie Lian said, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “And, uh, a little more help, I guess.”
Hua Cheng raised an eyebrow, a small, teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “More help? That’s a lot of help you’re asking for, Gege.”
Xie Lian opened his mouth, unsure whether he should be making a joke or apologizing for the fact that he’d been terrible at this for weeks, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he nodded, hoping his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.
Hua Cheng chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do.”
The night wore on, the clink of espresso cups and the quiet murmur of conversation blending into a soft hum in the background. Xie Lian had gotten better, at least. He could now make a reasonably acceptable heart shape, though he suspected it was more by luck than skill.
But this time, when his hands trembled, Hua Cheng’s were there to steady him again—warm and sure, not just guiding the movements of his hands, but becoming part of the rhythm, as though they were both creating something that felt like it mattered.
“You’re doing better than last time,” Hua Cheng said, his voice low as he adjusted Xie Lian’s wrist. “But you’re still trying to control it too much.”
Xie Lian sighed, looking at the blob of foam that had once again collapsed into an abstract shape that could be mistaken for anything from a mushroom to a dog. “I know. I’m trying to make it perfect, but it never turns out the way I want it to.”
“Sometimes,” Hua Cheng said, his voice softer now, “letting go of control makes it perfect in a way you didn’t expect.”
Xie Lian glanced up, meeting Hua Cheng’s gaze. There was something in his eyes, something unspoken, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the entire workshop had melted away, leaving just the two of them standing at the counter.
“I don’t know if I can just let go like that,” Xie Lian admitted, his voice almost a whisper.
Hua Cheng’s smile softened. “You don’t have to let go of everything. Just enough to trust the process.”
Lian hesitated for a moment before nodding, as if the weight of those words had settled into something deeper, something that made sense.
This time, when he held the milk pitcher, he tried to listen to Hua Cheng’s instructions differently. He didn’t force the motion, didn’t try to anticipate where the foam would go. He just… let it happen.
Slowly, carefully. When he finished, the result wasn’t perfect by any means—but it was better. A rough, imperfect heart formed in the foam, and for the first time, Xie Lian didn’t feel the sting of failure.
Hua Cheng stepped closer, his golden eye gleaming with approval. “That’s it.” He leaned in, lowering his voice just a touch. “That’s the heart I was waiting for.”
Xie Lian’s heart thudded loudly in his chest. It wasn’t just the art he was making anymore. It was the way Hua Cheng had spoken to him, as though he had seen something in Xie Lian that had nothing to do with coffee.
He couldn’t help but feel a little light-headed. “I—” Xie Lian’s words faltered, the thought of saying too much hanging heavy in his throat. “I’ve never been very good at trusting… things.”
Hua Cheng tilted his head, looking thoughtful. Then, with a quiet laugh, he said, “That’s alright. You don’t have to be good at everything right away.”
The smile he gave Xie Lian then wasn’t just soft—it was gentle in a way that made Xie Lian feel seen, understood in a way no one had ever quite managed before.
“You’re doing fine,” Hua Cheng added, his tone almost too kind, as though he had just handed Xie Lian a piece of something fragile that would break if handled too roughly. “You just need to give yourself a little more credit.”
Xie Lian swallowed, the air between them thick with unspoken words. It felt like the world was shifting, like the floor beneath his feet had tilted ever so slightly.
“I’ll… I’ll try to remember that,” Xie Lian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hua Cheng’s smile didn’t waver.
Days passed, and with each one, Xie Lian found himself returning to the café, each workshop another opportunity to improve his skills, but also another chance to spend time with Hua Cheng. He was no longer coming to the café out of obligation or because of Shi Qingxuan’s teasing. He was coming because, every time he walked in, Hua Cheng’s presence felt like a quiet pull, drawing him closer to something he couldn’t quite understand.
And one evening, as the sound of steam hissed in the background, Xie Lian found himself sitting across from Hua Cheng at the small corner table they always shared after class. There was no latte art between them this time, no spilled milk or swirling designs—just the soft clink of mugs and the hum of comfortable silence.
Finally, Xie Lian looked up, his heart pounding just a little harder than usual.
“San Lang,” he began, then stopped, unsure how to put it into words.
Hua Cheng tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the espresso machine cooling down.
“San Lang,” Xie Lian started anew, his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “Do you…”
Hua Cheng leaned in slightly, his expression patient but expectant, like he was waiting for something.
“Do you think I could come back tomorrow?” Xie Lian blurted out, his voice high and fast.
Hua Cheng blinked, then smiled—warm and genuine, his teeth catching just enough light to make Xie Lian’s chest feel strange and full. “It’s always my pleasure to teach you,” he said softly. “You can come back as many times as you want,”
Xie Lian swallowed, his cheeks burning. He wasn’t sure if Hua Cheng meant the workshop or something more, but for the first time, he was willing to let things flow where they needed to go. He wasn’t sure what else he wanted to say too, but for the first time, he felt like he might not need to say anything at all.
“Then…I’ll be back tomorrow,” Xie Lian said instead, his voice a little more confident than before.
Hua Cheng’s smile deepened, and his eyes sparkled in a way that made Xie Lian’s chest tighten, but in the best way. “I’ll be waiting.”
And for the first time, Xie Lian was sure that the coffee—this time—wasn’t the only thing he wanted to get just right. And if he signed up for an eighth workshop before the seventh one even ended, well. Practice made perfect.