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That morning, the office was still filled with the scent of fresh paper. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, falling softly into President Shen's workspace, as if marking the beginning of the day. Gao Tu stepped in quietly, ensuring the files he carried were neatly arranged without flaw, while holding a tea tray in his other hand.
Since being appointed as Shen Wenlang's personal secretary, his morning routine had changed. It was no longer just about organizing documents, but also paying attention to the small details often overlooked by others.
In his mind, Gao Tu kept a mental note of Shen Wenlang's habits. For instance, every time Shen sat in his grand chair, his eyes would close for a moment. It wasn’t a sign of fatigue, let alone sleep, but rather an effort to shut out the noise of the outside world to preserve the tranquility of his morning.
Or when urgent, important reports required immediate decisions, Shen Wenlang never seemed rushed. He always took time to think far ahead, weighing various possibilities as if he were already planning ten moves ahead in a strategic game. During such moments, Gao Tu often found himself simply staring at Shen Wenlang's still back as he faced the window, his eyes piercing through the city skyline. It was as if beyond that glass lay a giant chessboard only he could read, while his mind busily determined which piece to move first, deciding which move was worth approving.
To others, that silence might feel heavy. But to Gao Tu, it was precisely Shen Wenlang's most astonishing side—and the hardest for him to reach.
That morning, as per the usual routine, a cup of black coffee had been neatly placed on Shen Wenlang's desk by another member of the secretarial team. Thin steam rose from the surface of the coffee, filling the air with a sharp, bitter aroma.
Gao Tu glanced briefly at the cup. His breath hitched softly before he exhaled silently. He knew—that coffee would never be touched. Of everyone on the secretarial team, only he truly knew that Shen Wenlang never had breakfast, let alone touched coffee in the morning. To Wenlang, caffeine wasn’t a boost of energy but a disruptor that made his mind restless and shattered his concentration.
Without many people realizing, what he truly needed was just a cup of white tea. Light, clear, and simple.
A few times, Gao Tu had witnessed that moment. The moment when Shen Wenlang stood alone in the office's small pantry, his fingers moving with a calmness that seemed to slow time itself. Shen Wenlang would pour warm water over the delicate white tea leaves, awakening the thin leaves until they slowly unfurled, releasing a faint, sweet aroma that quickly filled the room.
Gao Tu held his breath—not because the scent was too strong, but because there was something subtle and inexplicable radiating from Shen Wenlang.
When the leaves were transferred to a ceramic pot, the flame beneath was maintained with precise control. There were no rolling bubbles, no boiling sounds; only small ripples on the water's surface trembling gently. Gao Tu knew it wasn’t just a skill in controlling heat—it was a reflection of how Shen Wenlang faced the world: highly disciplined, perfectionistic, and controlled, as if every move had been calculated long in advance.
Not even a minute later, Shen Wenlang would lift the ceramic pot from the stove. His movements were simple yet carried an air of authority, as if every detail had been accounted for from the start. The white tea was then poured into a porcelain cup, pale and clear, shimmering like the morning light filtering through the window.
Gao Tu remembered clearly. There was a faint rhythm to it—slow, calm, and steady. It wasn't just about brewing tea, but rather like a small dance that only Shen Wenlang himself understood.
This habit wasn’t something Gao Tu had known when they were both teenagers. It had grown with Shen Wenlang's age, becoming part of his maturity—a silent ritual that set him apart from the outside world.
For some reason, every time he saw it, Gao Tu's chest felt warm. There was something he wanted to understand more deeply, as if by recognizing this tea, he could get a little closer to Wenlang.
So, quietly, Gao Tu began to learn. On nights at home, he tried repeatedly, measuring the water, adjusting the temperature, waiting for the right moment. Time and again, he failed; the tea often turned out too bitter or too bland. But he didn’t give up.
Until finally, one night, he looked at the cup in his hand with a small smile. The white tea had a soft, light aroma, leaving no bitterness, only a natural sweetness.
From that day on, Gao Tu was confident he had learned enough—how Shen Wenlang awakened the tea leaves, boiled them briefly, then poured it calmly. Gao Tu had always watched him in silence, memorizing every movement, repeating it over and over every night. And today, for the first time, he dared to serve it to Shen Wenlang.
With careful movements, Gao Tu placed the tray carrying the white tea he had just made on the desk, then slowly pushed the coffee cup to the side. His hands tried to remain as calm as possible as he poured the tea from the blue teapot, and a gentle aroma immediately spread, filling the workspace that usually only smelled of paper and iris pheromones.
Shen Wenlang had just closed his eyes when his office door opened. From the light footsteps he heard, he immediately knew—it was definitely Gao Tu. He intended to keep his eyes closed, until his ears caught something different. After the distinctive sound of a folder falling softly onto his desk, there was the sound of warm water running. It hit the walls of the clear cup with a steady, careful rhythm, too attentive for such a simple task.
The sound forced Shen Wenlang to open his eyes, no longer able to pretend to rest. When his eyelids slowly opened, his sharp gaze immediately turned to the desk, and his eyes found Gao Tu pouring white tea, his movements not awkward, as if he had repeated this many times.
For a moment, Shen Wenlang's heart beat a little faster. Something pricked his chest—surprise, perhaps even astonishment that his attention had been so clearly realized. Something he had never expected to come from Gao Tu.
Yet, his old habit in front of his old friend quickly took over. Shen Wenlang tightly sealed away those feelings, covering every slight tremor with the cold face he had trained all his life. When his voice came out, it sounded flat, low, and controlled, "What are you doing?"
Even so, Shen Wenlang knew his eyes had wavered, and he hoped Gao Tu hadn’t noticed.
Gao Tu bowed his head, his attitude polite but with clear tension in his shoulders. "Mr. Shen doesn’t drink coffee in the morning. So, I will take the coffee back."
Shen Wenlang fell silent for a moment. He could feel the air filled with the soft aroma of white tea—an aroma that usually belonged only to him, a small habit he had never shared with anyone. Now, for the first time, that tea was presented by someone else's hands. Shen Wenlang's hand almost moved, wanting to grab the cup immediately, but he held back. He couldn’t—mustn’t—let Gao Tu see how surprised and touched he was. A faint feeling arose in his chest, a joy difficult to admit even to himself, that today's white tea was served by the person he secretly liked the most.
Shen Wenlang's eyebrows rose slightly. There was a faint glint in his eyes—not just cold, but something that seemed to want to tease Gao Tu a little. His lips moved slowly, his tone calm as he spoke, "You didn’t think that I might drink the coffee later?"
Gao Tu remained standing straight, as if unshaken. However, if observed closely, there was a tension he couldn’t hide. His fingers gripped the tray handle too stiffly, as if afraid of making further mistakes. His breath also hitched for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to sound professional.
"Mr. Shen, you cannot drink coffee. You will feel anxious if you do. And your work should not be disrupted just because of that anxiety."
There was courage in those words, but also a faint nervousness—as if he knew he had crossed a line, stepping into a personal realm that had always belonged solely to Shen Wenlang.
Shen Wenlang looked at him longer than usual, as if enjoying the slight unease hidden behind that calm face.
Finally, what came out of his mouth was only a pleased snort, "Hm."
For a moment, silence enveloped the workspace. Only the faint, calming aroma of white tea spread like a soft blanket muffling the sounds of the outside world. Shen Wenlang stared at the cup for a long time, then shifted his gaze to Gao Tu. His eyes were sharp, almost like a test with no certain answer.
He finally leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of his chest. His gaze was scrutinizing, weighing, pressing the space between them until it grew tense. "Then... why not chamomile? That also relieves anxiety."
The question was simple, but to Gao Tu, it felt like being pierced by a sharp light. His free hand clenched into a fist, hiding the tension that was almost readable. His eyes darted to the right briefly, searching for a way to phrase the right answer.
Shen Wenlang held back a smile that almost appeared. He could read that confusion, and strangely... he wanted to see it longer. There was something warm—or perhaps mischievous—inside Shen Wenlang, a small urge to make Gao Tu even more tense.
"Do you have to think about it for that long?" Shen Wenlang added, his tone flat, but with a subtle pause at the end of his sentence, as if deliberately provoking.
Gao Tu's eyes lifted slightly, as if trapped. He swallowed, then answered in a voice he tried to keep calm: "Because... Mr. Shen makes white tea. So I also make white tea."
The answer sounded so innocent, so simple, yet it was enough to make Shen Wenlang's heart flutter strangely. For a moment, a flash of the past crept in—bringing him back to their school days. He could see the old Gao Tu, sitting awkwardly in the corner of the classroom, his head lowered, but occasionally stealing glances at him. He remembered the time he'd thrown a paper airplane at him, and Gao Tu had stared back with the same eyes—nervous, confused, fragile, yet still radiating a sparkling light.
That gaze hadn't changed. Even now, years later, before him stood the same man as the boy he had once known—with eyes that still radiated something that, for some reason, always took his breath away.
Shen Wenlang disguised the memory and his urge to laugh with a sigh, then turned his gaze back to the tea cup before him. "If I made chamomile, would you also make chamomile?" he asked again. His voice was softer this time, almost like a whisper, trying to cover up his delight.
Gao Tu glanced at him briefly. The glance was short, nervous, like a student grilled by a teacher with an unexpected question. But he still nodded briefly, even though his face was faintly flushed and his body felt stiff. "Yes."
Shen Wenlang held him with his gaze for a few more seconds before finally reaching for the cup. He inhaled the tea's aroma, then took a slow sip. The warmth and softness of the white tea spread on his tongue, different yet familiar, bringing a faint smile to the corner of his lips. "You didn’t steep it, but boiled it instead?"
"Just as Mr. Shen does, boiled it." Gao Tu answered quickly.
His voice sounded flat, full of professionalism. But behind that tone, Gao Tu's heart was pounding hard. He felt as if he had just passed a small test. A sense of relief slowly crept over him—Shen Wenlang hadn’t refused it; he had even drunk it all.
For a moment, Gao Tu truly felt that his repeated practice had been accepted.
"Hm." Shen Wenlang set the cup down again, his voice flat but with a faint sincerity behind it. "It's good. Thank you."
Gao Tu immediately bowed respectfully, almost too formally. “Thank you, Mr. Shen.”
Then, Shen Wenlang’s voice came again. “You can take the coffee, it's for you. Don't you like it?” It was low, clear, and gentle, and for the first time since the conversation began, it felt a little more… personal.
Gao Tu froze before responding to Shen Wenlang’s words. His lips lifted in a polite smile he couldn’t hide. “Yes, Mr. Shen, thank you. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Shen.” He quickly grabbed the untouched coffee cup and placed it on the tray, then turned to leave the office.
But inwardly, Gao Tu felt embarrassed, because he knew Shen Wenlang must have realized that the coffee left to cool on the desk was never truly wasted. In the end, it always ended up in his own stomach. And ironically, it was his favorite coffee. His cheeks warmed, a mix of gratitude and shame washing over his face. Gao Tu felt like a little thief caught red-handed, but instead of being chased away, he was allowed to linger again.