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The door shut behind them, the latch catching with a dull snap.
Lang Feng set the suitcases against the wall, the weight still in his arms from hauling them all the way up from the trunk of his deep blue Tesla. He’d driven them straight from Schipol. Every turn of the road threaded with the quiet knowledge that this was something he had wanted for a long time—to have Zhou Qichen here, in Amsterdam, at his side.
Usually it was him flying to Beijing, tracing different routes across Europe just to catch Zhou Qichen in Beijing for a few days. Zhou Qichen rarely took transcontinental flights, and Lang Feng had always settled into his world for the visits.
Now, finally, the roles were reversed—he was the one showing Zhou Qichen the streets he walked alone, the quiet canals he loved, the cozy apartment that had quietly become his home. And for the first time, he could watch Zhou Qichen take it in.
Lang Feng slipped his shoes off and looked up to find Zhou Qichen rooted at the base of the staircase. One hand on the railing, his eyes fixed upward. Lang Feng had a guess at what was going through his head—the stairs.
The Dutch stairs. Too steep, too narrow, boards worn slick by years of tenants. They were a hazard even for people who had grown up with them. For someone meeting them for the first time, they might as well have been a test.
It stilled Lang Feng, seeing him like that. This was the man who had landed a J-15 on an aircraft carrier, three hundred kilometers an hour into steel and cable, night after night until it became routine. He carried that past in the set of his shoulders, in the precision of his movements. And yet here, in an apartment in Amsterdam, he looked wary. Measuring. As if each step could betray him.
Lang Feng stayed quiet, leaning against the wall, arms folded loosely across his chest. He wasn’t sure what to call the feeling inside him—not awe, not irony. Something slower, heavier. The strangeness of watching someone built for sky and sea hesitate at the bottom of an ordinary staircase.
我的宝贝太可爱了 —- but the words never left Lang Feng’s lips. He knew that wasn’t what Zhou Qichen needed to hear.
When Zhou Qichen finally lifted his foot to the first step, Lang Feng felt it in his own chest too. That small, uncertain shift he remembered from childhood—unsure, braced, hoping nothing would break.
Lang Feng thought of his own father then—how he had once taken his hand at the bottom of a staircase just as narrow, just as steep. “One foot sideways,” he’d said. “Turn your body, don’t climb straight on. Let the rail take half your weight.”
Lang Feng’s voice softened as he spoke, almost the same words, but meant only for his A-Chen. He reached out, guiding Zhou Qichen’s foot to the right angle, letting him feel the support of the railing without pressure. Zhou looked at him once, a fleeting glance, small but enough—a quiet promise of trust. Then he tried.
When Zhou lifted his foot to the first step, Lang Feng felt the same subtle shift in his own chest—gentle, careful, the movement he remembered from childhood. Unsure, braced, hoping nothing would break. For the first time since he’d arrived, Zhou seemed almost weightless, as if Lang Feng himself could hold the world steady beneath him.
Zhou Qichen settled onto the couch, still catching his breath from the climb. Lang Feng proceeded to the kitchen. He had one hand on the pan, preparing the tiny golden delicacies.
“Poffertjes,” he said casually, almost too casually.
Zhou Qichen tilted his head. “Poffer…what?” He frowned, and Lang Feng could almost see him calculating—his ICAO Level 4 English precise enough for aviation, but not exactly useful for deciphering Dutch snacks. “Say that again, Evan. What even is that?”
Lang Feng chuckled softly, carrying the pan over to the table. “You’ll see.” He set down the hot pan. The little pancakes were stacked like a miniature tower, puffed and golden, each one perfectly round, topped with confectioner’s sugar. The smell of butter and sweetness filled the kitchen.
Zhou Qichen leaned forward, curiosity overtaking his usual guardedness. He picked one up between his fingers, examining it like it might explode if handled wrong. “小圆圆…this is 小圆圆, not…poffer?”
Lang Feng laughed, letting the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. “It’s my favorite Dutch snack—second only to stroopwafels. And trust me, these will be the best poffertjes you’ll ever eat in your life. It’s better than any restaurant. More for your money, more for us to eat, and I get to make them perfectly. I’m sure you will love it too.”
Zhou Qichen’s lips curved in that small, soft smile he always wore when indulging Lang Feng’s quirks. He popped a poffertje into his mouth, eyes closing briefly. It was warm and sweet, a kind of perfect sweetness that won’t make him get sick of it at all. He wasn’t the picky type at all, he let Lang Feng make all the choices, trusting him completely.
Lang Feng watched him, heart tight in a way he didn’t name. Even though he had grown up in Frankfurt and lived now in Amsterdam, his parents had made sure he and Ivy never grew indulgent. That frugality threaded through him still—in the way he stacked the poffertjes neatly, turned them just right, made sure nothing went to waste.
Zhou Qichen stared at Lang Feng happily enjoying his little puffy circles and made a mental note to learn to make them for him.
Lang Feng reached for another poffertje, offering it to Zhou Qichen’s lips. Watching him take it, savor it, trust his choices. Lang Feng realized it wasn’t just the stairs that required patience, or even the tiny pancakes. It was everything—the small moments, the gestures, the silent guidance, the laughter, the trust.
Every step that had led them here—from airports to narrow staircases, from Beijing to Amsterdam, from strangers in separate worlds to this quiet apartment—felt like careful choreography. And just like guiding Zhou Qichen up the Dutch stairs, he would walk with him through every step of life—sweet or heavy, certain or unsure. Never alone. Always together.