Archive of Our Own

The bell above the door of Huang's Petals, a sweet small flower shop, jingled loudly as the door was shoved open with enough force to make the hanging pots sway.

Huang Xing, the florist who owned the small place, flinch slightly. He paused his pruning shears over a stem of baby's breath and looked up. His flower shop was a sanctuary of quiet humidity, smelling of damp earth, fresh leaves, and sweet nectar. It was a place of method and patience.

The boy standing in the doorway was neither methodical nor patient.

"I need your help," the boy gasped, clutching the doorframe as if he had run a marathon. He was undeniably handsome. Bright expressive eyes, a messy mop of hair, and the chaotic boundless energy of a college student running late for midterms, "I need the most romantic, sweeping them off their feet, bouquet you have. Not roses. Roses say 'I'm trying too hard,' right? What says, 'I am effortlessly charming and deeply interesting'?"

Xing set his shears down, wiping his hands on his purple apron, "Usually, a person's personality says that," Xing replied. His voice is a calm, such a jarring contrast to the boy's frantic pitch, "But ranunculus and blue thistle might help."

"Whatever you think is best," the boy said, letting out a long exhale and walking over to lean against the glass display counter. The panic seemed to slowly drain out of him, replaced by a nervous eager energy, "I will lay my life in your hands. I'm Qiu Dingjie, by the way."

Xing moved to the back cooler, selecting a few sturdy stems of purple eustoma to ground the arrangement, "Huang Xing," he replied simply, bringing the crisp chilled flowers back to the main counter.

"Nice to meet you, Boss Huang," Dingjie said. He watched with genuine fascination as Xing expertly stripped the lower leaves from the stems, "This is really cool to watch. I'm a student at the university down the street, so my hands are usually just typing on a laptop or failing at video games. I have zero artistic ability."

"It just takes practice and patience," Xing said. He arranged the blooms in his hand, twisting them slightly in a spiral to interlock the stems, creating a perfectly rounded dome of color.

"Patience is definitely not my strong suit," Dingjie admitted with a self deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, "Hence the desperate last minute flowers. I really want this date to go well. I tend to ... overwhelm people."

Xing glanced up, noting the earnest open expression on the boy's face. He pulled a length of natural twine to firmly bind the bouquet together, "Just breathe. Let the flowers do the initial talking, and then just be polite."

Dingjie smiled. A bright blinding thing that momentarily made the quiet shop feel a little too warm, "Thanks, Xing-ge. I appreciate the advice."

Xing paused. He stopped wrapping the stems in the brown paper and looked at Dingjie, "You probably shouldn't call me 'ge'," Xing said gently, "What year are you at the university?"

Dingjie blinked in surprise, "I'm a second year student. Why? What year are you?"

"I didn't go to college," Xing replied, focusing back on tying the twine, "But I graduated high school a year after you would have probably, if you started college right away. I just decided to start working instead. So, I am definitely younger than you."

"Oh!" Dingjie said, looking around the beautiful shop with newfound respect, "That is so cool. You have your own business already. Well, I am still going to call you Xing-ge. You are definitely way more mature than me."

Xing shook his head a little, but he couldn't stop a tiny fond smile from showing on his lips, "That will be one hundred and fifty yuan."

Dingjie quickly paid by scanning the shop's WeChat QR code. He took the bouquet as carefully as if he were holding fragile glass, waved excitedly, and pushed back out into the dense foggy streets of Chongqing.

That was how Qiu Dingjie first crashed into Huang Xing's carefully curated life. Xing hadn't expected to see him again. People usually only bought bouquets for anniversaries, apologies, or, in this boy's case, a desperate bid for a successful first date.

But three days later, the bell chimed again. The door opened slowly this time.

Dingjie shuffled in. The vibrant energy from their first meeting completely drained from him. He looked like a wet kitten. He walked straight to the counter, picked up a tiny twenty yuan succulent in a plastic pot, and set it down by the register.

"That will be twenty yuan," Xing said softly, ringing it up.

Dingjie let his head thunk against the cool glass of the display counter, "I ended up in the emergency room," he mumbled into the glass.

Xing paused. The cash drawer is clicking open, "Excuse me?"

"I wanted to look tough," Dingjie groaned, finally lifting his head, "We went to that authentic old hotpot place downtown. They asked for my spice tolerance. I said 'make it hurt.' Xing-ge, I sweat completely through my shirt. I was crying. I couldn't breathe. I had a panic attack from the capsaicin. The paramedics had to give me milk through an IV."

Xing stared at him. He pressed his lips together tightly, fighting a sudden battle for control over his facial muscles. He took a deep breath, "Well. You certainly made it memorable."

"They blocked me on WeChat," Dingjie lamented, picking up his little succulents, "See you next time."

Xing thought that would be the end of it. But it was only the beginning of a spectacular cycle of romantic tragedies. Dingjie became a regular fixture at Huang's Petals. Every few weeks, he would burst in, buy a meticulously crafted bouquet for a new crush, and then return days later to buy a miserable little houseplant while recounting his failure.

The second major disaster happened two weeks later. Dingjie burst through the doors needing an apology arrangement.

"A goose, Xing-ge," Dingjie said. His voice trembled as Xing wrapped a bundle of yellow tulips, "I took them to a cute little farm on the outskirts of the city. A petting zoo. I thought, 'Oh, we can feed the goats, it'll be adorable.' But then ... the goose."

Xing tied a ribbon around the stems, "Geese can be territorial."

"It had eyes made of pure malice!" Dingjie defended himself, throwing his hands up, "It started chasing me, hissing like a deflating tire. I panicked. Fight or flight kicked in, and I chose flight. I ran to my car, got in, and locked the doors," He buried his face in his hands, "I left my date outside with the goose, Xing-ge. I just sat in the driver's seat crying while they had to fend it off with a paper bag of feed."

Xing tried. He genuinely tried to remain professional. But a sudden laugh escaped his chest before he could stop it. The sound echoed warmly in the quiet shop.

Dingjie lowered his hands, blinking in surprise. The frustration melted off his face, replaced by a momentary stunned stare as he looked at the florist, "You have a nice laugh," Dingjie noted, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint pink touching his ears, "Even if it's at my expense."

Xing cleared his throat, feeling a sudden warmth in his own cheeks. He pushed the tulips across the counter, "Try apologizing without bringing up the bird," he advised softly.

By the third month, the dynamic had shifted. Dingjie wasn't just coming in for flowers anymore. He was coming in for strategy. Xing found himself looking forward to the jingling bell, anticipating the ridiculous stories, and, surprisingly, caring deeply about this chaotic earnest boy who just wanted so desperately to be loved.

"Okay," Dingjie said one afternoon, leaning his elbows on the counter, "New guy. Artsy. Brooding. What do I do? I always talk too much and ruin it."

Xing, busy arranging lilies, paused. He looked at Dingjie. He saw the anxious tapping of his fingers, the way he genuinely wanted to connect with someone. Xing felt a soft unfamiliar tug in his chest, "You just get nervous," Xing said gently, "Maybe just focus on listening this time. People like to be heard. Just listen, nod, and let them lead."

Dingjie's eyes widened with profound realization, "Listen. Don't talk. Be mysterious. Got it."

Xing had a bad feeling as Dingjie marched out.

Two days later, Dingjie returned. He didn't even buy a pity succulent this time. He just collapsed onto the stool Xing kept behind the counter, burying his face in his arms.

"Let me guess," Xing sighed, handing him a cup of jasmine tea he'd just brewed.

"I took your advice," Dingjie said, voice muffled by his sleeves, "I listened."

"And?"

Dingjie looked up, eyes exhausted, "I didn't speak. For two hours, Xing-ge. Two hours. We went to a café. He started talking about his amateur photography. I nodded. He kept talking. I kept nodding. Every time he paused, I just stared at him intently. By hour two, he looked genuinely scared of me. He asked if I was part of a vow of silence cult, threw a fifty yuan note on the table, and practically ran away."

Xing rubbed his temples. A fond exasperated smile playing on his lips. He stepped around the counter and leaned against the glass display, looking down at the defeated boy.

"Dingjie," Xing said. His voice dropped its usual professional distance, adopting something much softer, "When I said 'listen', I didn't mean you should become a mime."

"I just want them to like me," Dingjie muttered, looking down at his tea, "I don't know what I need to change about myself to make it work."

Xing looked at him. Really looked at him. He saw the genuine kindness beneath the frantic energy, the loyalty that brought him back to this shop time and time again, and the vulnerable heart he kept offering up to people who didn't appreciate it. A sad realization settled over Xing. You don't need to change anything, he thought. They're just the wrong people.

"You're trying too hard to play a character," Xing murmured, reaching out and gently tapping the side of Dingjie's cup, "You don't need to be the toughest guy in the room, or the bravest, or the most mysterious. The right person isn't going to care if you cry over spicy food or run from waterfowl. They're going to think it's endearing."

Dingjie looked up. His expressive eyes locked onto Xing's. The shop was suddenly very quiet. The hum of the refrigerators fading into the background.

"Do you think so?" Dingjie asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Xing's heart gave a dangerous foolish flutter. He offered a small reassuring smile, carefully masking the sudden weight in his chest, "I know so. You just have to be yourself, Dingjie."

***

After that rainy afternoon, things shifted. The rhythm of Huang's Petals changed.

Dingjie stopped coming in only when he needed to buy flowers for a crush or a date. Instead, he started showing up just because he was in the neighborhood. He would push the door open on random afternoons or lazy mornings, always carrying two cups of iced milk tea or hot soy milk, depending on the weather.

"You work too much, A-Xing," Dingjie announced one afternoon, placing a cold drink on the counter. He walked around to the back, pulling up his favorite wooden stool, "Don't you ever take a day off? Go out? Go on dates?"

Xing kept his eyes on the roses he was trimming, "Plants don't take days off. They need water every day."

"You are dodging the question," Dingjie teased, leaning his chin on his hands, "Come on. What does the mysterious Boss Huang do for fun? What is your type?"

Xing just shook his head. A small smile hiding behind the flowers. He always found a way to turn the conversation back to Dingjie. It was safer that way.

But as the weeks passed, Xing realized he was in trouble. He was starting to notice too many little things about the loud college student. He noticed the way Dingjie's nose scrunched up when he laughed at his own bad jokes. He noticed how Dingjie carefully moved a stray snail out of the shop instead of stepping on it. He noticed the kindness in the boy's heart.

Xing, who loved order and quiet, realized he had developed a completely foolish crush on the most chaotic boy in the city.

He kept it a secret. He was a quiet florist who hadn't even gone to college. Dingjie was a bright university student with a big future ahead of him. Xing convinced himself that his job was just to be a good friend and a safe place for Dingjie to land when the world was mean to him.

Then came week seven.

The bell jingled, and the door opened. Xing looked up with his usual welcoming smile, fully expecting Dingjie in his normal oversized sweaters and messy hair.

Instead, the breath left Xing's lungs.

Dingjie stood in the doorway, looking absolutely breathtaking. His hair was neatly styled. He was wearing a perfect button down shirt that tucked neatly into dark trousers. He didn't look like a messy college kid today. He looked mature, handsome, and completely out of Xing's league.

"A-Xing!" Dingjie said. His eyes are bright with a different kind of nervous energy, "How do I look?"

"You look...." Xing swallowed hard. His throat suddenly went dry, "You look very nice. Is there a special occasion?"

"A date," Dingjie beamed, walking up to the counter, "A real one. With a senior from the law department. He is incredibly smart, very put together, and he actually asked me out. He is taking me to a really fancy restaurant by the river."

Xing expected to feel happy for his friend. After all the terrible dates, the spicy food panic attacks, and the angry geese, Dingjie finally had someone normal who liked him back.

But Xing didn't feel happy. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, like a cold rock dropping into his stomach. It was jealousy, raw and bitter.

"That is ... wonderful news, Dingjie," Xing managed to say, forcing his voice to stay steady. He looked down at his own hands. They were covered in dirt and scratched by thorns. He wore a faded apron. The difference between them had never felt so painfully clear. He deserves a smart law student, Xing told himself strictly. Not a high school graduate who sells plants.

"I need your best advice," Dingjie said, leaning over the counter, completely unaware of the war going on in Xing's head, "He is so smart, A-Xing. I don't want to sound stupid. Should I act more serious? Talk about politics? I read a news article this morning just in case."

Xing looked at Dingjie's hopeful face. The urge to be selfish, to tell Dingjie not to go, screamed in his mind. But Xing loved him too much to hold him back. If this law student could make Dingjie happy, Xing had to help him win.

Xing took a deep breath, pushing his own breaking heart aside.

"No," Xing said softly, giving him the most honest advice he could, "Do not pretend to be a lawyer. Be the boy who cares deeply about things. Ask him what he is passionate about, and just let your own warmth show. If he is as smart as you say, he will see how special you are without you having to read the news to impress him."

Dingjie's eyes softened. He looked at Xing with such immense gratitude that it made Xing want to cry, "You always know exactly what to say," Dingjie whispered.

"Have a good time tonight," Xing said, stepping back from the counter.

"I will come tell you all about it tomorrow!" Dingjie promised, waving as he walked out the door, stepping out into the evening.

The door clicked shut. The bell went silent.

Xing stood alone in the humid shop. He looked at the empty wooden stool behind the counter. For the first time since he opened Huang's Petals, the quiet didn't feel like a safe place.

It just felt so lonely.

***

Tomorrow came, and Xing arrived early to prepare. He wiped down the glass counter until it gleamed, arranged the morning deliveries with automatic movements, and at exactly ten thirty, he brewed a fresh pot of jasmine tea. He poured a cup, watching the fragrant steam curl into the humid air, and set it carefully next to the empty wooden stool.

He kept an ear turned toward the bell. He was ready for the loud, happy crash of the door swinging open. He was ready to smile, to listen to the breathless excited words tumbling from Dingjie's mouth about the fancy restaurant by the river, the intelligent law student, and the perfect goodnight kiss.

But morning stretched into a slow agonizing afternoon, and the afternoon bled into a foggy evening. The tea in the cup grew stone cold. A thin bitter film forming on its surface.

The bell did ring, but it only brought normal customers. An old lady meticulously picking out lilies for her dining table. A man in a rushed suit buying a generic pre-made anniversary arrangement. Every single chime sent Xing's heart leaping into his throat, only for it to crash back down, heavier than before, when it wasn't the messy dark hair and bright expressive eyes he was looking for.

When closing time came, Xing stared at the cold cup of tea. He poured it down the sink in silence, locked the door, and went home.

Dingjie did not come.

Xing told himself not to worry. He told himself it was foolish to expect a visit. Dingjie was a university student. His life was a whirlwind of lectures, study groups, and looming midterms. And now, he probably had a boyfriend. When a first date goes perfectly, when you finally find someone who understands you, you spend the next day lost in a haze of texting, smiling at your phone in coffee shops, planning the second date. You don't spend it visiting the neighborhood florist who helped you pick out an outfit.

A week passed. The silence in Huang's Petals began to shift. It was no longer the peaceful structured sanctuary Xing had built. The quiet began to feel heavy, almost suffocating, pressing against his ribs with every breath.

Two weeks passed. The hope that had been stubbornly clinging to Xing's chest began to rot into something painful and exhausted. He stopped glancing at the door when shadows passed the window. He stopped keeping the electric kettle full of hot water.

And on the fifteenth day, he walked behind the counter, gripped the edges of the wooden stool, and carried it into the storage room in the back. He shoved it behind a stack of unused pots and shut the door. Seeing it empty every single day, waiting for a boy who had already moved on, simply hurt too much. It felt like leaving a porch light on for a guest who never came.

It worked, Xing thought to himself one quiet gray morning, mechanically watering a row of maidenhair ferns. The advice worked. He was just himself, and the law student loved it. Xing tried very hard to be happy. He closed his eyes and desperately tried to summon the warmth of being a good friend. He wanted Dingjie to be loved. He had spent months watching this beautiful chaotic boy tear his own heart out trying to be someone he wasn't, just to earn a scrap of affection. Xing wanted him to have someone who thought his panic over spicy hotpot was endearing, who would laugh with him, not at him. The law student was smart, probably wealthy, and walking the same bright ambitious path as Dingjie. They made sense. They were a perfect match.

But logic and reason could not touch the deep ache in Xing's chest. The shop felt entirely too large, too empty, without Dingjie's presence. The vibrant saturated colors of the roses, the joyful yellow of the tulips, they all seemed dull, almost mocking, without Dingjie there to point at them and ask silly questions.

A hollow realization settled over Xing. His role in Dingjie's life was over. He hadn't been a destination. He had only ever been a stepping stone. A temporary stop on Dingjie's messy stumbling path toward finding real love. The florist was the side character who handed the hero the tools he needed to go win the heart of the person who actually mattered.

Days turned into a full month, and then two. The weather outside the shop windows grew harsh, bringing the chill of a Chongqing autumn. The fog seemed to seep under the doorframes, mirroring the cold that had taken up permanent residence in Xing's chest.

To keep his mind from drowning in memories of blinding smiles and iced milk teas, Xing threw himself entirely into his work. He expanded his inventory. He ordered a special delicate batch of rare orchids.

Orchids were his favorite flower, and they were exactly what he needed right now. They were notoriously difficult, requiring a perfect exhausting balance of care, not a drop too much water, the exact right temperature, and perfectly filtered light. They demanded absolute patience and total focus.

Xing spent hours in the quiet of the shop, gently wiping their waxy leaves with a damp cloth, checking the moisture of their complex root systems. They were beautiful. They did not leave suddenly when the weather changed. They are tying him to the present, helping him pass the long lonely hours where he otherwise would have been listening for a bell.

As winter approached, Xing finally accepted his broken heart. He let the fantasy die. He was Boss Huang, the quiet florist with dirt permanently wedged under his fingernails, the boy who didn't even go to college. He belonged exactly here, hidden away among the damp earth, the pruning shears, and the silent plants.

Dingjie belonged out in the bright busy world. And Xing would just have to learn how to live in a world that was suddenly, quiet again.

***

A harsh winter had gripped the city, leaving the windows of Huang's Petals covered in condensation. Inside, the shop served as a warm sanctuary filled with lush greenery. A stark contrast to the cold gray atmosphere outside.

Xing was at the back counter. His attention consumed by a rare ghost orchid. The shop was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the refrigerators and the soft snip of his pruning shears. He had built a fortress out of this quiet. He had lived inside it for years.

When the door was suddenly shoved open, the bell shrieked. A chaotic sound that shattered the careful silence of the room. A freezing gust of winter wind swept in, rustling the hanging ferns.

Xing didn't look up immediately. He finished his delicate cut on the orchid stem, taking a slow breath. He expected a delivery driver. He expected a hurried commuter escaping the biting cold.

"A-Xing?"

The pruning shears slipped from Xing's fingers. They hit the wooden counter with a loud clatter, missing a pot by a fraction of an inch.

Xing froze. His lungs completely stopped working. He slowly lifted his head. His chest suddenly felt tight with a dangerous flutter he hadn't felt in months.

Standing in the doorway, awkwardly shaking the drizzle off a puffy winter coat, was Qiu Dingjie.

He didn't look like the polished young man who had walked out of the shop to meet a law student months ago. His hair was damp, disheveled from the wind. His cheeks and nose were flushed bright red from the cold. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking like a sheepish puppy that had chewed up a favorite pair of shoes.

"Hi," Dingjie said. His voice is small, lacking its usual room filling volume. He offered a hesitant smile, "Please, don't throw a cactus at me."

Xing couldn't speak. He stared at the boy. His brain trying to process the visual information. The ache in his chest, the dullness he had carried for the entire autumn, suddenly seized up.

"Dingjie," Xing finally breathed. His voice barely a raspy whisper.

"I know, I know, I'm the worst," Dingjie groaned, abandoning his spot by the door and shuffling forward. He moved cautiously, stopping a few feet away from the glass counter, "I disappeared. It was rude. I'm so sorry, A-Xing."

Xing gripped the edge of the counter, "You ... you've been busy," Xing managed to say, forcing his voice into a neutral register, "It's fine. How was ... how are things?"

Dingjie let out a long miserable sigh, letting his head drop back, "The date was a disaster, A-Xing. A total catastrophe."

The world seemed to stop spinning. The rock in Xing's stomach simply cracked.

"What?" Xing asked, blinking.

"It was terrible," Dingjie complained, rubbing his face with his cold hands, "You told me to just let my warmth show, right? To be myself? Well, apparently myself is too loud for a Michelin starred restaurant. I laughed at a joke, a genuinely funny joke about a torts class, and he shushed me. Shushed me, A-Xing! Like I was a toddler in a library."

A tiny spark of warmth ignited in Xing's chest, "He shushed you?"

"Yes! And he spent the entire dinner talking about his five year plan," Dingjie continued, pacing a small circle in front of the counter. His familiar chaotic energy returned, "He didn't ask me a single question about myself. And when I tried to tell him about my video game tournament, he looked at me like I had just confessed to eating dirt. Then, I got nervous, and you know what happens when I get nervous."

"You talk too much," Xing murmured. The corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

"Worse," Dingjie said dramatically, leaning his elbows on the glass, "I aggressively gestured and knocked my entire glass of red wine directly into his lap. On his perfectly tailored trousers."

Xing pressed his lips tightly together, fighting the strongest urge to laugh. It wasn't polite to laugh at Dingjie's pain. But the joy flooding through Xing's veins was intoxicating. It was like drawing his first real breath in two and a half months.

"If it went so badly," Xing said, his voice suddenly much softer, "why didn't you come back? I thought...." Xing swallowed hard. I thought you found someone better, "I didn't know what to think."

Dingjie looked down. His ears turned as red as his nose. He looked genuinely ashamed, "I was so embarrassed, A-Xing. You gave me such beautiful advice. You told me I didn't need to change, and that the right person would see it. And then I went out and ruined it by throwing a cabernet on a senior. I felt like I failed you. I couldn't face you the next day," Dingjie picked at the cuff of his coat, "And then midterms started, and I was drowning in study guides, and the longer I waited to come back and apologize, the stupider I felt about it. I missed you so much."

I missed you so much.

The words echoed in the humid air.

Something broke open inside Xing. The last remnants of his guarded lonely winter melted away entirely. An unshielded smile broke across his face, so radiant that it lit up his eyes and changed his entire posture. It seemed like all of the exhaustion suddenly left his shoulders. He felt light. He felt stupidly happy.

"You didn't fail me, Dingjie," Xing said softly. The fondness in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible, "I told you the right person wouldn't mind if you were clumsy or loud. He minded. Which means he was just another wrong person."

Dingjie looked up. His expressive eyes were wide, searching Xing's face. He seemed mesmerized by the genuine happiness radiating from the florist, "You're ... you're not mad I ghosted you for two months?"

"I'm annoyed," Xing lied smoothly, though his beaming smile ruined the effect, "But I'm mostly just cold."

Xing didn't wait for Dingjie to respond. He moved with a sudden vibrant energy that hadn't been seen in Huang's Petals since autumn. He walked briskly out from behind the counter and headed straight for the storage room in the back.

He flipped on the light, shoved aside the stack of pots, and grabbed the wooden stool.

When Xing emerged, carrying the stool, Dingjie's eyes tracked him with a bewildered gaze. Xing placed the stool gently in its rightful spot behind the register. He patted the wooden seat once, looking directly at the university student.

"Sit," Xing ordered gently. His eyes danced with joy.

Dingjie scrambled around the counter. A huge blinding smile finally breaking across his own face. He practically threw himself onto the stool, letting out a long exhale as if he had finally made it home after a grueling journey.

Xing turned his back to the boy, hiding the fact that his cheeks were beginning to ache from smiling so hard. He walked over to the electric kettle, filled it with fresh water, and flipped the switch. He reached for his most expensive tin of jasmine tea leaves.

"So," Xing said. His voice light, teasing, and ringing with a happiness he couldn't contain, "A Michelin starred restaurant, huh? Tell me exactly how much wine you managed to spill."

"It was a bloodbath, A-Xing," Dingjie laughed. The bright sound fills the empty spaces of the shop, making the frost on the windows seem completely insignificant, "A total massacre."

As the water began to boil, Xing closed his eyes for just a second, letting the chaotic noise wash over him. The shop wasn't quiet anymore, and Xing had never been so happy to lose his peace.

***

Beginnings of a spring brought a new rhythm to Huang's Petals.

The bell still jingled regularly, but the nature of Qiu Dingjie's arrivals had fundamentally changed. He no longer burst through the door in a panic, desperate for ranunculus to impress an artist or tulips to apologize for a goose attack. In fact, he stopped looking at the flowers entirely.

He arrived armed with a backpack, a laptop covered in faded stickers, and usually, two steaming cups of sweet soy milk. He would claim his spot on the wooden stool behind the counter with the casual entitlement of someone who belonged there, spread out his thick economy textbooks, and simply exist in Xing's space.

"No apology bouquets this week?" Xing asked one afternoon, carefully misting a row of delicate maidenhair ferns, "I have a very nice batch of blue thistles. They say 'I am deeply sorry for knocking over your wine.'"

Dingjie didn't even look up from his highlighter, "I am officially retired from the romantic battlefield, A-Xing. I hung up my shield. It's too dangerous out there."

"Retired?" Xing smiled. A soft fond thing that he didn't have to hide as much anymore since Dingjie was looking at his book, "At twenty years old? That is a very short career."

"A short but highly destructive career," Dingjie corrected, finally capping his highlighter and looking up, "Honestly, dating is exhausting. You have to pretend to be cool, you have to worry about the lighting, you have to decipher text messages. I don't have the energy. I have an essay on intermediate macroeconomics due Friday, and frankly, I'd rather just be here."

I'd rather just be here.

Those five words took root in Xing's chest like a stubborn blooming vine.

As the weeks blurred together, Xing realized that the foolish little crush he had tried to bury in the autumn had inevitably grown deeper. He wasn't just charmed by the boy anymore. He was hopelessly in love with him.

He loved the way Dingjie would unconsciously chew on the end of his pen when a reading assignment got too dense. He loved how Dingjie had taken it upon himself to sweep the shop floor right before closing, claiming it was rent for using the stool. He loved the domestic intimacy of working in silence, surrounded by damp earth and blooming jasmine, while the boy he loved typed furiously just three feet away.

But Xing was a man of method and patience, and above all, he was a coward when it came to his own heart.

He told himself the rules of their dynamic were set in stone. He was Boss Huang, the steady reliable younger friend who happened to own the flower shop Dingjie bought his flowers from. He was the safe place. If he crossed the line, if he dared to ask for more, he risked shattering the fragile peace they had built. What if Dingjie was just enjoying the quiet? What if a confession chased him away, back out into the cold streets, never to return? Xing would rather have Dingjie's friendship and a breaking heart than risk having an empty wooden stool again.

So, Xing said nothing. He poured the tea. He listened to complaints about strict professors. He kept his hands firmly to himself.

But if Xing had been slightly less focused on guarding his own secrets, he might have noticed that Dingjie wasn't exactly looking at his textbooks anymore.

It started subtly. Xing would be arranging a complex centerpiece, his fingers deftly weaving thorny rose stems and eucalyptus, and he would suddenly feel the weight of a gaze on him. When he glanced up, Dingjie would quickly snap his attention back to his laptop screen, the tips of his ears burning a shade of pink.

Then, the lingering looks became bolder.

One late afternoon in April, the shop was bathed in the hazy light of the setting sun. Xing was meticulously wiping the leaves of a monstera plant near the register. He reached out to grab a cloth, and his hand brushed against Dingjie's fingers resting on the glass counter.

It was a feather light touch, completely accidental. But instead of pulling away, Dingjie's hand froze.

Xing's breath hitched in his throat. He slowly looked up.

Dingjie was looking directly at Xing. His expressive eyes were wide, intensely focused, tracking a bead of sweat that had rolled down the side of Xing's neck. He looked at Xing's hands, rough from dirt and thorns, and then slowly up to his lips, before finally meeting his eyes.

The air in the shop suddenly felt thick. The hum of the refrigerators faded away entirely. The distance between them, barely a foot across the glass counter, felt both like a million miles and dangerously close.

Say something, Xing's brain screamed at him. Ask him. Just ask him if he wants to get dinner.

Dingjie swallowed hard. His fingers twitched against the glass, just millimeters from Xing's. He parted his lips, taking a shallow breath. Please, Dingjie's eyes seemed to beg. A silent vulnerability shining in them. Please, you're the mature one. You're the steady one. Tell me I'm not crazy.

But the silence stretched too long, pulling tight like a bowstring until it snapped.

Panic flashed across Dingjie's face. He jerked his hand back as if the glass counter had caught fire. He practically threw himself backwards, his elbow catching a stack of empty plastic planters and sending them clattering to the floor.

"Sorry!" Dingjie blurted out. His voice an octave too high. His face instantly flushed pink. He scrambled to his feet, frantically grabbing the scattered pots, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, A-Xing. I should—I need to get back to the dorm. I have a ... a study group. For market plan."

Xing's heart plummeted back into his stomach. He pulled his own hand back, gripping the damp cloth so tightly his knuckles ached. He had imagined it. Of course, he had imagined it. Dingjie was just staring off into space, stressed about exams, and Xing had projected his own yearning onto him.

"Right," Xing said. His voice was flat, completely devoid of the chaotic hope that had been there a second ago. He forced a polite smile onto his face, "Study group. Don't let me keep you."

"Yeah. See you tomorrow, A-Xing," Dingjie mumbled, shoving his laptop into his backpack without even zipping it properly. He didn't look at Xing again as he pushed the door open. The bell jingling loudly as he practically fled into the foggy evening.

Xing stood alone in the quiet shop. He looked down at the glass counter, right at the spot where their hands had almost rested together. He let out a shaky miserable breath, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

They were trapped in a beautiful agonizing stalemate. Two boys devoted to each other, sitting two feet apart every single day, both absolutely convinced they weren't good enough for the other, and both too terrified to say a single word.

***

It had been three days since the incident with the plastic pots, and the air inside Huang's Petals felt fragile, as if one wrong breath would shatter the glass walls entirely.

Xing had retreated into his work with a punishing intensity. He told himself it was for the best. The near touch had been a wake up call. A warning that he was standing too close to the fire. Dingjie was a university student with a brilliant future. Xing was a florist with dirt permanently wedged under his fingernails. It was time to remember his place.

On Friday afternoon, the sky over Chongqing was a bruised purple, threatening a downpour. Xing was behind the counter, mechanically stripping thorns from a dozen red roses, when the door swung open.

Xing looked up. His polite smile was already fixed in place. But the smile froze, and then, it slowly crumbled.

It wasn't the Dingjie of the past few months, with his messy hair, oversized hoodies, and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he was about to break someone's heart. Dingjie was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, a neat white button down shirt left slightly open at the collar, and a dark overcoat that made his shoulders look broad. His hair was styled, pushed back from his forehead to reveal the sharp angles of his face. He looked mature. He looked breathtaking. He looked exactly like someone who was ready to be loved.

The rock that had miraculously vanished in the winter dropped right back into Xing's stomach, heavier and colder than ever before.

Ah, Xing thought. The realization rang in his ears with a deafening finality. The retirement is over.

"A-Xing," Dingjie said. His voice was a little tight. His hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as he walked toward the counter.

"Dingjie," Xing managed to say. He placed the rose down carefully, scared that his shaking hands would crush the stem. He swallowed over the jagged lump in his throat, "You look ... very handsome. Is there a special occasion?"

Dingjie stopped at the glass display. He was practically vibrating with nervous energy. His chest rising and falling quickly, "A date. A really important one. The most important one of my life, actually."

Xing felt as if the floor had completely dropped out from beneath him. He gripped the edge of the wooden counter, steadying himself. He had thought he knew what a broken heart felt like, but this, this physical tearing pain in his chest, was new. He was going to lose him. For real this time.

"I see," Xing whispered. He forced himself to stand straight, to gather the scattered bleeding pieces of his pride, "Congratulations. They are ... they are very lucky."

Dingjie swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbing, "I need a bouquet, A-Xing. I need it to be perfect."

"Of course," Xing said numbly. He turned around, blindly facing the large glass refrigerators, trying to hide the glassy sheen of unshed tears in his eyes, "What kind of flowers do they like? Roses? Tulips?"

"I don't know," Dingjie said softly from behind him, "What is your favorite flower?"

Xing paused. His hand hovering over a bucket of lilies, "My favorite?"

"Yes," Dingjie insisted. His voice trembled just a fraction, "You have the most beautiful taste in the world, A-Xing. Whatever you think is best. Whatever you love the most, I want that one."

Xing squeezed his eyes shut for an agonizing second. This is torture, he thought. He is making me build the weapon that will execute my own heart. But he was Boss Huang, the florist, the friend. He was the safe place for being asked this kind of question.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, Xing ignored the colorful blooms entirely. He reached into the cooler and carefully pulled out a cluster of rare white moth orchids. They were delicate and breathtakingly beautiful. They were his absolute favorites.

He brought them back to the counter. He didn't look at Dingjie. If he looked at the boy in the suit, he would shatter completely.

In utter silence, Xing began to work. He poured every single ounce of his unspoken love into the arrangement. He framed the ghostly white orchids with soft feathery asparagus ferns and deep green ruscus leaves. He wrapped the stems in a natural cloth, tying it off with an elegant silk ribbon the color of midnight.

It was a masterpiece of quiet beauty. It was a silent goodbye.

"That will be two hundred yuan," Xing said. His voice is devoid of emotion. He pushed the bouquet across the glass counter, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the silk ribbon.

Dingjie scanned the QR code on the counter. The machine beeped.

"Thank you," Dingjie whispered. He reached out and wrapped his hands around the wrapped stems.

Xing took a step back, folding his dirt stained hands into his faded apron, "Have a good time tonight, Dingjie. I hope ... I hope it goes well."

Xing waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. He waited for the bell to ring, signaling the end of the chapter, the end of the boy who drank soy milk on his wooden stool.

But Dingjie didn't turn around.

Instead, the boy took a deep shuddering breath. He looked down at the breathtaking orchids in his hands, and then, with a look of resolve, he stepped closer to the counter.

He thrust his arms forward, holding the bouquet out over the glass display, pushing the flowers directly into Xing's chest.

Xing blinked, startled, instinctively catching the beautiful arrangement before it fell. He looked at the flowers, and then up at Dingjie in profound confusion, "What did you forget? Do you need a card—"

"They're for you," Dingjie interrupted. His voice cracking, thick with a desperate emotion.

The shop went dead silent. The rain finally began to fall outside, drumming against the front windows.

"What?" Xing breathed.

"They're for you, A-Xing," Dingjie said. His hands now gripping the edge of the counter as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His expressive eyes were blazing with a raw naked vulnerability, "The date. It's with you. If ... if you'll have me."

Xing's brain is short circuiting. He stared at the boy in the suit, the white orchids pressed against his own apron, and rasped, "I don't ... Dingjie, you said you retired. I don't understand."

"I didn't stop dating because I was tired of it," Dingjie confessed. The words tumbled out of him in a breathless rush, exactly like the first day he had crashed into the shop, "I stopped because every single time I sat across a table from someone else, all I could think about was you. I just kept wishing I was sitting on that uncomfortable wooden stool in the back, watching you water your ferns."

Xing felt a tremor run through his entire body. He couldn't speak. He could barely breathe.

"I was so scared," Dingjie continued, taking a hesitant step around the side of the counter, invading Xing's personal space, "You are so calm, and beautiful, and you have your whole life put together. And I am just ... a loud clumsy disaster who cries over hotpot and runs from geese. I thought you only saw me as a kid who needed help. But three days ago, when we almost touched ... A-Xing, I couldn't sleep. I can't sit across from you in silence anymore. I am so helplessly in love with you."

The dam that Xing had built around his heart, the defense of method and patience, started to crack. Until it eventually dissolved.

A sudden gasp tore from Xing's throat. The hot stinging prick of tears flooded his eyes with zero warning. Boss Huang, the composed young florist who never let his emotions show, let out a choked wet sob.

He clutched the orchids to his chest, lowering his head as the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast, tracing lines down his cheeks. The relief was so immense, so physically overwhelming, that his knees actually buckled. He had spent months convincing himself he had to be the background character, and now the bright burning sun was telling him he was the center of the universe.

Dingjie's eyes widened in sheer panic. He rushed the rest of the way around the counter. His hands hovering frantically in the air, "Oh my god. A-Xing, please don't cry! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. If I read this completely wrong, if you don't want to—I'll leave, I'll never bother you again, please don't cry—"

"You talk too much," Xing choked out. A watery breathless laugh escaped him as the tears continued to fall.

Before Dingjie could retreat, Xing moved. He let go of the bouquet with one hand, reached out, and grabbed the lapel of Dingjie's overcoat. He pulled the older man forward, burying his wet face against the crook of Dingjie's neck.

Dingjie froze for exactly one second. Then, a shuddering breath left his lungs, and his strong arms wrapped tightly around Xing's waist, pulling the florist flush against his chest, right over the worn out apron and the crushed white orchids.

"I thought I lost you," Xing whispered against the collar of the white shirt. His fingers gripping the coat like a lifeline, "I thought you were leaving me."

"Never," Dingjie murmured fiercely into Xing's hair, burying his face against the side of Xing's head, "I'm never leaving this shop again. You're stuck with me."

Xing pulled back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were wet, shining with an incandescent joy. He let go of the lapel and reached up. His dirt stained fingers gently tracing the sharp jawline of the boy he fell in love so deep in such a short time.

Dingjie leaned into the touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment before opening to meet Xing's gaze.

"So," Xing whispered. A soft radiant smile breaking through his tears, "Where are you taking me for our date?"

Dingjie's signature blinding smile returned, brighter than the lights shining through the foggy rain, "Anywhere you want, A-Xing. As long as they don't have geese."

Xing laughed.

At that moment, looking at the beautiful man laughing so prettily in his arms, Dingjie finally realized how foolish he was all of these time. He has been picking the wrong kind of flowers from Huang's Petals. Wrong kind of bouquets are. Wrong kind of arrangement.

Because the only flower who bloomed just for Dingjie is right there, leaning on his chest, hugging his waist, shedding tears of pure relief and happiness just because of being asked for a date.

It was Huang Xing.

Qiu Dingjie's little flower. []