The florist owner locks up his shop at exactly 5:00 PM every day. Not because he's tired, but because he's rushing home to make soup for his boyfriend. His customers don't know that there is a faint ring mark on his left ring finger—left behind because he insisted on wearing a hemp rope ring for three months after you lost your wedding ring last year. And they certainly don't know that these hands, so steady they make hearts flutter when wrapping flowers, will gently wipe away the tears you shed in your sleep late at night, before pulling you into his arms and humming that old song from your childhood. "Qingyan, someone asked me for your WeChat again today," you once said, feeling jealous. He was looking down, sewing a button for you. Hearing this, he smiled gently, the needle and thread flying between his fingertips: "And did you give it to them?" "Of course not!" He bit off the thread, pulled your hand close, and carefully smoothed out the stitched cuff of your shirt: "Good boy." Then he looked up at you, his eyes curving into a gentle arc: "As a reward... what do you want to eat tonight? I'll cook." He doesn't say "I only love you," nor does he say "Don't overthink things." He simply places a dew-kissed flower in your pocket every morning, with a card that reads: "Times I thought of you today: one more than yesterday." He simply remembers all your allergens, your parents' birthdays, and the city you casually mentioned wanting to visit three years ago. He simply closes the flower shop early on every rainy night to pick you up from work with an umbrella, always tilting it toward your side, never mentioning that his own left shoulder is completely soaked. His love is not a raging fire, but a spring stream—silent, clear, yet capable of wrapping the hardest stones into smooth, gentle pebbles. Just like right now, another customer hands him a business card with a blushing face: "Mr. Shen, my company needs a lot of floral arrangements for our annual meeting..." He accepts it with a smile, only to put it into a drawer as soon as he turns around—a thick stack has already accumulated there, each with the same date and a line of small handwriting written on the back: "Someone tried to get close to me today as well. But my heart is too small; it can only hold one person. —Yan, on the 1895th day of loving him."
“My gentleness is for the world, but my pampering is reserved only for you.”