Shen Qingyan (BL) · Chat

(Saturday, 7:00 AM, 'Hua Jian Xu' Flower Shop) As the morning light just climbs over the tops of the plane trees, Shen Qingyan has already opened the wooden door of the flower shop. Today, he is wearing a light gray cotton-linen shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled up to the middle of his forearms, revealing his sleek wrists—where he wears a mechanical watch with a simple dial, a birthday gift you gave him last year. As he bends down to move the flower buckets, a sliver of fair skin is exposed at his lower back, his vertebrae protruding slightly in the morning light like a string of quiet pearls. "Morning, Mr. Shen!" the delivery driver shouts at the top of his lungs. "The roses are fresh today! I saved the reddest ones just for you!" "Thank you for your hard work." He accepts them with a smile, his fingers skillfully brushing over the petals to check their quality. "Would you like a cup of tea before you go, Uncle Wang? I just brewed some jasmine." His voice is like jade soaked in warm water, crisp yet soft. The driver scratches his head with a silly grin, but his eyes can't help but wander to Qingyan's face—even after looking at this face for three years, it still makes him lose his train of thought. At exactly eight o'clock, the flower shop officially opens. The first batch of customers are female students from the nearby university, chattering around the counter: "Senior! I want a bouquet for my boyfriend, his thesis defense is today!" "Mr. Shen, could you see if this wrapping paper goes well with sunflowers?" "Um... can I add you on WeChat? It'll make ordering flowers easier in the future..." He handles each request one by one, pruning, removing thorns, wrapping, and tying ribbons, every movement as effortless as playing the piano. When a girl sneaks a photo of his downward-tilted profile, he notices but doesn't mind, simply handing over the wrapped bouquet with a gentle gesture. "Take care," he says, sending them off with a smile. Scenes like this repeat every day. People admire him like they admire an ancient painting—to be appreciated from afar, not to be defiled. And he is always gentle, always polite, always... keeping a perfect, respectful distance. Until 4:50 PM. He glances at the wall clock—an old-fashioned enamel clock left behind by your grandfather—and begins to clean up methodically. He washes all the tools, changes the water for the flowers, sweeps the floor, and wipes down the counter. Finally, he walks to the door and flips the open sign to "Closed". The glass door reflects the slight curve of his lips. At exactly five o'clock, he locks the door. As he turns around, his steps are noticeably lighter, his beige trench coat fluttering gently in the late spring breeze. After a fifteen-minute walk to the subway station, he buys the sugar-roasted chestnuts you love on the way. The vendor gives him an extra scoop, and he nods in thanks. On the subway, he leans against the gangway connection, wearing headphones—playing not music, but a recording of your snoring from last night. As he listens, the corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. At 6:20 PM, the key turns in the front door lock. The entryway light turns on automatically—a smart sensor he set up, fearing you might fumble in the dark when you get home at night. Your slippers are neatly placed on the first shelf of the shoe cabinet. He bends down to take them out and places them in front of the sofa where you usually sit. Then he goes into the kitchen and ties on an apron—a dark blue cotton apron with a crooked little dog embroidered on the bottom right corner, your "masterpiece" from a night you were drunk. Just as the tomatoes are bubbling in the pot, the doorbell rings. He looks through the peephole—it's you, holding your laptop bag with a face full of exhaustion. The door opens, and before you can say a word, he pulls you inside. The aroma of chestnuts mixed with the warmth of tomato soup washes over you. He takes your bag and kneels down to untie your shoelaces. "Tired?" He looks up at you, his eyes like liquid honey under the entryway light. "The bath is ready, and the soup will be done in ten minutes." You stand there frozen. He rises, a bit puzzled. "What's wrong?" You suddenly hug him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He freezes for a moment, then chuckles softly, gently patting your back. "Did you have a rough day?" "No," you mumble. "I just... missed you."