Chapter 1: The Boy Behind the Teacup

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The rain had stopped just an hour before sunset, leaving the city drenched in gold and glass. Streetlamps blinked to life one by one, lighting up the polished sidewalks like a trail of stars. Outside a private five-star rooftop restaurant in the heart of the city, a black car pulled up. Out stepped a boy in dove-gray slacks and a soft cream cardigan over a silk shirt, his black hair neatly brushed to the side. He held a book in one hand — poetry, of course — and a small leather bag in the other.

Fei Du had arrived.

The maître d’(head waiter) bowed politely, ushering him inside where warm lighting and the faint hum of piano music welcomed him. The room smelled faintly of honeyed wood and fresh orchids. Waiters glided across the glossy floor like swans, each movement silent and rehearsed.

Fei was guided to a private room where his parents were already seated at a long lacquered table, sipping white tea. He bowed gently to them, took the seat beside his mother, and placed the book on the table.

He didn’t know who they were meeting. Only that it was important.

“Relax,” his father said kindly. “He’s just a friend’s son.”

Fei nodded, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Until the door opened.

Black boots. Dark gray tailored slacks. A sharp blazer over a black turtleneck, hair still slightly tousled from the wind. Luo Wenzhou entered like a gust of night air — confident, elegant, and effortlessly cool.

His eyes scanned the room — and stopped on Fei.

A blink. A smile. Then he walked forward and said in a tone like velvet, “You must be Fei Du. I’m Luo Wenzhou. Sorry I’m late. I had to convince three people to tell me your favorite flower.”

Fei blinked. “…What?”

Luo pulled a white camellia from his coat pocket and laid it gently beside Fei’s teacup.

Fei’s ears turned scarlet.

....

The dinner was filled with elegant food and formal conversation. Abalone soup, hand-folded dumplings, rice served with edible blossoms. But Fei hardly tasted any of it. Luo Wenzhou sat across from him, legs crossed, completely relaxed, sipping wine like he owned the entire city — which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.

He kept glancing at Fei. Not the polite, brief kind. The intense kind that made Fei’s fingers curl tighter around his chopsticks.

“You like poetry?” Luo asked casually, after the adults had fallen into talk about mergers.

Fei nodded, trying not to meet his gaze. “Mostly… classical. Tang Dynasty poets.”

Luo smirked. “Soft voice. Classical taste. Blushes over flowers. You’re making this very hard for me, Fei Du.”

Fei looked up, confused. “Making what—?”

“Not falling for you immediately.”

Fei nearly dropped his spoon.

After dinner, while their parents stayed to discuss business, Fei stepped out to wait for the car. The night had turned breezy. Lights from the city sparkled below like scattered diamonds.

Luo followed a few steps behind.

“You cold?” he asked.

Fei didn’t answer, but he shivered slightly. A heartbeat later, Luo slid off his blazer and placed it over Fei’s shoulders without asking.

“It suits you,” he said with a small grin. “But then again, I think everything would suit you.”

Fei’s heart flipped.

He clutched the lapels of the coat and whispered, “Why are you being nice to me?”

Luo’s grin softened. He leaned in, not too close, but enough to be felt.

“Because I like nice things,” he murmured. “And you’re the nicest I’ve met in a long time.”

That night, Fei sat on his bed in his oversized cardigan, Luo’s blazer still folded nearby, a single white camellia placed gently in a vase.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: “You looked really cute trying to hide behind your teacup. Let’s meet again soon — without our parents next time.”

Fei stared at the screen. Then he smiled.