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The first time Zihao saw him, he was bent over the counter of the new tattoo parlour across the street — sleeves rolled up, wrist inked in black swirls that caught the afternoon sun.
It was early spring, a day that smelled like soil and rain. Zihao stood in front of his flower shop, holding a tray of marigolds. He should have been thinking about where to hang them — or about the fact that the geranium shipment was late again — but all he could think was, who’s that?
The man looked up just then, meeting Zihao’s gaze through the glass window. For a second, the world narrowed to that quiet, startled moment — sunlight, ink, and eyes that seemed to notice everything.
Zihao dropped the marigolds.
They hit the pavement with a damp thud, soil spilling across the tiles.
He panicked, muttered a curse, crouched to gather them up — and when he dared glance back, the tattoo artist was still watching, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. Then he lifted a hand, a casual wave, before disappearing inside again.
Zihao stayed crouched for a full minute, pretending to rearrange the flowers while trying to calm the chaos in his chest.
“Smooth,” he muttered. “Very subtle, Li Zihao. Excellent first impression.”
The tattoo shop opened two weeks later.
The street they lived on was small, lined with a series of mismatched stores that were familiar with each other’s routines. The bakery next door started at dawn, the café stayed open past midnight, and Zihao’s flower shop lived in between them, a pocket of quiet colour.
Now, across the way, the tattoo parlour broke that quiet with deep, bassy music and laughter that spilled into the street.
Zihao told himself it was fine. Nice even. Energy. Character.
Except every time he tried to trim stems or arrange bouquets, he found himself glancing at the black-glass windows across the road.
Sometimes he saw him sketching designs, shoulders hunched over his desk, brow furrowed. Sometimes he caught him outside sweeping the steps, cigarette dangling between his fingers, hair messy from the wind.
And sometimes — Zihao swore it wasn’t on purpose — their eyes met through the street traffic, a split-second of recognition that left Zihao’s heart racing like he’d been caught.
He didn’t even know his name yet.
“You’re staring again,” said Hanyu one evening, leaning against the counter with a bag of pastries.
Zihao jolted, nearly clipping the stem he’d been trimming. “I am not. I was… observing local businesses.”
“Right,” Hanyu said dryly. “Local businesses with forearms.”
Zihao flushed. “That’s not— I just— he’s very… aesthetic. It’s good for the street image.”
Xinlong, sprawled on a stool, smirked. “You mean it’s good for your image. You’ve been rearranging the shop window every time he’s outside.”
Zihao glared. “Coincidence.”
“Sure,” they chorused.
Zihao buried his face in the bouquet he was wrapping. “You’re both awful.”
Days turned into weeks.
Suren — Zihao finally caught his name from the sign above the shop: INK / XUE SUREN — started visiting occasionally. At first it was simple.
“Hey, do you sell anything low-maintenance?” he’d ask, eyes scanning the shelves. “For the shop counter.”
Zihao would nod quickly, too quickly. “Of course! Something simple. Maybe succulents? Or— or a sansevieria! They’re great for air quality, and they’re kind of edgy, like—”
He’d stop himself, realizing he was rambling, and Suren would just smile — small, soft, maybe amused. “Edgy plants. I like that.”
He always left with something — a cactus, a small potted fern — and every time, Zihao would spend the rest of the day thinking about how he could have sounded cooler, calmer, less like a golden retriever meeting a thunderstorm.
One evening, just before closing, Suren lingered longer than usual. The rain had started, soft and steady against the glass. Zihao was restocking shelves, trying not to stare too obviously, but Suren seemed in no hurry to leave.
“You always stay this late?” he asked, voice low, easy.
Zihao glanced up. “Only when I lose track of time. Flowers don’t really like being ignored.”
Suren hummed. “Guess that makes two of us.”
Zihao blinked. “You— what?”
But Suren only smiled faintly, brushing his fingers along a stem of baby’s breath. “You ever notice how quiet it gets when it rains? Feels like the world pauses.”
Zihao swallowed. “Yeah. I like it.”
“Me too.”
For a few seconds, that was all there was — rain, the scent of plants, and two people who didn’t yet realize how softly their worlds were starting to overlap.
Over the next few months, the rhythm settled.
Mornings began with the smell of coffee Suren brought over “by accident.” Afternoons were marked by Zihao walking past the tattoo shop, pretending to look at the window display but secretly watching him draw.
Sometimes, Suren would come in just to talk.
He’d perch on the counter stool, arms folded, and ask things like, “If you were a flower, which one would you be?”
Zihao would snort. “What kind of question is that?”
“A tattoo artist kind,” Suren would say easily. “I like knowing how people see themselves.”
Zihao pretended to think. “Probably a sunflower. They’re loud and clingy and need a lot of light.”
Suren smiled slowly. “Sounds about right.”
Zihao threw a ribbon at him.
But later, when the shop was quiet and the only light came from the streetlamps outside, Zihao thought about how Suren had looked at him then — like maybe the word sunflower meant something beautiful.
The turning point came on a Tuesday.
The flower shop had been swamped with deliveries, and by closing time Zihao was exhausted. He sat on the floor surrounded by stray petals, forehead resting against his knees.
The bell above the door chimed.
"Sorry, we’re—” Zihao started, but stopped when he saw who it was. “Oh. Hey.”
Suren stood there with two cups of coffee and a small takeout bag. “Figured you hadn’t eaten.”
Zihao blinked up at him, stunned. “How did you—”
“You look like you haven’t eaten.”
Suren set the food on the counter and crouched beside him. For once, he didn’t tease. Just reached out, brushing a streak of dirt from Zihao’s cheek. “You take care of everything except yourself.”
Zihao’s breath caught. “That’s… not true.”
Suren tilted his head, eyes gentle but firm. “Then prove me wrong. Eat.”
And somehow, between the laughter and the shared noodles and the rain that started again outside, something shifted. The space between them, always careful and teasing, softened.
When Suren left that night, he paused at the door. “Zihao?”
“Yeah?”
“Your sunflowers would be jealous.”
Zihao frowned. “Of what?”
Suren smiled, eyes crinkling. “How bright you are.”
Zihao didn’t sleep much that night.
Weeks later, he found a sketch slipped under the flower shop door — a small sunflower, drawn in careful black ink, its petals curling into the shape of a heart. No signature, but he didn’t need one.
He pinned it behind the counter, right above the register.
And that afternoon, when Suren walked in pretending not to notice, Zihao didn’t let him play coy.
He walked right up, cheeks warm but steady, and said, “You know, I was starting to think maybe you just liked my plants.”
Suren’s grin was soft this time. “I do.” He paused. “But I like you more.”
Zihao’s reply was quiet but sure. “Good. Because I was running out of excuses to see you.”
They stood there for a long moment, surrounded by flowers and sunlight and the smell of rain that had followed Suren in. Then Zihao reached out — slowly, carefully — and Suren met him halfway.
The kiss wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind that felt like spring finally arriving after a long winter — gentle, warm, inevitable.
Outside, petals brushed against the window glass, and inside, two hearts found their rhythm.
Their first date came a week after that first kiss.
He’d told himself it might have been a momentary thing, one of those “caught-in-the-rain, swept-up-in-the-mood” kisses.
But when Suren showed up at the flower shop the next morning with coffee and that quiet, knowing smile, Zihao realized it hadn’t been a mistake at all.
So when Suren asked, “Dinner tonight?” Zihao didn’t even pretend to hesitate. “Yes,” he said, voice steadier than his heart felt.
They met near the port, where the air smelled of salt and sugar. Zihao had fussed with his hair in the shop mirror for ten minutes before leaving; Suren still teased him for it.
“You know,” Suren said, hands in his jacket pockets, “you don’t have to impress me. I’m already gone for you.”
Zihao nearly tripped over a loose cobblestone. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Zihao’s words caught. “Because I’ll start believing you.”
Suren’s smile softened. “Good.”
They found a small café with flickering lights and chipped mugs. Conversation was easy now — laughter in between sips of coffee, hands brushing over the table and never really pulling apart again.
When they stepped outside, the sky was discolored with late-evening clouds, and the air hummed with the faint sound of waves. Suren stopped under a streetlamp and turned to him.
“I should get you home,” he said, but he didn’t move.
Zihao’s pulse stumbled. “You don’t have to yet.”
Suren smiled — that same small, steady curve of lips that had ruined Zihao once already — and leaned in.
The kiss was slow, familiar, like an answer to something they’d both been waiting to ask again. The first had been a spark; this one was warmth — sure and quiet, a beginning sealed with breath and rain.
When they parted, Zihao was smiling too wide to hide it.
“So,” Suren murmured, thumb brushing over Zihao’s jaw, “that counts as a second date?”
Zihao laughed softly. “Let’s not keep count. Let’s just keep going.”
They did.
Spring melted into summer, and the days filled with simple, easy routines. Suren would bring coffee in the mornings; Zihao would cross the street in the evenings with a small bouquet — “shop trade,” he called it.
Sometimes, after closing, they’d sit on the curb between their storefronts, sharing fruit or noodles, watching the sky shift colors above the power lines.
Suren would sketch the curve of Zihao’s wrist while Zihao absent-mindedly tucked flowers behind Suren’s ear.
“Artistic inspiration,” he’d say.
“Floral sabotage,” Suren would reply, smiling anyway.
By autumn, their worlds had blended completely.
Suren’s studio smelled faintly of eucalyptus and jasmine — Zihao’s doing — and the flower shop counter now held a framed sketch of a sunflower in black ink, petals curling into the shape of a heart.
They went to the harvest festival together, fingers laced through mittens, sharing roasted chestnuts and laughing too loudly. At one booth, Suren slipped a flower crown onto Zihao’s head and said, “Perfect.”
Zihao rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love,” Suren corrected, and Zihao couldn’t even pretend not to blush.
Winter arrived with quiet mornings and early nights.
Sometimes Zihao would close the shop early just to sit with Suren in the empty parlour, drinking cocoa while snow pressed against the windows. Suren’s hands were always warm; Zihao’s always cold. They met somewhere in between.
Once, while tracing patterns over Zihao’s palm, Suren asked, “You ever think this will fade?”
Zihao looked up, startled. “Us?”
Suren nodded. “Everything fades eventually.”
Zihao smiled faintly. “Then we’ll just keep blooming again.”
Suren didn’t answer. He just leaned forward and kissed him — slow, deep, certain.
When spring came back around, petals filled the street once more. Zihao stood outside his shop hanging fresh baskets, and Suren crossed the road carrying a small box.
Inside was a tattoo design — a sunflower wrapped around the word bloom.
Zihao blinked up at him. “You’re giving this to me?”
Suren shook his head gently. “No. I’m giving it for you.”
The next week, Zihao got the tattoo inked just above his ankle — where he could hide it under socks or see it when he wanted to remember.
“It’s tiny,” he said, admiring it.
“It’s enough,” Suren replied. “You don’t need big things to last forever.”
Zihao smiled, leaning up to kiss him, the scent of rain and flowers around them.
Years passed softly.
The tattoo shop and flower shop stayed across from each other — windows glowing warm through every season. The street changed, but they didn’t.
Every morning, Zihao left a bloom on Suren’s counter. Every night, Suren walked him home, the way he always had.
Love didn’t fade. It grew quietly, rooted deep, season after season — not loud, not perfect, but real.
And when people passed by their little street, they often said it smelled like rain and flowers and something else — something that felt a lot like forever.
The flower shop was never quiet anymore.
“Papa! He’s eating the petals again!”
Zihao looked up from the counter to see their little boy sitting on the floor, chewing on a daisy. His older sister stood beside him, hands on her hips, looking exactly like Suren when she was annoyed.
Zihao sighed, trying not to smile. “We talked about this, remember? Flowers are for smelling, not eating.”
The boy pouted. “But it tastes nice.”
Before Zihao could answer, Suren stepped in from the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. There was a small smudge of ink on his wrist, as usual.
“Technically,” he said, leaning down to kiss Zihao’s temple, “he’s not wrong. Everything in here smells good enough to eat.”
Zihao laughed. “You’re supposed to back me up, not take his side.”
Suren shrugged. “Can’t help it. He gets it from me.”
The shop looked a little different now — more crowded, more lived-in. There were crayon drawings taped to the counter, flower petals scattered near the door, and a wooden stool that was always a little sticky from juice boxes.
Across the street, Suren’s tattoo parlour had changed too. The walls were covered in drawings of flowers Zihao had sketched — small, simple tattoos they designed together. They called them the Bloom Series, and people came from other towns just to get one.
Most days, the street smelled like soil, coffee, and soap — the scent of home.
That evening, when the kids finally fell asleep upstairs, Zihao and Suren sat outside on the steps, mugs of tea in hand. The air was warm and full of crickets.
Zihao leaned his head against Suren’s shoulder. “Remember when we first met?”
Suren smiled. “You mean when you dropped all those marigolds?”
Zihao groaned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope,” Suren said, smiling into his tea. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”
“Why?” Zihao asked, half laughing.
“Because that’s when I knew you’d change my life.”
Zihao went quiet for a moment, heart full. He looked down at their hands — Suren’s thumb brushing the small sunflower tattoo on Zihao’s wrist.
“Do you think we’ll ever stop?” Zihao asked softly. “All this — the shop, the noise, the flowers, the mess?”
Suren shook his head. “No. We’ll just grow with it.”
Zihao smiled. “Good. I like growing with you.”
Suren leaned over and kissed him — a soft, steady kiss that felt like spring even in the middle of summer.
The lights from their shops glowed behind them, the air filled with the scent of petals and ink.
Inside, their children slept, the world turning quietly around them.
Some loves fade with time.
Theirs just kept blooming.