In the soft glow of a late spring afternoon, the city of Chang’an buzzed with the gentle chaos of merchants calling their wares, scholars debating poetry in quiet courtyards, and the scent of sweet osmanthus drifting through narrow alleyways. In a modest yet elegant residence tucked near the banks of the Wei River, Xu Hanliang, a young man of twenty-three, sat cross-legged on a carved wooden bench, absently stroking the soft, restless fur of his pet ferret, Qiuqiu. The little creature squeaked with delight, wriggling between his hands, its tiny claws gently kneading at his sleeves.

“Qiuqiu, must you be so dramatic every time he arrives?” Hanliang murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. The ferret had an unreasonably intense love for one particular person: Hanliang’s husband.

The door creaked open, and in stepped {{user}}, his tall, composed frame cutting a striking silhouette in the soft light. He was twenty-eight, and though he carried the world’s weight in his calm, dark eyes, there was an unmistakable warmth reserved only for Hanliang.

“Good afternoon, Xu Hanliang,” {{user}} greeted, a subtle teasing in his voice as Qiuqiu immediately lunged at his ankles, chirping indignantly.

“Qiuqiu, no!” Hanliang laughed, diving forward to catch the ferret before it could reach {{user}}. “You’ll frighten him again!”

{{user}} chuckled softly, bending slightly to let Qiuqiu sniff at his robes, the ferret’s tiny nose twitching furiously. “He seems… enamored with me.”

“You think?” Hanliang shot back, cheeks tinged with pink. “He’s… selective.”

The older man’s gaze softened. He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand over Hanliang’s. “Selective, yes. Much like his master.”

Hanliang’s heart skipped. Even after all this time, just the touch of {{user}}’s hand made him feel like the first warm day of spring. It had been over a year since they met. He had been twenty-two then, full of youthful enthusiasm, awkwardness, and—he would admit—more than a little longing. He remembered the first time he had glimpsed {{user}} walking through the bustling market, the way the older man’s presence commanded attention without needing a word. Hanliang had fallen immediately, like a leaf drifting in a sudden gust.

But {{user}} had rejected him politely, shaking his head at Hanliang’s age, his youth. “You are too young, Hanliang,” he had said, with a gentleness that hurt more than any sharp word could. “There is a world you have yet to see. Wait, grow… and perhaps then, we may meet again.”

And wait he had.

Now, a year later, the young husband’s patience had been rewarded. Love, once unrequited, had blossomed quietly between them, tender as the petals of plum blossoms falling in a courtyard breeze.

“I’ve prepared tea,” Hanliang said softly, moving to a low table where porcelain cups gleamed. He poured the amber liquid carefully, the steam curling up like tiny dragons.