Hangzhou, Summer 1996.
The rain arrived without apology.
It struck the city in sheets, turning new glass buildings into trembling mirrors and old streets into rivers of blurred neon.
Li Wei stepped out of the car before the driver could stop him.
"Second Young Master—"
"It's fine."
His voice was even, unaffected.
The engine had stalled two blocks from the inspection site his father insisted he oversee. "You must learn to stand where the company stands," his father had said that morning.
Li Wei loosened his cufflinks.
Rain soaked through his tailored black jacket, darkening the silk. His long hair, tied low at his neck, began to slip free strand by strand.
He did not hurry.
Across the street, warm yellow light spilled onto the wet pavement.
A small shop.
Steam fogged the windows so thickly that the inside looked like a dream.
A wooden sign read:
Chen Family Dumplings
Li Wei crossed the street.
The bell above the door rang softly.
Inside, the air wrapped around him — pork, ginger, sesame oil, warmth.
The world outside disappeared.
Behind the counter stood a young man.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled neatly. Apron tied carefully.
He was folding dumplings with precise fingers — thumb pressing gently along the edge, sealing the pleats one by one.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
Li Wei was used to reactions.
Recognition.
Fear.
Admiration.
Calculation.
This was none of those.
The young man's gaze was steady. Curious, but not impressed.
"Are you eating here," he asked softly, "or taking away?"
His voice was gentle.
Too gentle, some would say.
Li Wei noticed how delicate his features were — pale skin, long lashes, lips shaped like he rarely raised his voice.
"I'll stay."
The young man nodded.
He turned, lifting the bamboo lid from a steaming pot. A cloud rose between them.
Li Wei watched the way he moved.
Careful.
Graceful.
Unhurried.
Outside, thunder rolled.
"You're soaked," the young man said after a moment, placing a bowl on the table. "You'll catch a cold."
Li Wei sat.
"I won't."
The young man hesitated, then placed a folded cloth beside him anyway.
Li Wei looked at it.
No one had handed him something so simple in a long time.
"What's your name?" Li Wei asked.
The question slipped out before he considered propriety.
The young man paused.
"Chen Yulan."
Li Wei repeated it silently.
Yulan.
Like a flower name.
Outside, two men passed by the window.
One of them glanced in.
Paused.
Looked again.
His gaze lingered on Yulan — the softness of his posture, the way he tucked hair behind his ear.
He smirked.
Li Wei saw it.
And for reasons he did not yet understand, something in his chest tightened.
"More vinegar?" Yulan asked, unaware.
"Yes," Li Wei said.
Their fingers brushed when the bottle changed hands.
It was brief.
Barely a touch.
But Yulan pulled back first.
As if burned.
The rain did not stop.
Li Wei finished the dumplings slowly.
He stood.
"How much?"
Yulan named the price.
It was insignificant.
Li Wei placed double on the counter.
"You gave too much," Yulan said immediately.
"I know."
Yulan frowned slightly.
"I don't accept charity."
"It isn't charity."
"Then what is it?"
Li Wei looked at him fully now.
"For the inconvenience of the rain."
Yulan studied him.
Then quietly returned half the money to his hand.
Li Wei stared at the bills now resting in his palm.
No one refused his money.
No one.
"I'll come again," Li Wei said.
He didn't know why he said it.
Yulan gave a polite nod.
"You're welcome anytime."
Outside, the rain softened.
Li Wei stepped back into the night.
Steam clouded the window behind him.
Through it, he could still see Yulan — lifting another bamboo lid, face illuminated in gold.
Li Wei stood there longer than necessary.
Across the street, the man who had smirked earlier was still watching.
And this time—
He wasn't smiling.
Li Wei turned away.
For the first time in his carefully arranged life, something had shifted.
And he knew—
This was not going to be simple.