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Was she allowed to be moved by the flowers and the boy before her?

Li Kuiyi held her breath and thought.

In this moment, the whole world around her was dim and still, while he was draped in a thin wash of light — the flowers in his hand full and swaying, his eyes holding a quiet, shallow happiness. Like a gentle mist in this cold and silent night, they wrapped around her heart, coaxing it into a restless spring cocoon, trembling on the edge of awakening.

As he always did, he paid no heed to reason or propriety. He walked up to her, pressed the bouquet into her arms, took her by the elbow and settled it around the flowers. When he saw her gazing at him, he grew embarrassed instead — the knuckles of his fingers flushed red. He reached out to touch one of the soft, dewy petals and murmured under his breath: “Didn’t you say you thought the bouquets I put together were beautiful?”

She had indeed said that. Li Kuiyi thought back — though that was already well over a year ago.

“How do you still remember?” she murmured back.

“Of course I remember.” He Youyuan gave her a fleeting, sidelong glance. “It’s not like you compliment me very often.”

Li Kuiyi was speechless — and equally baffled. This person could go from seeming utterly sincere one second to saying something absolutely shameless the next. And she had a premonition: if she were ever in a relationship with him, she would definitely have to endure his ridiculous remarks on a daily basis.

She simply lowered her eyes and turned her full attention to the bouquet in her arms, pointing to a small cluster of buds among the flowers to forcibly change the subject: “What kind of flower is this?”

“Snapdragons. The flower language is — please notice my love for you.“

Li Kuiyi: “…”

She knew it. This person was absolutely incorrigible.

He Youyuan lowered his eyelids, watching her expression of resigned exasperation, and said casually: “I didn’t say it on purpose. If you don’t believe me, go look it up.”

“Who asked about the flower language? You talk too much.”

He let out a mild laugh. “Well, aren’t I not allowed to talk now either?”

Li Kuiyi turned away with her flowers and refused to engage with him any further. But He Youyuan lit up his phone and checked the time, saying: “It’s nine forty-eight. Can I stay twelve more minutes?”

“Do whatever you like,” Li Kuiyi said, with a tone of complete indifference.

“Really? Whatever I like?”

Li Kuiyi turned back and glared at him. “You leave at ten.”

“So I’m Cinderella,” he said, and then shook his head with a sigh. “No, actually I’m worse than Cinderella. Cinderella at least got to stay until midnight.”

Li Kuiyi, upon hearing him say Cinderella, suddenly made a connection. Suppressing a smile, she raised her voice slightly and said: “Aren’t you supposed to be a prince?”

He Youyuan paused.

Then he raised an eyebrow with interest and asked: “Who told you that?”

Wasn’t it Zhou Ce who said that? Li Kuiyi couldn’t quite remember, but she blinked and said offhandedly to He Youyuan: “Qi Yu.”

The moment the words fell, she watched He Youyuan’s face go dark as a thundercloud.

He cared — cared desperately — yet still managed to put on a magnanimous air, reined in his expression, turned to one side, and said as casually as he could manage: “Oh, so you talked about me when you were with him. That’s fine.”

He seemed to be trying to convince himself as he nodded along while speaking.

Li Kuiyi watched him like this, and a small pang of remorse stirred inside her. She had only been trying to tease him a little — it looked like she had gone a little too far and actually made him upset. She gripped the flowers in her hand tighter and hurriedly apologized: “I’m sorry — it wasn’t Qi Yu who told me. It was Zhou Ce. I said that just now because I wanted to… wanted to… I’m sorry.”

“You wanted to make me jealous, didn’t you?” He turned to face her, watching her steadily.

Li Kuiyi lowered her eyes, pressed her lips together, and couldn’t bring herself to say anything — because doing that really was rather unkind.

Just as she was silently delivering a harsh self-criticism, she suddenly heard him ask quietly: “Why did you want to make me jealous?”

Her heart gave a small lurch. She looked up and met his gaze, and only then realized he was looking at her with intensity — no trace of anger, only a restrained, tentative anticipation.

What was he anticipating?

Anticipating that she would say she liked him?

Her heart clenched with nerves. She stared straight back at him, her lips moving and working for a long moment — but nothing came out.

She simply didn’t know whether saying she liked him right now was the right decision.

If she actually said it, what happened next? Would they be in a relationship? Would a teacher find out? Would their parents find out? Would it affect their studies? Would they be publicly reprimanded? If Teacher Liu found out, would she be disappointed in her?

So many questions pressed down on her, making real thought impossible. Inside her, emotion and reason wrestled, impulse and restraint intertwined — passionate yet delicate — forcing her breathing to tremble along with them.

He Youyuan seemed to sense her turbulent state of mind. He stood up from the mountain bike and came to stand before her, reaching out to gently pat her on the back — a soothing gesture. “I’m sorry. I was too eager. I keep thinking how wonderful it would be if you liked me too, so I couldn’t help wanting to push you for an answer. But actually — you’re willing to tutor me, willing to let me walk you home, willing to come downstairs to meet me tonight — that’s already far beyond what I’d hoped for. I’m quite satisfied.”

He bowed his head and smiled softly. “And the fact that you wanted to make me jealous — I’m actually really happy about that. Just having these things is enough. Sometimes the answer isn’t the most important thing.”

The answer might not be the most important thing, but it was still deeply compelling.

Li Kuiyi knew this full well. But without being able to give him an answer, she could only press her fingertips into her palm, flush-cheeked, and sniff before forcing herself to say: “If you want to stay until ten-thirty, that’s fine too.”

“Alright.” He stood there, smiling loosely and easily.

There were still over thirty minutes until ten-thirty. The two of them walked side by side along the small path inside the compound. Many of the household windows were still lit; from some of the lower floors, they could even hear television sounds and parents scolding their children. The world seemed to grow noisy again.

Li Kuiyi held the flowers against her chest and caught the trace of a faint, soft fragrance drifting from them — clean and light, hovering at the tip of her nose. But if she bent her head to breathe it in closely, it seemed to vanish.

Yet the flowers were genuinely, vividly beautiful — one glance downward, and all she could see was blooming splendor.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, and beside her was a vivid, free-spirited young man. She looked up, and overhead was the cold, distant, ethereal moon.

In this moment, Li Kuiyi was swept up in an unexpected happiness.

She suddenly realized that from childhood to now, she had been nourished by so many beautiful things. Books, the moon, sunsets, flowers, birdsong, snow, friends, teachers, a boy she liked… Her life was built from the sustenance these people, experiences, and things had given her. Even if nothing could last forever, she had felt moments of boundless happiness — and those moments of happiness were the very force that carried her forward. Perhaps she was pessimistic by nature, but she felt that pain outnumbered joy in a human life. That was exactly why those memories of happiness were worth retrieving and savoring, again and again, in all the hurried, ordinary days to come.

In the short span of her sixteen-year life, family had probably been the source of most of her suffering. She had once harbored fantasies and hopes — and even after making the decision to leave one day, she had still held onto a wish: that suddenly, someday, her father and mother would apologize to her, smile at her, try to understand her dreams and her private thoughts, and then — love her properly.

But today, she no longer had that hope for them. She no longer needed it.

There were a thousand thousand things in this world capable of nourishing her. She only wanted to spend her life on what was worth it.

“He Youyuan,” she called to him.

“Mm?”

“Can you finish that song, Red Bean?”

“You’re treating me like a jukebox, aren’t you?” He let out a token grumble, yet still sang it for her.

Walking and singing at the same time — his voice drifted freely, threading through the night, flowing on like water.

He finished the whole song at a leisurely pace.

Li Kuiyi stopped walking, looked over at him, and said: “I’ve heard that the most effective kind of memory is actually bound to smell and sound — when a person’s senses are stimulated, it can easily call back certain specific emotional responses.”

He Youyuan understood what she meant, yet didn’t quite dare to be certain of it. He watched her, testing carefully with a single question: “So?”

“So — from now on, whenever I hear Red Bean, I’ll think of you.”

In the dim light of the compound’s path, her face was very red.

He Youyuan’s breath caught sharply; his gaze blazed, as though it might burn a mark into her face. His blood surged in wave after wave toward his heart, and his throat rose and fell in repeated swallows. At last he could hold himself back no longer — he leaned down, and pressed his forehead against hers.

Burning cheeks. Mingled breath.

He wanted to kiss her.