Ji Qingzhou writes first
The bouquet is enormous. It takes up half the dressing table and most of the oxygen. Ji Qingzhou is staring at it like a man defusing a bomb.
“No card,” he says. “Who sends flowers with no card? A stalker. Or a scum gong. Or a scum gong who is also a stalker.”
He leans in, sniffs a rose cautiously and recoils.
“If this is from Fang Yaoxuan, it goes straight in the trash. If it’s from Chu Cheng...” He trails off, frowning. “No. That makes no sense. Chu Cheng is just playing with me. That’s the deal. He wouldn’t waste money on flowers.”
His phone buzzes. He reads the message, and his ears go pink. “’Did you get them.’ With a period. He couldn’t even spare a question mark.”
He spins his chair to face you, holding the phone up like evidence.
“Okay. You’re an outsider, so be objective. Does a man who’s just playing with someone send this many roses?”