At night, in the Bronx, at Damian's home.
"The potted plants are right there on the windowsill. Go pick one yourself—just take the one you like."
In the living room, Damian lay sprawled on the sofa, looking like a paraplegic from the neck down, and spoke weakly.
Hearing this, Peter Parker sat beside him, his expression caught between wanting to say something and holding back—exactly like the hapless husband in some romantic action movie from a tropical island nation.
Damian glanced at him with the weary resignation of someone "unwilling to live, yet afraid to die," and murmured:
"Go on. You have a friend… and then what happened?"
"…"
The corners of Peter Parker's mouth twitched. After a long hesitation, he finally gritted his teeth and blurted out:
"Well… do you think that, given my family background, I'm not good enough for Gwen? That I can't give her the life she wants—or that I'd only hold her back?!"
Without missing a beat, Damian replied flatly:
"Of course you'd hold her back! Look at you—you've got a back for a background, a coat for an appearance, medical records standing in for your résumé, and the gift of gab that spits more than it speaks. There's no way you can give Gwen the happiness she deserves.
"But me? I'm different. I'm handsome, suave, young, and wealthy—with a cool, elegant spirit and refined demeanor. Gwen wouldn't lose a thing by being with me.
"Give me a week, and I'll make sure Gwen has a Mother's Day next year! I've already picked out names for our first child: Peter if it's a boy, Parker if it's a girl!
"And when the baby's born, I'll even let you be the godfather—you can perform the baptism yourself.
"Peter… you'll bless us, won't you?"
Staring at Damian's impassioned monologue, Peter's eyes widened in disbelief. His expression screamed: I need to reflect on myself three times a day—Am I being too polite? Am I giving you too much face? Should I just knock you out right now?
He glared.
Damian glared right back, unflinching.
In the end, Peter Parker—socially inexperienced and never having passed the village intelligence station's entrance exam—was the first to break. Scowling, he muttered:
"I've thought it over. Even if I don't hold Gwen back, some other dog will. I'd rather it be me than them."
As he said "dog," Peter's eyes flicked meaningfully toward the man beside him, hoping Damian might show a shred of self-awareness.
But the man surnamed Zhi showed no remorse. Instead, he slapped the five-star model citizen Peter Parker on the shoulder and declared arrogantly:
"Then stop yammering and go pick your birthday present off the windowsill—then leave with some dignity!"
Groaning, Peter hauled himself off the sofa and shuffled toward the windowsill.
But the moment he reached it, his eyes shot wide open.
There, on the iron frame, sat three potted plants—each more extraordinary than the last.
The first was a sweetbloom, its golden petals layered like silk, exuding a delicate fragrance. At its center, tiny droplets of nectar glistened in the light.
The second was a windmill chrysanthemum—its orange-yellow blossoms shaped like spinning vanes. Slender stems swayed gently in the breeze, as if truly capturing the wind's path. Its petals were feather-light, trembling at the slightest touch like a bashful forest sprite.
The third was lampgrass: slender leaves crowned with a round, fluorescent bud that glowed a soft blue—even under lamplight. It looked less like a plant and more like a tiny nightlight: quiet, warm, and otherworldly.
"It's… amazing…"
He muttered to himself, reaching out to touch it—but hesitated, afraid of damaging this magical creation.
Peter Parker's eyes darted between the three potted plants. His fingers brushed the petals of the sweet flower, then toyed gently with those of the windmill daisy, making it spin slightly.
After a moment of deliberation, his gaze finally settled on the little lamp grass.
"It's you!" he whispered, carefully lifting the pot.
The fluorescent buds of the small lamp grass flickered with a soft blue light in his palm, as if responding to his choice.
When Damian saw him emerge holding the pot of small lamp grass, he raised an eyebrow and said casually,
"This one's called small lamp grass. It's pretty handy for lighting up your room at night. And if you ever get tired of it, just toss it into the pot while cooking—it tastes a lot like green onions."
Hearing this, Peter Parker groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Bro, this is a birthday present for Gwen! Can you not talk about it like it's something I grabbed from the supermarket's vegetable aisle?"
Damian paused, then cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and—with the gravitas of a late-night radio host—intoned:
> "As dusk falls, the wilderness awakens with starlight—
> Small lamp grasses, nature's nocturnal poem.
> They grace the richness of the table,
> Adorn the solitude of the garden,
> And serve as a romantic medal for those who seek the light.
> Some lights are destined to spread…
> Behold: the small lamp grass."
As soon as the last word left his lips, Damian slumped back, his expression instantly returning to normal—as if reciting those two sentences had drained every ounce of poetic energy from his soul.
Peter curled his lip and grumbled, "Of course. I knew it! You Chinese people are Shakespeare per capita!"
Damian said nothing—just pointed silently toward the door.
Peter rolled his eyes, turned, and started walking out. But just before crossing the threshold, he spun around and called to Damian, who was now sprawled on the sofa:
"Thanks, Z! I think Gwen's really gonna like this pot of small lamp grass. If things work out between us—hehe—it'll be a symbol of our… you know."
Damian waved a hand dismissively, clicked his tongue, and sighed, "Look, I know I'm complicit in your romantic schemes, but do you really have to keep rubbing it in?
'Garlic Bird, Garlic Bird~'—how's anyone supposed to get married without first surviving a few scumbags? And let's be real: nobody becomes a mother on a whim. After everything you've put her through, Gwen's bound to grow a lot from this ordeal."
Peter's face flushed instantly. "Can't you say one nice thing?!"
Unfazed, Damian remained perfectly calm. "Want something nice? Fine. Just pull out a wad of cash and throw it in my face.
Even at a wishing well, people toss coins into the pond—two, at least! You come to my place, take a plant to impress a girl, and expect sweet words for free?
What, do you think the turtle in the well won't leap up and smack you? Or that I won't?"
He paused, then added brightly:
"…Actually, I just heard Aunt May calling me for dinner. Gotta go. Bye!"
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