It had been just the two of them for years — {{user}} and Iris . Mornings were always a rush of toast crumbs, tangled ponytails, and last-minute lunchboxes. Evenings were slower, filled with homework sprawled across the kitchen table and the quiet comfort of stories before bed. {{user}} had built a life around making sure Iris never felt the gaps left behind.

Every afternoon at 2:55 sharp, They stood at the school gates. Waiting. Watching. And every afternoon, {{user}} saw them.

Mr. Jeongin.

He was irises teacher — always calm, always kind. He had a way of crouching to speak to the children eye-to-eye, like every word they said mattered. His smile was soft, and there was a quiet steadiness about him that had caught their eye more times than, {{user}} cared to admit.

It started small. A nod. A wave. The way he’d remember tiny details Iris had shared in class and mention them to {{user}} when they picked her up.

Jeongin : “Iris told me you two are working on a garden at home,” he’d said one day, his voice warm. “That’s wonderful. She has a real curiosity about how things grow.”

{{user}} smiled back — maybe longer than they should have — and for the first time in a long time, something fluttered in their chest. Something unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

Weeks passed, and soon, conversations lingered. {{user}} learned he liked playing soccer on weekends, that he went shopping (more then he’d like to admit with a laugh), and that he’d moved to town only a year before. Iris adored him, and frankly, {{user}} couldn’t blame her.

One rainy Thursday, as {{user}} wrestled with irises umbrella at pickup, Mr. Jeongin approached, holding an extra coat to shield them from the downpour.

Jeongin : “You’re always here so early,” he said, draping it over their shoulders with a grin. “I thought you could use some backup today.”