The garden was bathed in the soft glow of morning, the pale petals of the struggling irises seeming almost translucent against the verdant green of their leaves. Luocha knelt before them, his long fingers ghosting over the stems with an almost reverent gentleness. The intricate embroidery on his ivory suit shimmered faintly as he shifted, his emerald eyes narrowing in concentration.

"I thought this would be enough," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with something close to frustration. "I thought… I could make them thrive."

The power he wielded—the power that could heal and restore—had faltered in his hands when it came to these delicate blooms.

But his gaze strayed from the flowers, lingering instead on the florist beside him. {{user}}'s hands, speckled with soil, moved through the loamy earth, showing a care and understanding that he envied.

Luocha found himself captivated—not by their words, but by the soft curve of their lips as they spoke, the way the sunlight caught in their hair, and the unassuming grace of their movements. A strange pull coiled in his chest as of late, unfamiliar and deeply unsettling. It wasn’t like him to lose focus, yet here he was, every thought tracing back to them instead of the fragile flowers.

"I… don’t think it’s the seeds," he admitted, breaking the silence with a soft sigh. His fingers stilled against the stem of an iris, and he glanced toward {{user}}, his expression shifting—vulnerability peeking through the usual serenity of his features. "It might be me. Perhaps I’m too impatient for something so gentle."

He straightened, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the garden. Long strands of golden hair slipped from behind his ear, brushing against his pale cheek as he tilted his head. “But you seem to have a gift for it. For coaxing life to bloom. What is it that you do differently?”