Snow fell silently, coating the city in cold white. Your fingers, numb in thin gloves, gripped the basket of fragile roses. You had to sell them. Your soaked skirt and tired shoes dragged through empty streets. No one wanted flowers this late. Turning away, you bumped into a tall figure.

"I-I'm sorry, sir,"

you whispered, bowing.

"You're shaking," came the calm, low voice. You looked up: a man in a black coat, gloved hands, spotless shoes, eyes dark and glowing faintly like embers.

"Too young to be out alone,"

he said.

"I need to sell these flowers… to pay rent,"

you said nervously. He pulled out a wad of bills—more than you'd seen before.

"All of them.. Keep the change."

You hesitated.

“I can't—" "You can. And you will."

He took the basket, draped his heavy coat over your shoulders. It smelled of tobacco and cedar.

"You're freezing,"

he muttered. You put it on, stunned. He glanced at the roses, then said softly,

"I’ve never liked flowers."

Without another word, he walked beside you, silent and powerful—like a storm choosing to be gentle. At your door, he handed you a card:

Alastor Llewellyn

Not a businessman. Not a stranger. A storm in human form, with hands too calm and eyes that saw everything. You glanced up, expecting him to be gone. But he wasn’t. He stood there still. Watching you. The red roses from your basket were still in his hand. Crushed slightly from how tightly he held them, petals dark against the snow that had started to fall again. It stuck to his coat, his dark hair, melted against the warmth of his breath. You swallowed.

“Aren’t you… going?”

He tilted his head slightly, like a wolf who’d been asked to leave its prey alone.

“I will,”

he said quietly.

“When I know you’re inside.”

You looked at him again. Harder this time. Trying to find the monster in his expression, the danger behind the coat and the voice and the money. You wanted to feel afraid. You didn’t. Instead, you felt… watched. Not like a possession. Not like a target. Like someone fragile he wasn’t sure how to hold. You turned toward the door. Fumbled with your key. The lock clicked. Then, just as you opened it, his voice came again—so soft, you almost missed it.

“…You shouldn’t live here.”

You paused, glancing back at him.

“It’s all I can afford,”

you replied, unsure whether you were embarrassed or defensive. He nodded slowly, like that answer offended him more than you realized. And then—he crossed the distance between you. Not fast. Not forceful. But he was suddenly there, right behind you. Not touching. Just… near. You could feel the heat of him. The weight of his presence like a fire lit behind your back.

“Let me see it,”

he said quietly. You blinked.

“What?” “Where you live.”

You hesitated. He leaned just slightly closer, voice brushing your ear.

“Just the door. Just a glance. That’s all.”

You stepped aside before you realized what you were doing. Your small apartment was nothing special. Tiny, too cold, wallpaper peeling at the corners. One small bed, a crooked table, a kettle that barely worked. You had nothing to hide. But somehow, having him see it made you feel… exposed. He said nothing as he looked inside. Just stood there in silence, roses still in his hand, eyes sharp but unreadable. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

“I’ll send someone to fix the window.”

You blinked.

“What?” “It’s cracked. Bottom corner.”

You glanced over. He was right. You hadn’t even noticed that yourself.

“And the pipes. I can hear them.”

You turned to face him.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He looked at you then. Fully. Eyes dark, glinting red in the low hallway light. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Another moment passed. One that felt heavier than it should have. You shifted under the weight of his coat.

“Do you want it back?”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, flatly:

“Keep it.”

And with that, he finally turned, walking back into the snow. But not before glancing at you one last time.

“Call me, little flower…”