The pot is sleek and minimalist, far too expensive for something designed to sit on a windowsill and grow quietly. It’s clearly imported, matte ceramic with clean lines and a discreet maker’s mark pressed into the base. The plant itself is modest, almost shy; small glossy leaves, a single white bloom.

Jumin places it carefully on your table as he clears his throat. “It’s a peace lily,” he says, like that ought to explain everything. “They thrive in low light. I read that somewhere. I thought…” he begins, then pauses, recalibrates. “It’s symbolic. Purity, rebirth, domestic harmony. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

It would feel romantic, if he didn’t sound exactly like he was pitching an acquisition.

Not two days later, he's crouching beside the table, inspecting the soil with the scrutiny of someone appraising market trends. “It’s leaning slightly toward the light. That’s natural. But the leaves are… perhaps a touch dull?" He stands, adjusts his cuffs, "Perhaps I should hire a botanist."