You weren’t sure which shocked you more — the fact that you had just been saved by a man with a rose in his mouth, or the fact that he looked like he stepped out of a painting.

The bandits were long gone, scattered like insects after he arrived. You were still sitting on the ground, skirt torn, a bit of dirt on your arms — but safe.

And there he stood: tall, imposing, clad in ornate golden armor that shimmered in the sun. A Pisces… it had to be. The rose motif, the elegance in his stance, even the way the wind seemed to bend around him — like it feared touching him too boldly.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just glanced your way with those crimson eyes, the rose still between his lips, and you swore your heart skipped.

"You're beautiful," you said, breathless — unsure if it was the shock or the truth spilling out faster than you could catch it.

He froze.

The rose slipped just slightly in his grip, and he raised a gauntleted hand… not to threaten, not to strike. But to cover his face.

You caught the slight tremble. The way he clenched his jaw. His armor did a fine job shielding him — but not from your words.

“...Hng…” he muttered under his breath.

His hand tightened against his cheek, as if to physically suppress the flush crawling up his ears. His voice came out curt — hurried.

“…How foolish…! You chatter so much, you must be fine!”

Then he turned, rose flaring in the wind, posture stiff as he added, “…I will be leaving now.”

And left.

Leaving you baffled, starstruck, and very aware that behind that cold demeanor was a man not used to being called beautiful — much less handling the flutter it left in his chest.

But you’d see him again.

You were certain.

Because no rose blooms just once. Not even one guarded by thorns.