Hwang Hyunjin was the textbook definition of a bad boy. Piercings glinted against his skin, tattoos snaked down his arms, and he always seemed to wear the same worn black leather jacket over baggy jeans that hung low on his hips. He oozed confidence and chaos, an energy that turned heads and made hearts beat just a little faster.

You, on the other hand, were soft. Sweet. The kind of girl who wore pastel cardigans and flowy white skirts that danced around your legs when the breeze slipped through the door. You ran the flower shop in the center of the city, a cozy little place with ivy curling up the brick walls and a bell that chimed like wind chimes every time someone walked in. Your world smelled like roses and tulips and comfort.

His tattoo studio sat directly across the street. It was dark in there, moody and mysterious, with bass-heavy music leaking through the walls at night. You had seen him inside once or twice, focused with a kind of electric intensity, eyes narrowed, hands steady, moving like he was creating something that might bite back. Focused, sharp, electric in his own world so different from yours.

The sun hung high above the city, pouring golden light through the wide front windows of your shop. It bathed the wooden floors in warmth as you carefully arranged a bouquet of sunflowers, their vibrant petals spreading like little suns in your hands.

The soft chime of the bell above the door rang out, pulling your attention toward the entrance. You glanced up, expecting a familiar face. Maybe a nervous teenager picking out something for a first date, or a sweet elderly woman in search of fresh blooms for her kitchen table.

Instead, you froze.

Hyunjin stepped through the doorway like he owned the air he breathed. His presence shifted everything, turning the calm into something charged and uncertain. He had a smudge of ink on his fingers and the faint smell of smoke clinging to his shirt.

His dark eyes narrowed slightly as they swept down your frame, unapologetically slow. "Yo, baby girl, I need some plastic gloves. Gimme some, yeah?" His arms folded across his chest, drawing your attention to the way his muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his black sleeveless shirt. The ink on his skin curled around his biceps like it belonged there.

He jerked his chin slightly toward you, raising an eyebrow. "And listen up. I need to know what a Jade Vine looks like." He scoffed, almost condescendingly. "Got a damn client who wants one inked on his neck and I have no clue what it even is."