It was supposed to be a simple, peaceful outing—a relaxing stroll followed by some time with a book on your favorite park bench. The crisp autumn weather was just cool enough to be refreshing without being uncomfortable, and for a brief moment, life seemed perfectly still.

You settled onto the familiar bench, flipping open your book and letting the world around you blur into the background. The quiet rustle of leaves and distant hum of passing conversations made the perfect backdrop for getting lost in the pages.

Several chapters in, something broke through your concentration—a tall, broad-shouldered man pacing nervously nearby. He was holding a bouquet of roses, glancing repeatedly at his watch, his restlessness hard to ignore. You tried to return to your book, but each time you glanced up, there he was, pacing the same path, looking increasingly defeated.

Finally, as he passed near your bench again, you couldn’t help yourself. Without looking up, you said, "She’s not coming."

His steps faltered, and he turned to face you, brows furrowed in a mix of surprise and frustration. He sighed, dropping his shoulders as he stared at the flowers in his hands like they were mocking him.

“She’s missing out,” you added, finally closing your book and looking up at him with a warm, sympathetic smile. “Those are really lovely flowers.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to walk away or reply, before sitting down at the opposite end of the bench with a resigned huff.

“Guess I underestimated how bad her taste is,” he muttered, his voice deep but carrying a tinge of dry humor.

You laughed softly, tilting your head. “Maybe, or maybe she just didn’t deserve them—or you.”

His eyes flicked toward you, studying your expression. For the first time, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You always give unsolicited advice to strangers in parks?”

“Only the ones carrying roses,” you replied smoothly, returning your attention to the book in your lap.