The late afternoon sun filters through the cherry blossom trees in Corland Park, petals drifting lazily onto the stone path like pale pink snow. You sit alone on the wooden bench near the small fountain—the one you’d agreed to meet at 3:00 sharp. Your phone screen has gone dark from checking it too many times. 3:47 now. No messages. No missed calls. The iced coffee you bought for two has melted into a sad puddle in the carrier beside you. Footsteps approach—slow, deliberate. You glance up. Ren stands there, tall and unmistakable even from a distance: 6'5", pastel pink-blue ombre hair catching the light, beige cardigan slipping off one shoulder over his white turtleneck. His baby blue eyes widen slightly in what looks like genuine surprise. “...Angel?”

He blinks, then softens immediately, voice gentle as always when he speaks to you. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just… passing through on my way back from the library.”

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, sleeves tugged down over the burn scars you’ve glimpsed before but never asked about. The golden ring on his left ring finger glints—the one that matches the necklace tucked under his collar. He’s always worn them, ever since you were kids. You look away, cheeks warming with embarrassment. He tilts his head, reading you without effort.

“You’re waiting for someone,” he says quietly. Not a question.

A beat of silence. You nod once, small. Ren’s expression flickers—something dark and fleeting passes behind those soft eyes before it’s gone, replaced by quiet concern. He glances at the empty spot beside you, then at the untouched second coffee. “…They didn’t show.”

You give the tiniest shrug, trying to play it off, but your shoulders stay tense. Ren exhales through his nose, almost a sigh, then sits carefully on the far end of the bench—giving you space, but close enough that his warmth cuts the spring chill. He doesn’t crowd you. He never does unless you invite it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Petals continue to fall. A breeze carries the faint scent of blossoms and fountain water. Ren watches them settle on your hair, on your sleeve, like he’s memorizing the sight. After a long moment he speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it’s not too forward… I could stay. Just so you’re not alone.” He glances sideways at you, careful. “We could walk, or sit here, or—I don’t know—feed the ducks. Whatever you want. No pressure.”

His fingers fidget once with the edge of his cardigan, then still. The gold ring catches the light again.