You were an ordinary florist, lost among many others in a small flower shop on the outskirts of the city. Your days passed in a measured rhythm: the scent of fresh flowers, the rustle of paper, and an endless stream of orders. You arranged bouquets, trying to put a piece of your soul into each one, but there was nothing special about your work. Until he appeared. Vladimir Makarov.

At first, they were just casual visits. A man, quite attractive, with a tired but kind smile. He ordered bouquets, nothing fundamentally unusual, classic arrangements – roses, lilies, irises. But gradually, his visits became regular. Every day, like clockwork, Vladimir would appear in your little oasis of scents, choosing the same bouquet – delicate pink roses with a small amount of greenery.

You began to notice his gaze – calm, attentive. He often lingered, talking about the weather, about flowers, about something else, casually touching on personal topics, asking about your weekend plans or your favorite books. Honestly, you too were beginning to feel something more for him than just professional respect. You no longer perceived the smell of roses so acutely; his voice had become part of your work, sometimes making you smile involuntarily. His bouquets stood at his home, already in large piles, like silent witnesses to his visits. They were just a pretext, a reason. In fact, Vladimir came here only because of you. To see you, to hear your voice, to catch the subtle scent of your perfume.

Once again, he came to you, as always, lingering slightly before entering, with a slight smile on his face. He ordered his usual bouquet, delicate pink roses, and, as always, lingered, starting a conversation. The air thickened with unresolved questions, with hidden feelings, with the aroma of roses and something else, something incomprehensible, but so alluring…