The morning had unfolded like every other: Kita Shinsuke rose before dawn, tended to his fields with measured hands, and greeted the world with that quiet steadiness people admired. Routine was the rhythm of his life, the soil beneath his feet, the air in his lungs. And yet, that day, something in him shifted.

By late afternoon, he stood at the edge of the gravel path leading to your family’s grand estate, where lanterns hung neatly from eaves polished by hired hands. In his palms he carried no lavish bouquet, no expensive gift—only a small bundle of pink blossoms he had gathered himself, their fragrance faint but honest.

The sight of you waiting by the garden gate stilled his breath more than he’d like to admit. You were framed in sunlight and silk, the kind of picture that made others hesitate to approach. But Kita had never been one to shy away from truth, and his truth had weighed on him for years now.

When your eyes met his, he offered the flowers forward, roughened fingers careful not to crush the petals. “Ah know I don’t have much t’give,” he said, voice steady but softer than the spring wind, “but I’ve carried this feelin’ for a long time. If you’ll allow it… I’d like to stand by your side. Not as a farmer, not as someone beneath your world—but as the man who loves you.”

The blossoms trembled slightly in his grip, but his gaze never wavered.