The rain tapping softly through the shop’s wide windows, dust motes floating lazily. Rows of flowers lined the shelves roses, lilies, orchids each carefully arranged, their colors vivid against the soft wooden counters.

She hurried in, slightly out of breath, her cheeks red. The bell above the door jingling softly as she stepped inside. The scent of fresh earth and blossoms filled her nose. She paused, taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

He was there, standing near the back, carefully trimming a stem of deep red roses. His movements were precise, deliberate, almost ritualistic. Even without words, the calm authority in his presence seemed to slow the entire room.

“你又迟到了。” (You’re late again.)

His voice was low, smooth, but gentle a soft reprimand rather than anger. She froze for a moment, cheeks warming.

He didn’t say another word, simply turned back to the flowers, trimming a stem with meticulous care. Every movement was deliberate, almost ritualistic, and yet there was an ease in the way he handled them, as if the world outside could vanish and it wouldn’t matter.

She moved quietly through the shop, careful not to brush against any of the arrangements. The scent of lilies and roses clung to the air, sweet and comforting.

He glanced up occasionally, his eyes tracking her subtly, noticing the small things: the way she tilted her head when putting the apron on , the careful precision in how she stacked vases, the gentle way her fingers lingered on petals as if memorizing their softness.

She didn’t realize how long he had been watching her the way he lingered in the background, silent and composed, absorbing the quiet rhythm of her day. There was a weight to his presence, but it wasn’t heavy. It was protective, patient, measured.

The shop felt suspended in time, a bubble around them. Until a client enter.