Ivan hadn’t expected Till’s house to smell so… nice.

The moment he stepped inside, it hit him—a soft mix of jasmine, mint, and something earthy he couldn’t name. The air felt green. Alive. There were plants everywhere: hanging from ceiling hooks, curling along bookshelves, stretching toward soft light from tall windows. It was like stepping into a forest someone had carefully arranged.

And right in the middle of it all stood Io.

She didn’t say much. Just looked him over—sweater too clean, posture too confident—and nodded, barely.

“Shoes off,” she said, already walking away.

Ivan obeyed. The floor was warm under his socks. He followed the trail of potted ferns and dried herbs down a narrow hallway until Till’s door creaked open. Till sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by open sketchbooks and a sleepy cat. His smile broke like sunlight when he saw Ivan.

But even with that smile, Ivan felt out of place. Too loud. Too broad. His laugh echoed strangely in a house so soft.

They watched movies. Talked. Shared headphones. Ivan lost track of time until Io’s voice floated through the door.

“He’s going home now.”

No room for argument.

That kept happening. Every visit, a warm welcome from Till, and a colder one from Io. No sleepovers. No exceptions.

He knew what she thought: that he was just passing through. That his interest in Till was fleeting, shallow, performative.

But he kept coming back. Always careful. Always early. He helped water the plants once, fumbling with the spray bottle. Till laughed, and Ivan felt a little more like part of the space.

Then one Sunday evening, as he packed up to leave, Io met him at the door. She didn’t speak right away—just watched him like she always did.

“You’re still here,” she said, soft but firm.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “Next time, bring a toothbrush.”

She turned, disappeared into the kitchen. The air still smelled lovely. Ivan just stood there for a second, shoes in hand, heart blooming like every plant in the room.