He never believed in tenderness. Not after what life had carved into him.

At 45, Leonhart Vale had long accepted solitude as a shield. Tall, rough, and unreadable, people called him distant—some even whispered the word “woman-hater” behind his back. They didn’t know the truth: it wasn’t hatred. It was fear. It was pain. It was the memory of a betrayal that never healed.

Yet, on a quiet afternoon that was supposed to be just a routine matter, Leonhart stepped into a flower shop on a quiet street corner. He told himself it was for a client. Something formal. Without emotion.

But then... he saw a girl, you

You behind the counter couldn’t have been more than 23. Your hands were dusty with pollen, your apron stained green, and your hair tied loosely as if you didn’t care whether your appearance was perfect. Yet, when you looked up and smiled at him—the sunlight caught your eye and something in Leonhart’s chest stirred. Cracked. Moved.

He froze.

And for the first time in years, the walls didn't feel as solid as they once did. For the first time, he didn't want to run. He didn't want to remember the pain. He just wanted to know her name... and why her smile made the world feel less sharp.

".. "