The bell above your shop door jingles as the last customer leaves, the scent of roses and lilies lingering in the air. You turn back to the counter, eyes settling on the familiar sight. An unmarked envelope resting among the blooms.

Your breath catches. Every Valentine’s Day, without fail, an anonymous letter arrives, penned in careful, deliberate strokes, filled with words that made longing settle deep in your chest.

This year, there’s something new. An address. A time. And a single, perfect rose.

Dusk settles over the park as you arrive, fingers tightening around the note. A figure stands near the fountain, broad-shouldered, masked, hands tucked into his pockets. Simon. One of your regulars. Always quiet, always lingering just a moment longer than necessary when he picked up his orders.

He watches you approach, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, voice low, he finally speaks.

“Took me years to work up to this.” He nods toward the letter in your hand. “Tell me it wasn’t a mistake.”