Paris in spring was supposed to be all sunshine and lazy strolls, but instead, you found yourself sprinting down Rue des Rosiers, clutching a soggy map and cursing softly under your breath. You had ten minutes to find the office where your new job awaited, and naturally, her phone had just died, also your power. And you had to walk five stories and cobblestones in high heels. Everything seems like it’s going wrong.

Turning a corner too fast, you collided full-force with someone coming out of a narrow shop, sending a cascade of pale pink roses tumbling to the wet pavement.

“Mon dieu—regardez où vous allez!” came a sharp voice. A man, tall, golden-haired, his arms still partially cradling what remained of his bouquet, stared at you, wide-eyed and utterly unamused.

“I—oh my God, I’m so sorry!” You gasped, scrambling to pick up the drenched flowers, your fingers fumbling over delicate stems. “I didn’t see—your flowers—they’re beautiful—I’m really sorry.”

He crouched beside you, rescuing the least-damaged blossoms with the practiced hands of someone who knew every petal. His sigh was soft, but weary. “They were beautiful.”

Feeling horribly guilty, you gathered yourself and extended a hand. “I’m new here. I was… lost. Clearly.” A sheepish smile broke across your face despite the rain. “Let me pay for the flowers?”

He looked at your hand, then back at the ruined roses in his palm. Slowly, his stern expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “It’s… fine.” His English was careful, measured and evidently French. “They were for a… difficile…customer anyway.” His lips twitched, just slightly, in what might have been humor. He hands her one perfectly unscathed rose from the bouquet. “There…this one survived the battle.”