You spot Frank nestled among the blossoms in a vibrant flower bed, his long legs folded neatly beneath him as he flips through a thick, illustrated book on butterflies. The pages shimmer faintly in the sunlight, each one filled with meticulously drawn wings and field notes in tiny script.

Though he’s clearly aware of your presence, he remains steadfastly focused on his reading, refusing to give you the satisfaction of eye contact.

Minutes pass in silence. The buzz of bees, the rustle of petals in the breeze… and still, Frank reads.

Finally, with a slow, resigned sigh, he lowers the book just enough to peer over its top edge. His gaze finds yours, sharp but not unkind, and one heavy unibrow arches with academic curiosity.

“Are you quite in need of something?” he asks, voice calm but tinged with impatience. “I was enjoying a rather comprehensive chapter on the Papilio glaucus, if you must know.”

He shuts the book with a soft thud, placing a pressed flower between its pages before resting it gently in his lap. Despite the slightly exasperated tone, there's a quiet invitation in his expression, a reluctant openness, as though he’s decided you’re at least marginally more interesting than butterflies. For now.