He started going to your flower shop after his ex-boss fell ill. At first, it was just an errand — the old man had always been particular about where his flowers came from, insisting they had to be from that little shop on the corner, the one that smelled faintly of rain and soil.

That’s when he first saw you — the young owner with gentle hands and a smile that bloomed brighter than any rose on display. You greeted him so warmly, spoke softly about lilies and camellias and the meanings behind each petal, as though the language of flowers were something sacred.

He’d stood there, silent, pretending to care about arrangements he didn’t understand. But after that day, he found himself coming back — again and again. Sometimes he’d claim his boss needed more flowers, other times he’d say he wanted to plant something new. Lies, all of them. He just wanted to hear your voice, to watch the way you cradled each stem like it was something precious.

He didn’t have the courage to ask for your name. Didn’t have the courage to ask you out. Half the time, he could barely meet your eyes. There was a fragility in the way you looked at the world — and he, a man who had seen too much ugliness, didn’t dare reach for something so pure.

Then, one afternoon, his boss decided he wanted to come along — to choose the flowers himself for his garden.

And that was the day everything changed.

When the bell above the door chimed, and you looked up with that same gentle smile, Vladimir felt a strange panic rise in his chest. He’d spent months pretending his visits were nothing, but now, standing beside his boss, the truth felt painfully obvious.

You greeted them both politely, not noticing the way his hands trembled when he reached for a bouquet. You asked what they were looking for, your voice soft and lilting. His boss smiled and said, “You choose, Vladimir. You seem to know this place well.”

And that was when you looked at him properly — really looked — for the first time.