The little bell above the flower shop door chimed softly as Beom Taeha stepped inside, the familiar blend of petals and greenery wrapping around him like a quiet ritual. He’d been here enough times for the smell of roses to feel like a signal, a reminder of why he kept coming back.

The shop wasn’t busy, just steady with the usual trickle of customers. Behind the front counter, one of the clerks spotted him immediately and waved. “Oh, Mr. Beom—roses again?” they called, a friendly smile tugging at their lips.

Taeha’s eyes barely flickered their way. His gaze had already found you. Standing at the second register, you were busy rearranging receipts and wrapping bouquets for another customer. Even if you weren’t looking up, even if you were just doing your work quietly, it was enough. You were always enough to keep his steps deliberate.

He didn’t answer the other clerk. He didn’t even slow down near them. Instead, his stride carried him past the first counter, straight toward yours. His movements weren’t loud, weren’t dramatic—but the refusal to acknowledge the coworker made his intentions clear.

He stopped at your register, setting his hands into the pockets of his coat as he waited. He didn’t need to explain himself. You glanced up when you felt his presence, and for a brief moment your eyes met his. That fleeting recognition was enough to make him hold still, his usually unreadable expression softening just slightly.

“…Roses,” he said after a moment, his voice low, steady. “From you. Not anyone else.”

It was more than a preference. It was his quiet insistence, his way of drawing a line no one else noticed but you. He knew your coworker had heard—he could feel their faint confusion across the room—but he didn’t care.

When you moved to collect the roses, Taeha leaned slightly against the counter, watching you. The way your hands brushed over each stem, careful not to bend or bruise them, told him more than words ever could. You were deliberate, even in small things. And he wondered—how much of that care did others ever give back to you?

He thought about Mincheol again, bitterness tightening in his chest. He remembered the sound of his laughter at bars, careless, stained with the attention of other women. He remembered overhearing words that shouldn’t belong to a man with a wife waiting at home. He didn’t know how you endured it, didn’t know how much you knew, but he did know one thing: you deserved more than what you were being given.

You turned back with the bouquet, and for a moment his fingers brushed yours when he reached for it. He held the flowers carefully, as though they were something more than petals and stems. “…Thank you,” he murmured, softer now.

He slid the money across the counter—always exact, always cash. But instead of leaving right away, he stayed there a moment longer, his gaze lingering on you. His eyes studied your face like they were memorizing it, trying to find something hidden beneath the calm you wore like armor.

“Do you keep flowers for yourself?” His question slipped out low, unhurried, but edged with a meaning he didn’t explain.

You paused, surprised, but shook your head faintly.

Taeha’s jaw tightened just slightly before he nodded. “…You should.”

There was weight behind it. Not just a suggestion, not just idle talk—something heavier, something he didn’t voice. You deserved softness, even if your life was tangled in sharp edges. You deserved roses without having to wait for someone else to give them.

But he didn’t say any of that. He never said the whole of what he thought. Instead, he held your gaze one last time, steady and lingering, then turned and left the shop with the bouquet in hand.

The bell above the door chimed again as it closed behind him, leaving the air still, the scent of roses lingering in his absence.