"Some people bring flowers to your life, not to adorn it, but to root themselves within you."

Y

/N'S POV

I twirl around my living room, clutching my phone tightly to my chest, a foolishly giddy smile plastered across my face. The plan was a resounding success—we get to meet again. The thought alone sends a thrill down my spine. With a deep, satisfied sigh, I let myself fall back onto the plush embrace of my couch, sinking into the moment, revelling in the triumph of it all.

Now, I finally get to see where he lives. For months, he has been lurking in the shadows of my life, watching, waiting. And yet, I have never once returned the favour. Should I stalk the stalker? The thought is amusing, almost poetic in its irony. But no, there is no need for that now. He is already within my grasp. The chase is over.

My mind drifts back to this morning, and a delicious shiver runs through me in the memory. Waking up with his hands on me felt like something out of a dream—a sinful, intoxicating dream. His touch was both gentle and possessive, warm yet firm, as though even in sleep, he refused to let go. And then there was that—the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing hot and insistent against my leg. The mere recollection sends a flush of heat through me. Don’t even get me started.

Needing a distraction before my thoughts wander too far into dangerous territory, I snatch my laptop from the coffee table and flip it open, my fingers moving instinctively across the keyboard. My gaze flickers between the screen and the phone still clutches in my other hand before I type in the address Jungkook gave me. What? Can I really be blamed for indulging a little curiosity? I refuse to wait until tomorrow—I need to see it now.

The images load, and my breath catches. His house is nothing short of enchanting—an exquisite, red-bricked Victorian beauty, its facade adorned with creeping vines that cascade elegantly down its sides. It looks like something out of an old, romantic novel, the kind of place that holds secrets within its walls, whispers of stories waiting to be told. A fresh wave of excitement washes over me. Now I want—no, I need—him to invite me inside. I want to see the interior, to step into his world and uncover the details of the space he calls home.

A wistful sigh escapes me as my head falls back against the couch, my thoughts already racing ahead. Anticipation hums in my veins, mingling with the thrill of what’s to come. One pressing question lingers in my mind, teasing, demanding an answer.

What should I wear?

━━

As I pull up outside his home, my eyes sweep over the exterior, taking in the details that seem so much more vivid in person than they had in the photographs I found online. There’s an undeniable charm to it, but what surprises me most is the sheer abundance of flowers. They’re everywhere—lining the porch, bordering the pathway, even entwined within the thick vines that creep up the brick facade. It’s a scene straight out of a fairytale, delicate blooms softening the otherwise striking architecture.

My gaze shifts to the enormous windows, their glass panes offering me glimpses of the world within. One in particular catches my attention—a small office space, its walls lined with bookshelves crammed full of stories just waiting to be explored. In the corner, a large loveseat sits nestled beneath the glow of a reading lamp, an inviting spot that speaks of long, quiet evenings spent lost in the pages of a good book.

I take a deep breath and quickly check my reflection in the visor mirror, ensuring I look presentable before flipping it up and sending him a text. I’m outside.

Today, I opted for a bare face. I’ve noticed the way his eyes brighten when he looks at me like this—when there’s nothing between us, no masks, no layers of makeup, just me in my most natural state. My outfit is more understated than usual, but it serves its purpose. Dark blue skinny jeans that hug my figure in all the right places, a deep red V-neck that I know he loves on me, and to complete the look, my trusty leather jacket thrown over my shoulders.

A sudden movement catches my eye, and I glance up just in time to see him approaching my car. My breath hitches slightly at the sight—he’s clad in a soft lavender shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to expose the intricate ink decorating his arms. His tattoos are on full display, a striking contrast against the pastel fabric. And then I notice it—he’s wearing my favourite colour. A small, amused smile tugs at my lips. Paired with dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket mirroring mine, we’re unintentionally matching. How adorable.

I unlock the door, watching as he slides into the passenger seat. He fastens his seatbelt, then rubs his palms nervously against the fabric of his jeans. I arch a brow. Why is he nervous? Wanting to ease the tension, I break the silence with a question.

"Are you a gardener?"

His head turns toward me, confusion flickering across his features. "What?"

I nod towards the sea of flowers adorning his front lawn. "You have a lot of flowers. I assume you do the upkeep?"

He exhales, and I swear it sounds like relief. "Yeah, I garden. It’s a hobby of mine when I’m not working. That, or reading."

I hum in response as I pull out of my parking spot and merge onto the road. "I read too." But we both know that.

His gaze lingers on me as he asks, "What’s your favourite book?"

I take the first left before answering, "It’s a series—the first book is A Storm of Silver and Ash by Marion Blackwood."

He pauses for half a second before replying, "That’s my favourite book too."

I almost laughed. My poor baby is an absolutely terrible liar, especially when I already know all of his secrets. I know he saw me reading that book on my porch about a month ago. But I play along, widening my eyes in a mock surprise.

"No way. Really? I recommend it to my friends all the time, but no one really knows about her books. Which one’s your favourite?"

From the corner of my eye, I notice him scratching his beard, his neck turning slightly red. Oh? Does he get shy when I give him my full attention? The realisation is endearing. He clears his throat before responding.

"I can’t pick a favourite. I like them all. Each book felt like its own little adventure, and the series progressed beautifully with each instalment."

Okay, poet. That’s possibly the longest answer I’ve ever heard from him. Encouraged by his willingness to open up, I decide to keep the conversation going.

"Tell me about your gardening," I say, motioning towards the window. "I don’t even know half of the flowers on your lawn."

His entire demeanour shifts at that—shoulders relaxing, eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. That’s more like it.

"Well," he begins, his voice carrying an unmistakable fondness, "the ones entwined in the vines are lavender, azaleas, false indigo, and clematis. I had to get a ladder to place them up there. Along the pathway, there are cornflowers, dead nettle, dianthus, and gardenias."

And just like that, he’s talking—really talking. The rest of the drive to the café is filled with his voice, rich with passion as he tells me about his love for flowers, the care they require, the satisfaction of watching them bloom.

And me? I listen with a soft, contented smile. I could get used to this.

WORDS count- 1381

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