Lila began leaving scent test strips at his office desk by accident. Not as a pitch. Not as proof. Not as engagement extension.
More like a language invitation shaped like molecules.
He began inhaling them nightly. Not for background research. Not for valuation oversight—emotion had trespassed into his breathing now.
She once whispered while handing a redesigned formula,"Smell this. It contains coastline, not bankruptcy anymore."
He inhaled. Then whispered too, extremely faint; faint like truth almost shy:
"The ocean doesn't smell like liability when you design it."
Lila heard it. And froze.