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Eliot's POV*
The annoying alarm buzzed beside my pillow. I groaned, stretched lazily, and squinted at the time. *7:00 AM.*
The sky outside my small window was beautifully clear. No clouds. No rain. Just light. I muttered a short prayer—my daily ritual—and slid out of bed.
My room might be small, but I made it mine. Soft beige walls, a shelf of pressed flowers, and twinkling fairy lights I strung around the corners. It wasn't much, but it felt safe… cozy. My taste? Well, I liked soft things, gentle colors, anything that made me forget how harsh the world could be. Especially for someone like me.
I'm an orphan.
I turned 18 last year, and like they always said, "You're grown now. You can handle life." So, they let me go. Alone. If it weren't for Sister Miriam, one of the few kind souls in that orphanage, I wouldn't even have this job. She helped me get a position at the flower shop.
That was three months ago. And I've grown to love it. The scent, the colors, the delicate nature of flowers… it all felt like healing.
I'm not muscular like most guys. In fact, I'm slender, a little on the soft side, but somehow, I still catch eyes when I walk. Maybe it's the dimples. Or maybe people don't expect boys to love flowers.
After my bath, I threw on a cream turtleneck tucked into slim, dark jeans with my usual light brown cardigan over it. My black curly hair was still slightly damp, but it framed my face just right today. I looked decent. Hopefully, enough to not get mistaken for a lost high schooler.
I shuffled to my small kitchen and grabbed my leftover bacon and eggs from yesterday. Microwaved it while humming an old tune. It wasn't fancy, but it filled me.
By the time I was done, it was already *7:35 AM.*
I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and whispered to myself:
"Another day, another flower."
If only I knew whose path I'd be crossing again.
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I got to work at exactly *7:55 AM.*
The moment I stepped into the shop, the familiar scent of roses, lavender, and fresh soil welcomed me like an old friend. The cool air mixed with the soft classical music playing in the background—it was my little heaven on Earth.
The shop, *Flora & Bloom*, was owned by Mrs. Flora. The kindest soul I've ever met.
She was in her late 60s, with silvery hair always tied in a low bun and soft blue eyes that always seemed a little sad, but warm. She lost both her husband and only son in a car crash years ago, yet somehow, she still carried gentleness like perfume. She once told me, *"You remind me of my son… especially your eyes."*
Since then, she's given me some of her son's belongings. A jacket, a wristwatch, even a tiny notebook filled with pressed petals. It meant a lot. No one's ever trusted me that deeply before.
I spotted her trying to clean one of the tables near the entrance, her back bent uncomfortably.
I rushed over.
"Bring it, Mrs. Flora, let me help you," I said, gently taking the cloth from her.
She turned and smiled, eyes twinkling.
"And good morning to you too, Eliot," she teased.
I laughed. "Good morning, Mrs. Flora."
She patted my arm and disappeared into her office like she always did. I never asked what she did in there. She made it clear from the beginning: *"Never come in without my permission."* And I respected that.
I finished the cleaning quickly—arranging the vases, misting the petals, opening the front blinds to let in sunlight—and then settled behind the counter.
The bell above the door jingled faintly as a breeze passed through.
Another day.
I thought it'd be just flowers and calm smiles.
I had no idea destiny would be knocking soon. Again.
*12:30 PM.*
The sun was bright outside, casting golden patches through the glass windows. Business had been surprisingly good today—I'd sold multiple bouquets already. I was humming to myself, carefully arranging a few tulip stems back into their original positions, when the bell above the door jingled again.
A girl walked in.
No—*floated in,* more like it.
She was young, bold, dressed in a short black top and ripped jeans with glasses perched on her head like a crown. She walked like she owned the world, scanning every bouquet like she had a mission… or maybe just really good taste.
She had this mischievous grin as she leaned over the roses. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked up to her.
"Looking for something in particular?" I asked with a friendly smile.
She turned to me and raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. I'm choosing flowers for a picky man."
I laughed. "That sounds like a challenge."
We kept talking, joking about what flower screams *"dangerous yet emotionally unavailable."* I liked her energy. It was easy, fun. She had a loud laugh that filled the shop.
Then—*the air shifted.*
The bell chimed again.
Someone walked in.
I didn't look up at first… but I felt it. A heavy, dark presence. Eyes burning into me. Not in a creepy way, no. In a way that made my spine straighten, my fingers freeze over the petals.
Then he came closer. I could feel it—the scent of strong cologne, leather, power. He didn't walk. He *commanded* the room.
He tapped the girl in front of me.
She turned, almost too quickly. "Oh! Sorry, Luciano. I didn't realize you were here already."
*Luciano?*
I slowly lifted my eyes, cautiously, like if I looked too fast I might miss something... or break.
Our eyes met.
Holy.
God.
It should be illegal to look like that.
Tall, cold, striking. Eyes that looked straight into your soul. His black suit fit him like it was sewn on him, tailored to command fear and attention. His jaw was sharp, his lips full but unsmiling. His expression? Blank. Mysterious. Dangerous.
I blinked.
Then he spoke.
His voice—*low, calm, and dark*—sent shivers down my spine.
"Then you pick one for me," he said.
It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. Or at least I hoped so.
My fingers shook slightly as I picked out a bouquet of lilies and baby's breath, trying not to let my eyes linger on him too long.
I felt his gaze on my back the whole time.
When I turned to hand over the flowers, our eyes met again, just for a second.
That second was enough.
My heart was pounding so loud I thought he could hear it.
I tried to keep my smile steady. I *wanted* him to smile back. Just once. But his face remained unreadable—calm and cold like the ocean before a storm.
They paid.
They left.
And the air in the room felt… emptier.
I stood there for a moment, holding the edge of the counter, wondering what just happened.
*Who was he really?*