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Wise, a part-time florist who worked with Orchidea as an assistant in her Dew Gardening shop, always enjoyed tending to the flowers and planning, preparing, and gifting customer bouquets. He loved seeing their happy expressions when they received them and their eagerness when it was their special someone they would be gifting to.
But when it came to the experience of receiving flowers from others, the silver-haired young man didn’t have anything to remember. He was just an ordinary worker with a wonderful lady boss who understood how to balance his studies, care for his sister, and work. Mostly, he was an average introvert, and no one would take notice of him.
Belle often pouted in annoyance at her brother, saying he should consider dressing up nicely and heading outside to socialize like a normal person instead of locking up in his room to complete his university coding projects.
He would only laugh it off, ruffling her hair and promising, “Maybe next time, Belle.”
In truth, Wise didn’t mind the quiet. His world was small, but it was full of things he cared about—his studies, his part-time work at Dew Gardening, the soft rustle of petals between his fingers, the comforting smell of fresh soil and morning dew.
Love, attention, grand gestures… Those things were for other people. People were brighter, louder, and more noticeable. Not for someone like him, who was more at home speaking the language of flowers than the language of people.
Still, sometimes—especially when he wrapped a bouquet of lavender and forget-me-nots for a blushing customer—there was a tiny ache in his chest. A small, quiet wish.
What would it feel like? To be on the receiving end of a bouquet meant just for him?
He never said it aloud. It felt silly.
Besides, who would ever—
“What’s this?” Wise wondered to himself. He was left alone tonight to handle the closing of the store. On the counter was a small sprig of blue starflowers and pale pink gardenias, tied in a silver ribbon with a tag labeled ‘For Wise’ beautifully imprinted on it. Each flower had meaning he knew too well—admiration, devotion, a quiet love that bloomed even when unspoken.
The silver-haired young man picked up the flowers and examined the small card attached, handwritten in a beautifully crisp hand:
“To the one who brings life to even the quietest corners.
You are seen.
You are treasured.”
No name or signature was left behind, just the quote and the lingering scent of soft petals and morning promise.
“Could it be Orchidea trying to cheer me up?” Wise wondered. Maybe he should asked her first thing in the morning when his shift started before the afternoon class.
-x-
“Oh my, I didn’t know you finally have a special someone!’ Orchidea gushed excitedly with a warm smile when the silver-haired younger man arrived in the staff room to report for duty.
Wise put down his bag and looked at her in surprise, so she had already seen the bouquet. “Wait, it’s not from you at all?”
Orchidea let out a melodic laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Oh no, sweet boy. If I wanted to cheer you up, I would have given you a sunflower bouquet and a free dessert voucher.” She winked, playfully tapping her clipboard against his arm. “This was different. Much more personal.”
“But—Who would...?” Wise flushed faintly, unused to being the center of such teasing. He picked up the bouquet again from the corner of the staff table, where the dark-haired older woman had carefully set it aside earlier.
The flowers looked so fresh, so lovingly arranged, that whoever left them must have taken their time.
It didn’t feel like a prank or a casual one-time thing.
“Maybe a secret admirer?” Orchidea teased, her voice lilting with mischief. “You’re quite the catch when you let yourself be seen.”
The silver-haired man ducked his head quickly, pretending to examine the starflowers to hide the sudden heat rising in his cheeks. “I doubt it. It’s probably... A customer being nice.”
His boss laughed again, a knowing glint in her eye. “If you say so.”
-x-
But all morning, Wise couldn’t shake it. Whenever the shop bell jingled, and a customer stepped through, his heart gave a foolish little leap—only to settle back into its normal rhythm when it turned out to be no one out of the ordinary.
He kept telling himself it didn’t matter and was probably just a one-time thing. But his mind kept wandering as he arranged another bouquet in neat, practiced motions.
Someone had noticed him, thinking he was worth a message like that. The thought was delicate and precious, like a newly budding flower. And Wise, cautious as always, didn’t dare pluck it too soon.
Still, that didn’t stop Wise from wondering and glancing at the counter where his gifted flowers were, hoping someone would own up to their practical joke to tease him and be gone with it—
“Those are quite lovely flowers you have there.” A smooth, velvety, and intrigued voice spoke near the counter.
Wise switched his gaze to where the source was: a beautiful tall man with long blond hair, amused dancing faintly in his two-colored grey-blue and red eyes, wearing a dark fedora hat, blazer, grey-purple shirt, silvery lilac tie and scarf, upper half attached with coin-shaped decorations, dark dress pants, and shoes.
The silver-haired younger man was startled upon realizing how close they were standing despite the counter separating them, almost knocking over the small vase beside him. The blond-haired man chuckled lightly at his reaction, lifting one gloved hand apologetically.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you,” The stranger apologized, his voice rich with amusement and something gentler underneath. His mismatched yet mesmerizing eyes seemed to linger warmly on Wise like he was a curiosity worth studying.
Wise quickly straightened, smoothing out his apron as he offered the polite, customer-service smile he had practiced so often, though his voice felt slightly breathless in his throat. “It’s, um, no problem. Welcome to Dew Gardening. How can I help you today?”
The man hummed thoughtfully, his gaze flickering briefly to the bouquet at the corner of the counter. “I was simply admiring the flowers over there. It seems like a bird flew by with flowers in its beak and dropped it from the sky.”
And then, he returned to Wise’s face, sharper now, though not unkind. “It’s rare to see someone handle flowers with such genuine love and tenderness. A true gift.”
Wise blinked, thrown off guard by the unexpected compliment, and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Oh, thank you... I just work here part-time while studying for my university class.”
The man chuckled again, a low, velvety sound that sent a strange shiver down Wise’s spine.
“Perhaps,” The older man mused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “But sometimes, those who do things quietly and sincerely leave the deepest impressions.”
Wise wasn’t sure what to say to that. His cheeks were warming again, and he ducked his head to hide it, busying himself needlessly by adjusting a nearby display of violets. “You seem to know a lot about flowers too, sir. Are you... Maybe looking for something specific today?”
The man smiled—slow, knowing, almost teasing. “Perhaps I am. But I am more interested in what the charming florist here would choose for me.”
“Me?” Wise blinked, stopping his work to face the older man again.
“Yes,” The blond-haired stranger asked simply. “If you were to prepare a bouquet... One that you feel suits me. What would it be?”
The silver-haired younger man spluttered, flustered by the sudden challenge—or was it a game?—but he couldn’t resist. “Guess we’ll have a customized bouquet for you then, sir.”
His hands and body began to move almost automatically, guided by instinct to scour for suitable flowers. Wise glanced at the man again, noting the elegance of his posture, which belonged to someone of a rich elite, the glint of mischief in his expression, and the way he seemed to command attention without effort.
Wise began to gather flowers: purple lisianthus for charm and appreciation, blue delphiniums for boldness and grace, and a few sprigs of white bellflowers—humility hidden behind an air of grandeur. He bundled them carefully, tying the stems with a silvery ribbon to match the man’s scarf.
Finally, he handed the bouquet over, heart skipping that it was a miracle he hadn’t accidentally dropped it. The blond-haired stranger accepted it with a gloved hand, bringing it close to inhale the subtle fragrance with a low, pleased voice. “Perfect. You truly have a remarkable touch, Wise.”
Wise’s breath caught. “I—Wait, how did you—?”
The man only smiled, a secretive little curve of his lips, as he set a crisp bill on the counter. “Thank you for the bouquet... Have a good day, and I hope to see you around the store when I visit next time.”
And with that, he tipped his fedora lightly and turned to leave, the bells above the door chiming softly in his wake. Wise stared after him, the bouquet he had received earlier still sitting untouched behind him, the petals almost seeming to glow in the afternoon sun.
He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling his heart pounding hard beneath his ribs.
Who was that man?
And why did it feel like Wise’s world had just tilted ever so slightly on its axis?
-x-
Apparently, from what Orchidea told him, that blond-haired man’s name was Hugo Vlad Ravenlock, an influential, noble Ravenlock family member. Their business delved into collecting artworks and opening galleries, an empire built on culture, wealth, and influence that spanned generations. Though Orchidea added with a wry smile that Hugo was... A rather unusual Ravenlock by reputation.
Unlike the rest of his stiff, aristocratic family, Hugo was known for being eccentric, elusive, and notoriously hard to predict. He had become a frequent regular of the dark-haired woman’s store to purchase memorial flowers, said to be for his beloved younger sister, who passed away many years ago from an illness.
“He always orders the same set of bouquets when he arrives,” Orchidea tapped her chin thoughtfully while her younger employee watched her while stuffing down on his dinner break. “Since he has ordered something different from his usual request, you might have made quite the impression, Wise.”
Wise didn’t know what to make of that. He wasn’t anyone special. Just a part-time florist working to get through school. Why would someone like him catch the attention of someone so dazzling, so utterly out of his league?
Later that evening, when the shop was empty and he was wiping down the counters, Wise kept replaying the scene in his mind—the glint in Hugo’s mismatched eyes, the way he’d said his name before it had ever been offered. The lingering scent of the flowers he’d arranged with trembling hands.
Just a coincidence. Maybe Hugo had asked Orchidea his name beforehand. Or maybe he was just good at reading things — people like him from his field and background usually were.
Yet... When Wise glanced toward the corner, another new bouquet was placed by the counter. This one was different from the first—slightly larger, wrapped in soft twilight-blue paper with threads of silver running through it like tiny rivers under the moonlight.
The arrangement was breathtaking: deep purple clematis for ingenuity, pure white camellias for adoration, and a touch of pale blue hydrangeas for heartfelt emotion. And tucked neatly within the folds of the bouquet, another handwritten card in the same beautiful, crisp script:
“For the one whose touch coaxes dreams to bloom.
You are not overlooked.
You are awaited.”
Wise’s hand trembled slightly as he picked it up, his chest tightening with a confused, breathless wonder. It was no longer a coincidence. Someone was leaving these for him on purpose.
But who was it? Why him, out of everyone?
The door chimed faintly as a small gust of evening air swept through the store. Wise whipped his head up, half-expecting to see the culprit. But—
No one was there.
He let out a shaky breath and tucked the bouquet carefully into the staff room, his mind racing faster than he could catch up. Should he... Respond somehow? But… How? When he didn’t even know the identity of the sender.
And yet, a secret part of him, a foolish tender bud hidden deep within his guarded heart, didn’t want to break the spell too soon.
-x-
It became a ritual.
Every few days, another bouquet would appear—always left when Wise was busy helping a customer or just stepping into the back room for a moment. Each bouquet was wrapped carefully, lovingly, and meaningfully, with a message that felt like it spoke directly to him, pulling back the curtains he’d drawn around himself for so long.
“For the heart that makes silence sing.”
“For the soul that colors the world with gentleness.”
“For the one who deserves to be cherished.”
Belle had become used to the ever-increasing number of flowers around her home. She had even teasingly asked her older brother if she could invite her girlfriends to their home for a flower gallery and a tea party to accompany it.
Wise simply laughed it off, ruffling his sister’s hair playfully and making some excuse about work samples for customers. But inside, he wasn’t laughing. He was quietly, utterly overwhelmed by the gifts.
Each bouquet chipped away at the small, battered fortress he’d built around himself. Each message tucked between petals felt like a hand reaching for his, pulling him toward something he didn’t dare name yet.
Still, he told himself — it could be anyone. Maybe Orchidea playing matchmaker, hoping someone suitable would go out with her best employee. Or, there’s a very persistent secret admirer he’d served once without noticing.
It was easier to believe than to think it was him—That impossibly dazzling man with the mismatched eyes and the knowing smile.
Hugo Vlad Ravenlock.
No matter how much Wise tried to push the thought aside, Hugo kept slipping through the cracks of his mind like sunlight through curtains. He looked at him not like wealthy patrons usually looked at clerks snobbishly, but it was as if the silver-haired young man was the rare flower on display.
And now, standing behind the counter late one evening, Wise found himself staring down at the newest bouquet left in his absence. This one was smaller, simpler — a single, stunning black calla lily wrapped in deep crimson silk.
No card this time. Just the flower, solitary and bold.
Wise brushed his fingers lightly along the smooth, dark petal. His chest ached with a strange, helpless feeling he couldn’t name.
Then the door chimed.
The young man looked up sharply — and there he was.
Hugo leaned casually against the doorway, his fedora tilted just so, a slight smile playing on his lips like he knew a secret Wise hadn’t figured out yet.
“Good evening,” The blond-haired man greeted smoothly, stepping inside with that same relaxed, feline grace. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
Wise’s heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he thought it might bruise. “Ah, no...! We’re still open for a bit longer. What can I help you?”
The blond man approached slowly, his gaze flicking meaningfully to the calla lily on the counter. “Ah, it looks like you’re quite a popular man to be graced by affection from your suitors.”
Wise froze; his hands quickly placed the black calla lily out of the older man’s sight. “It’s not like that. I mean, it’s probably just a mistake. Someone might’ve left it behind, thinking it was another store…”
The silver-haired young man realized he was babbling but couldn’t stop himself. His fingers fumbled nervously with the hem of his apron while Hugo simply stood there, studying him with an unreadable expression. The. The half-smile lingering but softer now. It was almost... Fond.
“A mistake,” Hugo echoed, voice low and amused at the word itself. He tipped his head slightly, letting the light catch in the silver thread of his scarf and the odd gleam of his mismatched eyes. “Is that what you truly believe?”
Wise opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again helplessly. “I—I don’t know. I guess… I have no idea why they are doing this, to be honest. It could be just to mess with me from my university, or there’s no meaning to it.”
The older man stepped closer, each stride unhurried, until the counter between them felt like little more than a suggestion. Wise caught a faint scent of something expensive—cologne or maybe just Hugo himself.
“You really are terribly modest, yet so endearing all the same….” Hugo sighed softly as if the fact genuinely pained him. He lightly touched the counter; the gesture was casual yet somehow anchoring. “Tell me, Wise—”
The way he said his name, like a quiet prayer, made Wise’s stomach flip.
“If I told you,” Hugo continued with a knowing gaze, “That some treasures aren’t meant for gallery walls or glass cases... But for the hands that can truly appreciate them... Would you understand what I mean?”
Wise swallowed thickly. His heart felt far too big for his chest. “I—I don’t get it. What do you mean…?”
Hugo’s smile, when it came, was soft and heartbreakingly tender. “Then perhaps, it’s simply that no one has ever dared to show you just how much you are worth.”
The silver-haired young man stared at him, stunned into silence. The shop seemed to hold its breath between them, with only the faint creak of wood and the scent of flowers filling the space. Outside, the last traces of twilight bled into deepening indigo.
Hugo slowly drew a small, folded card from the inner pocket of his coat and placed it gently on the counter between them. His gloved fingers brushed Wise’s hand as he did, a fleeting touch that burned more fiercely than any ember.
“For when you’re ready,” Hugo said quietly. Then he straightened, tipped his hat once more, and turned to leave without another word.
The bell jingled softly behind him. Wise stood frozen momentarily, staring at the closed door as if it might open again. His hands were trembling when he finally dared to look down at the card. It was simple, just like before. Inside, written in that same elegant script, were only a few words:
“Romancing Dissent: Locality and Urban Experience, Starloop VIP Lounge, 6 PM.”
Tomorrow evening at a gallery in the same area as Wise’s workplace was working, one of the more exclusive venues in the district, reserved usually for nobles, investors, and artists of a certain pedigree. Wise stared at the card as if it might dissolve in his hands.
Starloop Lounge. 6 PM. Tomorrow.
He read it once, twice, three times, but it didn’t change. Is this an invitation?
The rational part of him—cautious and small from years of keeping his head down—wanted to say it had to be a mistake. People like Hugo Vlad Ravenlock didn’t invite people like him to glittering, high-class events.
But the part of him that remembered the bouquets, the notes, the way Hugo had looked at him just now—that part whispered: It’s real. It’s happening.
Wise pressed the card to his chest, feeling the crispness of the paper and the wild gallop of his heart.
-x-
“And, you’re going, Wise. That’s a final word from me,” Belle declared as she rummaged through her brother’s closet with all the seriousness of a royal decree. She tossed another shirt onto the growing pile on his bed with a critical frown. “You have to go. I mean—this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! How many people get that kind of fairy-tale moment?!”
Wise sat stiffly on the edge of his mattress, the card still clutched loosely in his hand, watching helplessly as Belle ravaged through his humble wardrobe like a cat digging for treasure. “But I don’t even have anything fancy to wear... And what if it was a mistake? I’ll show up and they’ll laugh me out of the place—!”
“They won’t,” Belle interrupted sharply, whirling around to fix him with a determined stare, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “You are good enough, Wise. You’ve always been; just because some people are too blind to see it because you like your computer work or enjoy caring for flowers doesn’t mean everyone is.”
The older man blinked at her, startled into silence. His little sister could be fierce when she wanted to be—fierce and frighteningly persuasive.
Belle’s expression softened a little. She came to sit beside him, tugging the card gently from his fingers to look at it again. “Besides, you... Look really happy when you talk about him.”
“I don’t even know him,” Wise muttered weakly, cheeks coloring from embarrassment.
The dark blue-haired young woman just grinned, bumping her shoulder against his. “Maybe that’s why you’re supposed to go. To find out more about him.”
He looked at Belle’s hopeful spark in her green eyes and felt his tight knot of fear and hesitation loosen just a little. Maybe she was right. He could be a little braver to step out of his comfort zone for once.
“Alright,” Wise exhaled shakily and decided. “I’ll go.”
Belle threw her arms around him in a tight hug, nearly knocking him over. “Yes! Oh, you’re going to be amazing. I just know it! Let me know if I’m going to be an aunt soon.”
“But we haven’t even got together at all.” Wise laughed, the sound light uncertain but real.
Later that night, long after Belle had gone to bed, Wise stood in front of his small mirror, trying on the best combination he could pull together: a simple but clean white shirt, a tailored black vest, dark slacks, and a grey overcoat borrowed from Orchidea’s friend with her amused blessing.
He didn’t look like someone who belonged at a high-end gallery event. But he didn’t look bad, either.
However… Maybe it would be enough to be able to show himself truly.
Wise tucked the invitation card carefully into the inside pocket of his coat, smoothing it down over his heart.
“Tomorrow. 6 PM.” He whispered the words to himself like a promise, feeling their weight settle into him—heavy, terrifying, and wonderful all at once.
-x-
Upon arriving at the building’s entrance, he handed Hugo’s card to the receptionist, who verified the details on the computer before returning with a polite smile. “Mr. Arna, thank you for waiting. Unfortunately, Mr. Hugo is currently in a meeting with a client. But he wished for us to relay a message to inform you that you may enjoy the exhibition while waiting. He will send someone to pick you up when he is ready.”
“Thank you,” Wise returned with his polite smile. Turning towards the gallery, he took a deep breath into his lungs. It was now or never, and he was moving in slow and steady strides to enter the world where Hugo came from.
The gallery beyond the lobby was nothing like Wise had imagined. He had thought it would be cold, sterile — a place where only the rich and disinterested sipped champagne and nodded thoughtfully at incomprehensible paintings.
Instead, the place felt almost otherworldly: low, warm lighting spilled like molten gold across polished floors, the hum of quiet conversations blending with soft, lilting piano music from somewhere unseen.
Artworks of New Eridu shops in daily life, sightseeing spots, and places of interest were displayed not as trophies but like precious secrets offered for those willing to truly see them.
Wise wandered slowly, feeling small but strangely safe amid the dusky air and shifting shadows. The paintings here were a mixture of traditional and digital drawings. Some were surreal dreamscapes; others seemed to shimmer and pulse with the very breath of the city itself.
Sculptures twined and spiraled upward like living things, and delicate glass installations captured the light and scattered it like stardust. It felt alive here, stirring something deep inside his chest.
Wise stopped before a large canvas tucked into a more private alcove — a piece, unlike the others, stood out among all as the main star by another artist. He was in the artwork, wearing a warm smile as he handed a beautiful bouquet to a happily married elderly couple.
The silver-haired young man remembered this couple wanted something to celebrate the 60th anniversary of their marriage. It was his first job doing the bouquet himself when he started working at Orchidea’s store.
The older woman had gone out to restock supplies for the store, and they were the last store the couple searched high and low for as it was the only one with the flowers they wanted. Wise lifted a hand toward the painting, fingers hovering shy of touching the canvas.
He could almost remember the day as if it had happened yesterday: the way the elderly couple’s eyes had lit up when he shyly offered them the bouquet he had arranged, their thanks so heartfelt it had stayed with him long after they’d left the shop. Because it was such fantastic work, his boss decided to give him the job of arranging flowers for their customers.
But he hadn’t known anyone had seen it.
His throat tightened. His heart thudded against his ribs, a wild and disbelieving beat.
A small plaque beneath the painting caught his eye. Tentatively, he leaned closer to read it:
“For You in Full Blossom.”
“Ah, you must be that young man in the artwork,” An unfamiliar voice called out to Wise, turning around to see it was a middle-aged man dressed in a simple suit and smiling apologetically at him. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for painting you without your consent.”
“W-What? It’s nothing to apologize for, really!” Wise raised both of his hands to wave it off nervously.
He moved a hand to scratch his cheek shyly. “It’s really a beautiful work… I didn’t know I was being sketched when I gave the flowers to the couple.”
“You wouldn’t have noticed,” The artist chuckled, his eyes crinkling kindly. “You were too focused on making them happy. That’s what made the scene so beautiful. I simply couldn’t let it slip away unseen when the inspiration is right there.”
Wise ducked his head, face burning. Compliments weren’t something he knew how to take gracefully. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice almost lost beneath the soft ambient music.
The man smiled again and extended a hand. “Name’s Conrad Vale. I’ve worked with Hugo on a few projects before. When he saw this artwork, he asked if you were the model that I worked with. But I told him you happened to be there when I was painting this and again asked the store you worked with.”
Wise hesitated for a moment before shyly taking Conrad’s offered hand. “I’m Wise. Wise Arna.”
“A fitting name,” Conrad’s handshake was warm and firm, grounding the younger man as he mused thoughtfully. “And fitting for the impression you left behind. Hugo was... Very insistent that this piece be featured tonight. He said the world needed to see what real kindness looks like.”
The words hit Wise harder than he expected. He gripped the edge of his coat tighter, feeling the familiar battle between disbelief and fragile hope wage war inside him. “Did he… Really say that?”
Conrad smiled wryly as if he understood more than Wise was ready to admit. “He did. And knowing Mr. Hugo’s charitable acts for the needy, he meant it.”
Another familiar woman called out before the silver-haired younger man could think of how to respond. “Mr. Arna?”
Turning to his right, a brown-haired woman, tied neatly in a bun and wearing office attire, bowed to him politely. “Mr. Hugo would like to see you now. Please follow me.”
Wise bobbed his head in a quick nod, murmured a hasty goodbye to Conrad, and hurried after the woman before he lost his nerve. His palms felt clammy, and his heart was a helpless, fluttering bird against his ribs as he trailed her through a polished hallway lit with soft golden sconces.
They passed by a few closed doors, the quiet murmur of distant conversations bleeding faintly through thick walls. At the far end of the corridor, the woman stopped before an ornate, classy elevator and pressed a button. The doors slid open with a muted chime, revealing a small but luxuriously furnished interior — dark wood paneling, brass trim, and a faint scent of lavender lingering in the air.
“This will take you directly to the terrace,” the woman said with a kind smile, stepping aside to let him in. Mr. Hugo is already waiting for you.”
Wise stepped into the elevator, his heart hammering so loud he was sure she must hear it. The doors closed silently behind him, cocooning him inside. For a moment, it was just him and the quiet hum of machinery carrying him upward.
He pressed a trembling hand to the pocket over his chest, feeling the crisp card still tucked safely there. Somehow, it steadied him — a small anchor to remind him that this was real, that he had chosen to be here.
The elevator slowed, and with another soft chime, the doors slid open, revealing pure darkness before him. Despite the confusion coloring the silver-haired young man’s face, the brown-haired woman gave him a single nod to affirm again that Hugo was there.
Wise then stepped out, and the elevator behind closed, descending downwards. He was now alone in this darkness, unsure where to start his search for the blond-haired man. But a step forward to the front gave him the answer he was looking for.
Lights lit up the surroundings from the ground. Above where Wise stood, purple Wisteria bloomed downwards. This created a domino effect, each cluster of hanging blossoms glowing faintly as the light touched them, rippling outwards like the soft fall of stars across a velvet night sky towards the end of the hallway.
Wise gasped, his breath catching in his throat. It was beautiful and magical. His anxiety and fear were replaced by courage and awe. He moved forward slowly, each step carrying him closer to the wooden door at the far end of the illuminated path.
As he walked, the scent of Wisteria filled the air, a gentle fragrance that made everything feel surreal, as though time had slowed to match the rhythm of his heartbeat. Once he reached the door, he grabbed both handles to push it open.
If the hallway of Wisteria had already blown his mind, the view before him exceeded his expectations. It was like he had entered heaven, an open field full of different flower breeds planted everywhere, and the young man recognized each one. There were also different species of birds and butterflies flying and fluttering around this peaceful sanctuary.
The moonlight poured like silver rain, bathing the terrace in a soft, ethereal glow. It was breathtaking — not overwhelming like the grandeur of the city skyline Wise had glimpsed before, but something more tender, more personal. Every bloom seemed chosen with care, every stone and vine woven into a tapestry of quiet wonder.
“Caw, caw….” A sound of a black crow crying out from Wise’s back. He looked up to see it was flying towards him with a flower in its beak, a single white camellia, so pure it almost glowed under the moonlight. The crow circled once above Wise before gracefully descending, dropping the flower into his hands with a precision that startled him.
It was a trained crow, tamed even to obey the orders given. Wise stared down at it, stunned. He knew flower meanings better than most: white camellia — adoration, admiration, and the expression of pure, selfless love.
He tightened his fingers around the delicate stem, overwhelmed when he heard soft footsteps approaching from deeper within the garden.
“Did you know that crows would bring gifts to the ones they hold dear? Many who knew them treated such majestic creatures with fear and hate for their intelligence. But they are creatures capable of great loyalty... and great tenderness.” The voice was unmistakable — low, familiar, a little rough around the edges in that way that always made Wise’s heart stir.
Slowly, the silver-haired young man lifted his head, watching the crow fly away from him. Out from the shifting shadows of the garden, Hugo emerged, bathed in moonlight as if he had been part of the night itself.
He wasn’t dressed in his usual flamboyant, devil-may-care fashion tonight. No, he wore something simpler — a dark, well-fitted suit with a silver tie, understated but no less breathtaking. His blond hair caught the light with every slight movement, and those striking mismatched eyes were focusing only on him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world seemed to shrink to just the two, with only the scent of flowers and the quiet hush of wings overhead. Then Hugo smiled — that rare, genuine smile that stripped away all his usual bravado, revealing something achingly sincere.
“Apologies, but I believe an overdue introduction must be amended right away,” Hugo said softly, walking confidently with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a bouquet.
Once he was standing before Wise, the hand in his pocket shifted to place around the younger man’s waist. “I’m Hugo Vlad Ravenlock. Let’s just say I’m a collector fascinated by the world of arts.
“And tonight,” Hugo added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leaned in just enough for Wise to feel the warmth of him, “You’re the masterpiece I’ve been chasing all this time. Though, it seems like the flowers I left for you over the weeks were unclear to you.”
Wise’s breath caught, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the white camellia. The words — so direct, so utterly sincere — hit him harder than he could have prepared for. It was dizzying. Overwhelming.
Hugo’s hand stayed firm but gentle at Wise’s waist as though anchoring him there, refusing to let him drift away. Slowly, Hugo brought the bouquet between them, offering it like an oath.
Roses. A hundred roses — each one perfectly bloomed, each one carefully arranged. But they weren’t just red, like in some fairy tale storybook. No, these were a gradient of colors: white, pink, soft lavender, and deepest crimson, blended together in a harmony that felt almost too meaningful to mistake as random.
Wise knew what each color meant too well; he had already memorized them from his experience working with Orchidea.
White for purity and new beginnings.
Pink for admiration and gratitude.
Lavender for enchantment and love at first sight.
Red for deep, passionate love.
He stared, wide-eyed, as Hugo watched him with that same calm, steady patience, yet tinged with a hint of arrogance and knowing the answer between them, as though the entire world hinged on Wise’s next breath, his next heartbeat.
Wise’s throat closed up. He could barely find air, let alone words. Everything — the night sky, the flowers, the crow’s gift, Hugo standing there with that impossible tenderness in his mismatched eyes — it was too much. Too much beauty, too much feeling.
And yet, at the same time, it wasn’t enough. The silver-haired young man wanted to hold onto this moment forever.
With trembling hands, Wise slowly reached for the bouquet. His fingers brushed against Hugo’s, and a jolt of warmth shot up his arm, straight to his heart. He clutched the flowers to his chest, feeling their weight, their meaning.
“I…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying again. “I’m not… I’m not used to this.”
A soft chuckle rumbled from Hugo’s chest — not mocking, but fond with teasing in them. “You don’t have to be. You only need to be you, my dear.”
Wise lowered his gaze, his silver lashes trembling as he clutched the bouquet tighter, drawing strength from the steady, grounding presence before him. The scent of roses wrapped around him like a second skin — heady, sweet, dizzying — yet Hugo’s voice tethered him most.
“You have no idea,” The older man murmured, lifting one hand to brush a lock of silver hair away from Wise’s forehead with aching tenderness, “How long I have waited for you to see yourself the way I do.”
Wise blinked rapidly, fighting the sting at the corners of his eyes. He had spent so long questioning, doubting, hiding parts of himself away — convinced that if someone looked too closely, they would only find flaws. Yet here was Hugo, looking at him as if he were something sacred. It was as if every broken, battered piece was something beautiful.
He took a shaky breath and dared to meet Hugo’s gaze fully. There was no ridicule there. No mockery. Only a fierce, unshakable devotion that frightened and warmed him equally.
“You…” Wise whispered, voice raw with wonder, “You were serious all this time, weren’t you?”
Hugo’s lips quirked into a half-smirk that was almost unbearably soft. “It is almost as if I must brush up my poetry skills further to show how much more I mean.”
The words settled deep in Wise’s chest, filling spaces he didn’t realize had been hollow for so long. His fingers curled slightly around the bouquet’s stems, grounding himself in the reality that this wasn’t some fleeting dream.
Slowly, hesitantly, Wise closed the distance between them. His free hand reached out, lightly grasping the Hugo’s cheek, feeling the faint tremor that belied the blond man’s composed facade. It wasn’t just Wise who was vulnerable here — Hugo was too, in his own way.
“Then…” Wise exhaled, his voice shaking but stronger now. “Teach me. Teach me how to accept it.”
For the first time that night, something flickered across Hugo’s face — a crack in his usual confidence, replaced by something far more devastating: hope. Trembling, radiant hope.
“Gladly, my love,” Hugo breathed a chuckle out.
And before Wise could second-guess himself from the doubt and fear clawing their way back in, he leaned forward at the same time with the blond-haired collector, and their lips met softly at first, like the whisper of a secret meant only for the two of them.
It wasn’t the fiery, stolen kind of kiss Wise had sometimes seen in stories, full of reckless abandon. No, this was something different. This was careful, reverent — a question and an answer all at once. The blond-haired man’s arms immediately wrapped around him, careful, reverent, as if holding something infinitely precious.
They stayed like that for a moment — two souls in a garden built from dreams and devotion, stitched together under the gaze of the stars.
No promises needed to be made.
No declarations screamed into the night.
Everything they needed was already there — in the roses, the white camellia still cradled between them, and the trembling but undeniable closeness neither dared break.
Wise finally began to believe tonight, under a sky woven with petals and moonlight.
To believe in them.
To believe in this.
The night carried on, and so did their story of two souls finding their way home to each other beneath the endless, watchful stars.
And maybe this was only the beginning for a new flower to bloom in their life.