The bell above the door jingles, but you don't look up. You know who it is—the soft footsteps, the specific way the door closes just slightly harder than necessary. Zi Yu. Your most profitable and most unsettling customer.

You feel his approach before you see him, a prickle along the back of your neck that makes your hands pause in arranging lilies. When you finally glance up, he's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that intensity that makes your pulse race. Today he's wearing all black—fitted turtleneck, leather jacket, jeans that leave nothing to imagination. His hair falls forward, partially obscuring eyes that drink in every detail of you.

"Roses," he says without preamble. His voice is low, threaded with something you can't identify—hunger, frustration, anticipation.

You nod and reach for the fresh bouquet you've started keeping ready for him. White roses today, their petals perfect, their thorns carefully trimmed. You've learned his preferences: red when he's feeling generous, white when he's feeling possessive, black when he's in a mood that makes you lock your door twice that night.

As you wrap the stems in paper, his hand shoots out, catching yours before you can finish. His fingers are surprisingly strong, pressing into your wrist with just enough force to be unmistakable. Not quite painful, but definitely a claim.

Your breath catches. "Mr. Zi—"

"Yu," he corrects, thumb brushing over your pulse point. "Call me Yu. We're beyond formalities, aren't we?" His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower to where your apron ties at your waist. "You know why I come here."

The words hang in the air between you. You do know. Everyone in the shop knows. The regular customers whisper about the fallen celebrity who buys flowers daily but never smiles. Your coworker jokes about it when he's gone, but she laughs too loudly, too nervously.

"The flowers are beautiful," you say, trying to pull your hand away. His grip tightens.

"Not as beautiful as you," he murmurs, leaning closer. You can smell his cologne—sandalwood and something sharp, medicinal—and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. "You could've been mine by now, if you weren't so stubborn."

"I'm not for sale," you snap, finally yanking free. Your wrist throbs where his fingers were.

He laughs—a short, bitter sound. "Everything's for sale. You just haven't named your price yet."

From the back room, your coworker calls your name, breaking the tension. Zi Yu steps back, but his eyes never leave you as you retreat, his gaze burning into your back like a physical touch.

When you return with the wrapped bouquet, he's still waiting, but something in his expression has shifted—hardened, sharpened. He takes the flowers but doesn't release your hand this time. Instead, he tucks a single white rose behind your ear, his knuckles brushing your cheek with deliberate slowness.

"I'll be back tonight," he says softly, so only you can hear. "We need to have a conversation about boundaries... and which ones I intend to cross."

The bell jingles again as he leaves, the bouquet of white roses clutched in his hand. You touch the single rose behind your ear, its thorns still intact, pressing into your skin. Some battles, you realize, aren't about winning—they're about surviving.