Two weeks later...

It's Sunday. Another long day of scrubbing, hauling, and restoring—your nails are ruined and your muscles ache, but the solarium is finally beginning to feel... semi-inviting. The damp, decaying scent of rust has nearly vanished, replaced by the clean, earthy aroma of fresh soil. You'd replaced every single bed, a monumental task. But you're not complaining. The effort is doing wonders for your body and, oddly enough, your confidence.

The plumbing's been repaired—surprisingly under budget—and the new contractor even threw in automatic timers with a sleek touchscreen control. You'd taken your realtor's advice and ordered a Square terminal and touch-screen register. They're being installed Tuesday. For once, things are going smoothly.

You're kneeling in front of the old fountain now, putting the last touches on your repair work.
With a final sweep of the trowel, you smooth cement into the last hairline crack along the stone basin. Then you sit back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow. The three-tiered fountain stands proud, floral carvings wrapping around it like ivy. You can't wait to see it flowing again.

But something shifts behind you.
A bucket tips—violently—and spills its half-mixed concrete across the floor.

"Shit!" you yelp, scrambling to catch the mess with your trowel, your pulse suddenly racing. You look at the bucket, trying to understand. How does a five-gallon bucket just flip itself?
You pause.

Something isn't right.

A chill creeps over your skin. The shadows cast by the cherry trees stretch long and strange, like fingers slipping in through the broken panes above. You scan the solarium's vast, glass-dappled interior. The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

And then it begins—quick shadows dart across the periphery of your vision. Once. Then again. Then a third time. Panic flares in your chest. The stillness you once appreciated now feels suffocating.

Something's in here with you.

You bolt. The door is only twenty feet away, but it might as well be a mile. Behind you, something skitters—inhuman, too fast—followed by a chilling hum that vibrates your bones.

You don't look back.

You reach for the door, fingers fumbling, trembling. Then—something catches your skirt. A violent tug yanks you backward. You cry out and wrench yourself free, the fabric tearing with a harsh rip. You stumble out the door, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the concrete sidewalk—

But you don't fall.

Instead, your body slams against someone else's—solid and warm. A strong arm wraps instinctively around your waist, pinning you against him in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

You can't move. Don't want to. His grip is firm, protective, unyielding.

He leans close, his breath brushing your ear as he speaks—voice low, calm, impossibly smooth.

"Are you alright, little miss?"

Oh god.

You could write poetry just about his voice.

"I—I think so..." you murmur, unable to hide your fluster.

He lets out a soft, thoughtful hum and releases you slowly. Even with space between you, you can feel the echo of his body on yours. You keep your eyes lowered, heat crawling up your neck. You're terrified to look up—afraid that his face might actually match that voice.

And then... he moves to stand in front of you.
Of course he's beautiful.

Blonde hair, expertly styled. Deep-set brows over intelligent, storm-gray eyes behind round glasses. A chiseled jaw, flawless skin, and a build that practically radiates strength beneath his pristine white shirt and tailored slacks. He's tall. Broader than you expect. The kind of man who draws attention even when he's not trying.

He watches you.

And smirks—just a hint of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. He knows exactly what effect he's having on you.

His eyes trail down, slow, scanning—not inappropriately, but with precision. Then they land on your thigh. His amusement vanishes. A sharp frown cuts across his face.

"Is that blood?"

You blink, startled.

"What?"

Before you can react, he's kneeling. Right there, on the pavement. One large hand slides up the back of your leg, pausing just under the torn edge of your skirt. His touch is both gentle and intimate, a contradiction that leaves you breathless.

From beneath those glasses, his eyes lift to yours—sharp, calculating, intense.

"You're bleeding, miss. How did this happen?"

Your heart pounds. You follow his gaze—blood trails along your thigh, stark against your skin. The memory slams back into you. The bucket. The shadows. The door.

You glance over. There, on the jagged edge of the metal frame—blood. Your blood.

You sigh, relief mixing with shame.
"
I...guess I am." You say softly, still shaking.

He stands and follows your gaze to the doorframe, then back to you.

"I got a little spooked, I guess," you admit, brushing a shaky hand through your hair. "Came out to get some air. Must've caught myself on that edge."

He studies it a moment, then nods. Calm. Analytical.

"I have a first aid kit in my car. May I help?"
You hesitate. You really shouldn't follow strange men anywhere. But he's already pulled out a key fob and clicked it twice. A sleek black Acura chirps in response.

Your anxiety wars with your instincts. He seems so... normal. Kind. Capable. But what if he isn't? What if this is all part of some terrifying setup?
Your spiral is broken by the sight of him standing before you again, holding a bright red kit.

"Let's go inside," he says gently, nodding toward the solarium. "Don't worry. I won't harm you. But we should disinfect that wound. Are you up to date on your tetanus shots?"

You nod dumbly. Last year. Farm fence. Rusty nail. You remember.

"Good. Let's get you fixed up, okay?"

The sincerity in his voice weakens your resolve. Against every better judgment, you lead him back inside the building you just fled from.

He holds the door for you, waiting patiently.
You hesitate.

The corners of the solarium seem darker now. You don't want to walk in.

He chuckles softly behind you, his voice laced with condescension and charm.

"It's okay. I don't see any monsters."

Your cheeks burn. You huff, straightening your back and step inside.

You're watching every shadow, every corner. Off to the right, just by the register, something flickers. Purple flames, twisting in the dim light—there, and gone.

You freeze.

"Do you see something?" he asks, noticing your hesitation.

You shake your head quickly. "No. Just tired. I've been overworking myself."

He studies you again. That same quiet intensity. "Alright. Come here."

You follow him to one of the flower beds. He gestures for you to sit. Then kneels again, opening the kit and rummaging through it. His sleeves are rolled, revealing forearms that are somehow more distracting than they should be.
He pulls out an alcohol swab.

Then, amused: "Do you always wear skirts when working with cement?"

You wince at the sting of the swab. Then flinch.
Before you can pull away, he catches your thigh with his other hand—firm and dangerously high on your inner leg. He holds you in place effortlessly, almost absentmindedly, but the contact steals your breath.

You swallow hard. "No... I haven't unpacked all my clothes yet."

He hums again. "Hmmm... I suggest pants next time."

You roll your eyes. "Duly noted."

That earns a crooked smirk. You find yourself glancing at him again. Too much. Too obviously.
"Something the matter?" he asks, not even glancing up.

"No... no. Why would you say that?"

He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"It's nothing. What's your name, miss?"

You hesitate. Part of you still doesn't trust him.
He sighs. "My name is Nanami. I'm a teacher at a school not far from here."

A teacher.

You relax—slightly. Teachers have background checks. Unless he's lying...

Still, you offer your name. When you smile, he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck—and for the first time, he looks flustered.

"(Y/n), do you live by yourself here?"

That question hits wrong. Your body tenses.

He notices. His expression shifts.
"Never mind," he says quickly. "Can I ask you what you're doing in a place like this?"
You blink. "I... just purchased this place. I'm turning it into a floral shop."

Something shifts in his demeanor. He smiles—genuinely—and it makes your heart ache.
"How suiting," he says softly. "There used to be a floral shop here, many years ago. It'll be nice to see this place come alive again."

His voice lingers in your head, sweet and melancholic. He finishes dressing your wound in silence.

"Thank you," you say. "For all of this."

"You're most welcome. I'm glad you ran into me... or you might've been in worse condition. What had you so spooked?"

You offer a laugh, trying to deflect.
"Thought I saw something. But it was just a reflection."

He nods slowly, not fully buying it. "I can see how that could happen."

He rises, handing you the swab to dispose of. His fingers brush yours for just a second—bare skin to skin—and you swear a shiver runs up your spine.

He glances at his watch.

"I should get going. It was nice to meet you, (Y/n)."

And suddenly... you don't want him to go.
Not because of your leg. Not even because of the shadows. You just don't want to be alone.

"Oh... okay. But..."

He turns. The sun hits his golden hair, making him glow like something divine.
"Yes?"

You open your mouth. No words come out.
"...Maybe I'll see you around sometime. Nanami."
He smiles again, devastating and soft.

"Maybe you will."
And he walks away.

You're left breathless, staring after him.
"Hell..." you whisper, bracing yourself on the flower bed.

You're going to replay every moment of that encounter a thousand times—and probably still blush.