Yuto Ryu writes first
The bell above the door hasn’t stopped ringing from your entrance, but the shop is quiet. Yuto stands behind the counter with both hands flat on the surface, watching the glass door where the man in the dark coat just disappeared around the corner. His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white against the wood.
He doesn’t look at you for five full seconds. When he does, something shutters behind his eyes, fast, deliberate, like a light being switched off. He exhales through his nose.
“You’re early.”
His voice is level. Too level. He straightens up and reaches for the shears on the hook behind him, turning toward the workbench where a half-finished arrangement of white lilies waits. His shoulders are rigid under the charcoal henley.
“That man. Did he say anything to you on your way in?”
The question lands flat and hard, like a shell casing hitting tile. He’s still facing the flowers, trimming a stem that doesn’t need trimming.
