Chapter One Hundred Seventeen: Her Forever
♡ The First Encounter – A Flower Shop in Autumn
The bell above the door chimed soft and silver.
Your sister didn't look up immediately. Her hands were busy—wiping down the marble counter, rearranging the display of white hydrangeas, brushing a fallen petal from the edge of the polished wood. The shop smelled of lavender and rain, of earth and memory. It had been her sanctuary for three years, ever since you disappeared.
Ever since her world had narrowed to a single, desperate question: Where are you?
"Welcome," she said automatically, her voice flat, practiced. "Let me know if you need help finding anything."
The customer didn't speak.
She glanced up, irritated by the silence, and found him standing in the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a navy blue suit with no tie, his collar open just slightly at the neck. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Assessing. Kind, but not soft. The kind of kind that had seen too much and chosen to stay gentle anyway.
"You're her sister, aren't you?"
Her breath caught.
No one had said that name in weeks. Her sister. The words felt like a knife twisting in a wound that hadn't begun to heal.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice stiff, her hand instinctively reaching for the scissors on the counter.
"My name is Park Jihan." He didn't move closer. Didn't reach for her. Just stood there, patient, waiting. "I'm a friend of someone who's trying to find her."
Her grip tightened on the scissors. "Someone? Who?"
He pulled a card from his pocket and set it on the counter between them—face up, close enough for her to read but far enough to give her space. Park Jihan, CEO. Global Publishing.
"I know she's missing," he said quietly. "I know you've been searching. I know you've been doing it alone." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "I want to help."
She stared at the card. Then at him. She was skeptical—smart beyond her age, hardened by grief, wary of strangers who appeared with promises they couldn't keep.
But there was something in his tone. Something in his eyes. A sincerity she hadn't heard in a long time.
"Why?" she asked.
He smiled—small, almost sad. "Because she talked about you. Not with words, exactly. With devotion." He tilted his head, studying her. "You were her universe. I wanted to see what kind of woman raised a girl like that."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't tell him to leave.
---
♡ The Second Visit – Warm Bread and Silence
He came again three days later.
She was arranging roses in the window display, her back to the door, her shoulders tense. She heard the bell chime, heard his footsteps on the wooden floor, heard him stop a few feet away.
"You're still here," she said, not turning.
"I told you I wanted to help."
"I didn't ask for help."
"I know." A pause. "I brought bread. It's warm. The bakery down the street said you used to come in every morning before your sister—" He stopped, clearing his throat. "They said you stopped. I thought you might want to start again."
She turned.
He was holding a brown paper bag, steam rising from the top, his expression carefully neutral. Not pitying. Not presumptuous. Just… present.
She took the bread.
He left without another word.
---
He came again the next week. And the week after that.
Some days, he brought warm bread. Others, books—paperbacks with worn spines, the kind you could hold in one hand and read on the subway. Once, he brought a small pot of lavender because, he said, "the ones in your window looked tired. Even flowers need a break sometimes."
She didn't know what to do with him.
He didn't rush her grief. Didn't try to fill the silence with empty words or easy comfort. He just… stayed. Present. Patient. Letting her be angry, lost, guarded—whatever she needed to be that day.
And slowly—so slowly she barely noticed—she began to change.
She laughed once, at a stupid joke he made about a wilting fern. She scolded him when he tried to help with the roses and accidentally pricked his finger on a thorn. She let him sit in the corner of the shop while she worked, his laptop open, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm of her days.
"Flower," he said one afternoon, not looking up from his screen.
"My name is Arshi."
"I know. But 'Flower' suits you better." He glanced up, a teasing glint in his eyes. "You're stubborn. Beautiful. And you bloom whether the world wants you to or not."
She rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained them.
But she didn't tell him to stop.
---
♡ The Evening She Almost Smiled
The sky was blushing orange and crimson, the last light of autumn painting the flower shop in shades of gold and rose. She flipped the open sign to "Closed" with a tired sigh, rubbing her neck, already planning the long walk home and the glass of wine waiting in her tiny apartment.
She turned.
And jumped.
Jihan was already inside, leaning casually against the counter, two warm cups in his hands, that teasing grin spreading across his face like he'd just won a bet with the universe.
"You yawn like a cat," he observed. "Tired, Flower?"
"You keep calling me that, and I'll start charging you rent for loitering." She crossed her arms, glaring.
"Hmm." He set one of the cups on the counter and slid it toward her. "Then I'll have to pay in smiles and compliments. Your currency of weakness."
"I don't have a weakness."
"Everyone has a weakness." He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "Yours is that you pretend you don't."
She rolled her eyes—a reflex at this point—but accepted the cup. The warmth seeped through her palms, spreading up her arms, settling somewhere in her chest.
And even though she tried to hide it—even though she pressed her lips together and looked away—a small smile escaped.
He saw it.
He didn't mention it.
But his own smile softened, just a little.
---
♡ The Rain and the Reckoning
She was rearranging lavender bundles near the window when the door burst open, rain lashing against the glass, the wind howling like something wounded.
Jihan stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead, his suit jacket dripping onto the wooden floor. He was smiling.
"You'll catch a cold, Mr. Flirt," she said flatly.
"Then you'll have to nurse me back to health." He shook his head like a dog, spraying water across the hydrangeas. "I plan these things, you know."
She laughed.
It surprised her—the sound of it, bright and unexpected, bubbling up from somewhere she thought had dried up months ago. She pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, but the laughter kept coming.
Jihan watched her, his expression soft.
"There she is," he said quietly.
She stopped laughing. "What?"
"My favorite flower." He stepped closer, water dripping from his sleeves, his eyes never leaving hers. "I was starting to think I'd imagined her."
She looked away, her chest tight.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
"And you're beautiful when you're annoyed." He reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. "But I already knew that."
---
♡ The Walk Home
They walked in silence through the rain-soaked streets, his umbrella held over both of them, his arm brushing hers every few steps. The city was quiet, the shops closed, the only sound the soft patter of water on cobblestones and the distant hum of traffic.
"You know what I envy about flowers?" he asked.
"That they're prettier than you?"
He laughed. "I'm offended. But no." He glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. "I envy how flowers don't need words to understand. They just exist. And people love them anyway."
She stopped walking.
Her heart was thudding—loud, insistent, a warning she didn't want to hear.
"I see your pain, Arshi." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I respect it. I don't expect you to explain it or justify it or apologize for it." He turned to face her, close enough that she could see the rain on his lashes, the warmth in his dark eyes. "But still… I wish I could be your spring."
She stared at him.
Her throat was tight. Her hands were trembling. The umbrella had tilted, rain falling on both of them now, but neither of them moved.
"You barely know me," she whispered.
"I know enough." He reached out, his fingers brushing hers. "I know you're brave. I know you're broken. I know you're still standing, even when the world tried to knock you down." He paused. "I know your sister loved you more than anything. And I know—" His voice dropped. "I know I want to be the reason you smile again."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't pull away.
---
♡ The Flirtation That Became a Language
The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. And Jihan's presence became a constant—a thread woven through the fabric of her ordinary, lonely days.
He sent her messages every morning. Good morning, Flower. Did you sleep? There's a new café on Maple Street. I'm taking you there on Saturday. You don't have a choice. I saw a peacock today. It reminded me of you. Beautiful. Dramatic. Refusing to acknowledge my presence.
She tried to be rude. Tried to ignore him. Tried to build walls he couldn't climb.
But he was persistent. Patient. Annoyingly, impossibly charming.
"Did you know," he said one afternoon, leaning against the café counter while she arranged flowers, "that I think you have the prettiest smile I've ever seen?"
She didn't look up. "Oh please. You say that to all the girls."
"Maybe." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. "But I only mean it when it's true."
She rolled her eyes—so hard she was surprised they didn't get stuck.
But her cheeks were warm.
And when he left, she caught herself smiling at the door.
---
♡ The Question She Wasn't Ready to Answer
He found her on the pier, staring out at the river, her hands tucked into her coat, her breath misting in the cold air. The sun was setting, painting the water in shades of gold and rose, and she looked so small against the vastness of the sky.
"You're going to catch cold," he said, stepping up beside her.
"You say that every time."
"Because you never listen."
She didn't answer.
He stood beside her in silence, their shoulders almost touching, the wind tugging at their coats.
"Jihan."
"Hmm?"
"Why do you keep coming back?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I'm selfish."
She turned to look at him, surprised.
He met her eyes, his expression serious for once, all the teasing stripped away. "I keep coming back because being near you is the only time I feel like myself. Because your smile—even when you're trying to hide it—makes me believe the world isn't entirely broken." He paused. "Because I think I'm falling in love with you, and I don't know how to stop."
Her breath caught.
"Don't," she whispered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't love me. I'm not—" She looked away, her voice cracking. "I'm not ready. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin, turning her face back toward his.
"Then I'll wait." His voice was soft, certain. "I'll wait until you're ready. I'll wait until you're not scared anymore. I'll wait until you believe that someone can love you without expecting you to be whole first."
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He didn't wipe them away. Didn't tell her not to cry. Just stood there, his hand warm on her face, his eyes holding hers.
"I'm not going anywhere, Flower," he said quietly. "Not ever."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in months—for the first time since you disappeared—she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to carry the weight alone.
---