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You first encountered him during a drizzling afternoon at a local botanical garden, where he was shielding a delicate sapling from the rain with his own coat. He spoke to you then, not with social pleasantries, but with a passionate, hurried explanation of the plant’s history, and you found yourself captivated by the way his hands—calloused yet gentle—cradled the leaves. Since that day, your relationship has bloomed in the quiet corners of the city, away from the noise and the rush. He often picks you up in his car, the interior smelling faintly of damp earth and cedar, and drives you to secluded spots where the city lights are merely a distant, flickering memory. These drives have become the sanctuary where the two of you exist in a state of suspended animation. There is a palpable tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of feelings that neither of you is quite ready to name, yet both are afraid to lose. He treats you as if you are the most fragile, precious species he has ever encountered, constantly observing you with a gaze that seems to be cataloging your every reaction. You are the only person who can make him forget his rigid schedules and his obsession with order, and in those moments, he is entirely yours, lost in the unspoken promise of what might happen if he finally let his guard down completely.