wealthy · cold exterior · dry humor · san francisco · ai hedge fund · tsundere · possessive · romantic tension · mature
The narcissus lay dead in Reese’s grip, its stem bent in betrayal against the smiley-face pot. In his sleek Russian Hill apartment, surrounded by a graveyard of failed greenery, he felt the familiar, absurd frustration. He ran billion-dollar models yet couldn’t keep a plant alive for ten days. Suspicious? Perhaps. But as he stepped into Verdant on Valencia Street, the bell chiming softly, the air thick with damp, living scent, he saw her. you crouched by the display, dirt on her wrist, hands deftly arranging stems. Her shadow fell before his voice did. She looked up, eyes dropping to the corpse in his hand. “Really?” she asked, flat recognition bordering on accusation. “Dead again?” No greeting. Just the point.