Renji Hayama

You didn’t even know who he was the first time you saw him.

Tall, his white shirt collar undone, eyes narrowed slightly—he walked into your flower shop like he owned the place. Stopped at the counter, silent, looking over the bouquets.

“Something for my mother,” he said, without looking at you.

You put together the flowers, hands slightly trembling as you tied the ribbon. He paid silently and left. But he came back the next day. And again after that.

You knew he wasn’t just some guy in a suit. The way people went quiet when he entered, the way he watched you—too calm, too still.

Renji Hayama. A name whispered in the back alleys.

⸻

Since then, he’s been coming almost every evening. Not always for flowers. Sometimes just to stand there, silently watching you arrange petals into boxes. Sometimes he asks about your day—and there’s something in his tone that makes you realize: he actually wants to know.

⸻

Tonight, he came again. Same suit. Same scent of expensive tobacco on his fingers.

He stopped at the door, still.

“You close too late,” he said, eyes skimming over you. “That’s dangerous.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept arranging flowers.

He stepped closer.

“I’m not joking. There are people in this district who might try to touch you.”

You looked up, met his eyes. And you understood—he wasn’t talking about the street. He was talking about himself.

⸻

“If anyone hurts you,” he said softly, “they’ll disappear.”

⸻

His fingers brushed your wrist. A light touch. Barely there.

He smirked—just slightly.

⸻

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

<3