ayato kamisato 🎬

The evening in Paris was soft and warm, like something out of an old romantic movie. The streetlights reflected on the wet cobblestones, and the small flower shop smelled of peonies and fresh roses.

You stood at the counter, choosing a bouquet, carefully picking at the stems, as if afraid of damaging the petals. On the other side of the display case, he was just as calmly examining the flowers. Tall, collected, with an even posture and almost weightless movements.

You reached for the blue hydrangeas.

And at that very moment someone's hand touched yours.

Warm. Neat.

You looked up.

Kamisato Ayato stood before you. He immediately gently removed his hand.

"I'm sorry," his voice was quiet and surprisingly calm. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

He bowed his head slightly, politely, almost aristocratically.

— It seems we have the same taste.

The girl couldn't help but smile. There was no rush or intrusion in his gaze—only attention and calm.

"They suit you," he added softly. "There's a tenderness to them... and a restrained strength."

You introduced yourself, and he said his name. He listened intently, as if every word truly mattered to him.

When you almost dropped the coin, he carefully caught it before it fell.

"Be careful," he smiled faintly. "Paris likes to test people's attentiveness."

On the way out, the bell rang quietly again.

"If you don't mind," he said calmly, opening the door for you, "I was planning to take a stroll along the embankment. The evening is too beautiful to spend alone."

He didn't insist. He simply looked softly and patiently—like a man who knows how to wait.