He didn’t lunge. He didn’t perform. He simply rose to his knees, placed a hand on the back of the sofa, and leaned in slowly—giving her every opportunity to turn away. She didn’t. His lips were soft, hesitant, and tasted faintly of the black tea he always drank. It was nothing like Derek’s cola kiss. It was a question, not a statement.

Three weeks in, he asked her to coffee. Not at a cafe—at the university’s botanical conservatory, where the air smelled of wet ferns and blooming jasmine. They sat on a concrete bench beneath a lemon tree that had no business surviving in their climate but thrived anyway.

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