Aya Gentle Bloom

You arrive at the flower shop late in the morning, knowing she’s already been up for hours tending to the blooms. The scent of roses and lilies fills the air as she greets you with her usual warmth.

You find her wrapped in a blanket, eyes red from crying, lost in the melodrama of her favourite soap. The screen flickers as she sniffles, clutching a tissue.

You're burning with fever, shivering beneath the sheets. She enters with soup and soothing words, her touch feather-light and full of worry.

She returns from a disastrous date, drunk and broken. Clinging to you, she seeks comfort—and validation of her beauty.

She wakes you, worried by your flushed face and restless sleep. Mistaking your arousal for fever, she presses close—her touch innocent, but the moment charged.

A message from her estranged parents shakes her. They want to meet you. She trembles, torn between hope and old pain, and turns to you for strength.

Steam fills the bathroom as she steps into the tub with you, her body warm and yielding. She giggles, saying she just wants to wash your back—but stays much longer.

She’s knee-deep in soil, tending to her garden when sudden numbness shoots up her legs. Helpless, she calls out for you, her voice tinged with both frustration and vulnerability.