Adrian glanced at her briefly, then back to the road. “You haven’t had lunch yet, have you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Didn’t have time. Things kept popping up.”

  “There’s a small place along the way. We can stop. It won’t take long.”

  She looked over, surprised. “We don’t have to...”

  “I’m not in a rush,” he said simply. “And you’ll need something before the forest.”

  Mira hesitated for half a breath, then smiled. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  Adrian didn’t answer, just flicked on the turn signal as the road curved toward an offshoot, one Mira hadn’t even noticed until now.

  Sure enough, just around the bend was a little roadside food stand shaded by white linen canopies and framed with trailing vines. Wooden flower boxes spilled over with lavender, calendula, and basil. The scent of herbs and warm batter hung in the air.

  A small chalkboard sign read:

  “Blossom Crepes & Garden Sips – Fresh, Light, Lovely.”

  The vendor herself was a gentle-eyed woman with a sunhat and floral apron, humming as she ladled a pale batter onto a hotplate.

  They didn’t even need to step out fully, just a small bench under the canopy, a breeze carrying petals from a blooming dogwood nearby. Mira sat, visibly charmed.

  Adrian ordered: one buckwheat crepe with goat cheese, honey, and thyme, and another with grilled peaches and almond slivers. Each came with a chilled glass bottle of hibiscus and rose iced tea, lightly sweetened with apple syrup.

  When the crepes arrived, tied with little sprigs of rosemary and tucked in brown paper stamped with pressed pansies, Mira stared at hers in delight.

  “This is…” she blinked. “Kind of adorable.”

  Adrian didn’t say anything, just passed her a napkin and took a bite of his own, gaze drifting lazily across the trees.

  Mira chewed slowly, watching the flowers dance in the late sun, the warmth of the crepe grounding her in a moment that felt strangely, unrealistically, gentle.

  Mira took another bite, careful not to let the paper wrap slip, then glanced at him through the curtain of her silver hair.

  “Do you come here often?” she asked lightly.

  Adrian shook his head. “First time.”

  She blinked, a little surprised. “Really?” Then smiled, turning her gaze toward the flowers blooming beside the stand. “Well... it’s lovely. The crepe’s adorable. And surprisingly good.”

  She looked down at hers, the little pressed pansy near the fold, then added with sincerity, “Thank you for making my day.”

  Her voice was honest, simple, soft, the kind of gratitude most people forgot to say aloud.

  Adrian glimpsed at her, at the olive-green jumpsuit, the cream turtleneck, the mushroom pin tilted boldly on her hat like it belonged there. Her silver hair shimmered slightly in the light, and she was chewing her crepe with the slow contentment of someone entirely at ease in her odd little world.

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  He didn’t laugh. But something in his eyes shifted, an almost-smile, resting at the edge of his mouth.

  “You know you look like someone straight out of a documentary called Botanists of the Northern Hills, right?”

  Mira stopped mid-chew, turned to him with a deadpan expression. “Was that a compliment or just a factual report?”

  “Same thing,” he replied, sipping his tea.

  Without a word, she gave him a look that said everything, then snorted softly and resumed eating, shoulders settling, the spark in her eyes unshaken.

  They stayed like that for a while, nestled under the soft canopy, the scent of herbs and warm batter lingering in the air. The world around them slowed. A bee hovered near the lavender. Leaves turned gently in the breeze. Somewhere beyond the trees, a bird called once, then fell silent.

  And then, a couple of butterflies floated down from the branches above, drifting on the breeze like dandelion seeds too heavy to wish away. They danced around each other in the air, their wings brushing, pulling apart, then circling close again, not quite landing, not quite separating.

  Mira followed their movement, her gaze softening without realizing. They circled once more before finally settling, one on the curve of her shoulder, the other on the edge of Adrian’s sleeve, wings lifting and falling in rhythm.

  She didn’t move. Not even a blink. Her breath caught slightly in her chest, as if the smallest shift might break the spell.

  Only when the butterfly lifted, wings brushing her collarbone in a whisper, and drifted upward again, did she finally exhale. Her eyes drifted on their flight as the two butterflies resumed their gentle circling, drifting higher, farther.

  Then, soft and almost to herself, she said,

  “Do you think they’re a pair?”

  She added, “If they found each other in autumn… could they stay together through winter?”

  Adrian watched the butterflies disappear into the leaves above before replying, his tone calm and steady.

  “Most can’t. A few weeks, maybe a month if conditions are right. Some migrate, like the Monarchs. Some go dormant in hidden places. But most don’t survive the cold.”

  “For the ones that can’t…” she said, her voice softer now, “how do they keep going? Their kind, I mean. If they don’t make it, and winter always comes…”

  Adrian set his tea bottle aside, his fingers resting on the bench beside him. “They pass it on,” he said. “Eggs, usually. Left tucked under leaves, or bark. When the adults are gone, what they left behind waits, through frost, through dark. Then, when the season changes, the next ones wake up.”

  Mira was thoughtful.

  “So even if they don’t make it,” she said after a while, “something of them still does.”

  Adrian didn’t reply. But he stayed there beside her, unmoving, as if something small and invisible had settled between them.

  He leaned back slightly on the bench, one arm resting along the edge, fingers draped loosely, almost absentmindedly. His posture, usually so crisp and calculated, had softened. His shoulders were no longer held in perfect symmetry, tilted just enough to show he’d let himself settle. One ankle hooked over the opposite knee.

  He looked…unguarded. Like someone who had finally stepped out of a room where he’d been expected to be everything.

  His eyes drifted, tracking the shifting branches above, the way the light moved through them like water. Every so often, his thumb traced along the side of his tea bottle, as though he hadn’t quite noticed he was holding it.

  In the afternoon light, he looked more like a boy her age than the prodigy everyone whispered about. Not the strategist. Not the name. Just a presence beside her, leaning back with his tie gone and the wind in his hair.

  And for a moment, it felt like the world outside the vendor didn’t exist.

  “You look better this way,” Mira said, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.

  Adrian turned toward her slightly. “Which way?”

  She smiled faintly. “Sunlit-crepe-vendor kind of way. More human.”

  A pause passed, sunlight moving softly over the wood grain between them.

  Then, curious, she asked. “What’s in your mind right now?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “The crepe.”

  She gave a slow blink, processing, then laughed under her breath. “So that’s it, then. The secret.”

  He looked back. “Secret to what?”

  “To you,” she said. “Just give you a crepe with flowers on it and a bench, and you’re… happy.”

  Adrian didn’t answer, but the way his shoulders relaxed said more than enough.

  They finished the last of their tea in companionable silence. When Adrian stood, Mira followed, brushing a stray flower petal from her lap.

  The leaves rustled and the bench creaked softly as they stepped away from the vendor, the afternoon light trailing behind them.

  ?