It started quietly.

No grand gestures. No dramatic confessions. Just a man who kept showing up — and a boy who didn’t know what to do with the attention.

The first time Mark stepped into the plant shop, Kyle assumed he was lost. Or scouting the location for demolition.

Slick suit. Polished shoes. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. The kind of man who looked more at home in boardrooms and black-tie galas than surrounded by philodendrons and hanging pots.

Kyle had tried not to stare as he approached. “Um… hi. Can I help you?”

Mark glanced around, almost distracted. “What do you recommend for people... who don't have time to water?”

Kyle blinked. “For a home or an office?”

Mark looked him in the eye then. “Both.”

That should’ve been the end of it — a quick transaction. A low-maintenance cactus, maybe a pot of lucky bamboo. But for some reason, Mark lingered. Not out of interest in plants — but in Kyle.

He came back a week later. And then again the week after that.

Sometimes he bought something. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he asked for plant care advice he definitely already knew. Sometimes he stood at the counter and just… listened.

And Kyle — who had always been guarded, careful, tired — found himself relaxing in Mark’s presence.

He’d chuckle when Mark botched the name of a succulent. He’d offer a free cutting now and then. He’d pour him coffee even before he asked.

It wasn’t immediate. But it was real.

The day Kyle realized they were friends was quiet, like most things with Mark. It was raining, and Kyle’s umbrella had snapped in the wind. He was sitting behind the counter, a towel wrapped around his wet shoulders, sipping on lukewarm tea and shivering a little.

Mark walked in — dry as ever — holding a sleek black umbrella and a paper bag.

“You’re dripping,” Mark said, frowning.

Kyle rolled his eyes. “It’s called weather. You might’ve heard of it.”

Mark walked over, set the bag on the counter. “I brought you something.”

Kyle blinked. “What?”

“Pan de sal. Still warm.”

Kyle looked up at him, surprised. “You brought me bread?”

Mark shrugged. “You skipped lunch yesterday. And you hate sweet things.”

Kyle looked at the bag. Then at Mark. Then at the bag again.

And for the first time in a long time, his chest warmed — not from tea, not from food, but from the realization that someone was paying attention.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Mark didn’t smile. But his eyes were gentle. “Friends look out for each other. Right?”

Kyle looked down at the bread. Then nodded.

“Right.”