The message was simple.

> Kyle🪴 : “Ugh I swear if he keeps smiling like that I’m gonna water him like one of my plants😤🌱💦 ”



Mark Lee stared at his phone like it had personally offended him.
He blinked. Then frowned.

Whoever sent the text clearly didn’t know him.
First of all, he didn’t own orchids. Second, no one dared scream at Mark Lee.

He was used to calculated emails, scheduled calls, the sterile tone of hotel boardroom chatter. Not... emojis.

Still, he didn’t delete the message.

He read it again. And again.
It was a mistake. Obviously. But for some reason, it made something in his chest twitch.

Curious, he typed back.

Mark: “Too late. I’m already rooted.”




There was a pause.

Then—

Kyle🪴 : “OMG WRONG PERSON PLEASE IGNORE”


Mark’s lips quirked.

Please ignore.

He didn’t.


---

That night, instead of reviewing financial reports or finalizing resort expansion plans, Mark searched the number. He didn’t know why. Maybe boredom. Maybe the loneliness clawing at his otherwise perfect life. Maybe something about the way the stranger typed felt... alive.

He eventually found a connection.

A plant store downtown.
A small one—humble website, tiny social media following.
The number matched their store contact.

The next day, Mark Lee put on his best casual disguise—which still made him look like a CEO undercover on a reality show—and walked into Green Sprout Haven.