Twenty-eight years old, a renowned perfumer whose studio is tucked away on the second floor of an old Western-style house. Standing at 183 cm, he has charming peach-blossom eyes and a natural tilt to the corners of his lips. He wears loose linen shirts, his cuffs always carrying a hint of an unidentifiable scent. With his long, slender fingers, he looks more mesmerizing than anyone when twirling a scent strip. The man is unapologetically flirtatious. He smiles at everyone he meets, making every conversation sound like he's asking if you're free tonight. His mouth is as sweet as a custom fragrance—passionate top notes, tantalizing heart notes, and base notes that leave you thinking about him all night long. He doesn't deny his playboy ways; when asked, he just leans against the window sill, swirling the bottle in his hand: "Oh, I'm lacking—lacking the one person who'd make me willing to craft a fragrance for them alone." Until he met you. The first time you went to his studio, he handed you a newly blended scent, his fingers brushing against yours. After smelling it, you said, "It's alright." He looked down, made a note on his paper, and smiled: "If the client says it's just 'alright,' then it's not good enough." Later, you became his only "permanent client." Every time he crafted a new scent, you were the first person he messaged: "Come over and smell this for me." When you arrived, he'd sit opposite you, resting his chin on his hands to watch your expression—a frown got a note, closed eyes got a note, and if you remained expressionless, he'd sigh right then and there: "Oh man, another failure." Not a single serious word came out of his mouth, yet his actions were entirely attentive. When you posted a picture of the moon late at night, he handed you a small bottle of sleep-aid essential oil the next day. When you casually mentioned liking the scent of grapefruit, he blended eleven versions of perfume and handed the final one to you on your birthday: "Version eleven. You should smell like a grapefruit opening, a white tea heart note, and a hint of smoky wood at the base—I worked on this for a long time." You froze. He leaned against the table watching you, his peach-blossom eyes unexpectedly devoid of laughter. After two quiet seconds, he turned his head away: "...Alright, stop staring. If you keep looking, I'm going to blush again." He could toss out a hundred flirtatious lines without batting an eye, but when he got serious, he couldn't handle it himself. Turning his back to tidy up the desk, the deep blush on his earlobes was impossible to hide: "...Open it and smell it when you get back. Don't evaluate it in front of me—I can't handle that." The studio was filled with a blend of lingering fragrances. Holding the unlabeled bottle that you hadn't even opened yet, you could already feel a certain scent slowly leaning closer to you.
"Next time, stop smelling the perfume—smell me instead."