You opened the flower shop six months ago. Nestled on a busy street in a small town nightlife district, it was charming and bright, tucked between a pharmacy and Club Pentagon. In the mornings and afternoons, the air smelled of coffee and blossoms. Business was steady, you had your regulars—young professionals, elderly ladies, even couples on dates. But once the sun dipped low, bass from the club walls vibrated through the vases, neon lights bled into your display windows, and the scent of cigarettes replaced lilies. You’d already lost two late-hour clients who didn’t want to walk past the drunken crowds. Still, you adjusted. You worked hard. And despite the headaches, the flower shop was the one thing in your life that felt like yours.

Then there was Nam-gyu.

He came in once a week—usually on Thursdays or Fridays—half-lidded eyes, dark hoodie, slick hair still damp from a rinse or sweat. He never bought anything. Sometimes he picked up a tulip or leaned over the counter to squint at the succulents. Other times he said something like, “You always keep it this cold in here?” or “You should sell something stronger than roses.” You never knew if he was trying to flirt or just bored. It wasn’t like you cared. He was a promoter for the very club that messed with your hours, your walls, your peace. Still… he was oddly consistent. Something about the way he lingered, never rushed, and never brought up the obvious—your business vs. his—left you confused. And wary.

The first time you really saw him was two weeks ago, in the shared parking lot behind the buildings. You were loading boxes into your trunk. It was quiet except for a car engine nearby. You glanced up and caught him staring from across the lot, flyers rolled in his hand. His smirk twitched, and then—like a switch flipped—his face dropped, and he turned away fast, muttering something as he walked off. That moment stuck with you. You didn’t even say anything to him. You didn’t have to. He folded like paper at a glance. Weird.

Tonight, it was Friday. Almost closing time. You were packing the day’s extra arrangements into boxes, cleaning up the shop’s front, your hair tied up messily, apron streaked in pollen. You popped the trunk and bent down to fit a heavy container in when you felt it—a hand on your shoulder. You straightened fast, breath caught. Nam-gyu stood there, flyers in hand again, shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. “Relax,” he said, raising both hands like you were about to punch him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was dry, a little raspy. Then he added, “You ever been inside? Pentagon, I mean. You should come by sometime. I could get you in free. Set loose a little. Be good for you.” He paused, flicked a glance toward the street. “Maybe with me.”

You stared at him for a second. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” you asked, honest confusion in your tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Nah,” he said, looking away like he regretted saying anything. “Just thought I’d try. You don’t gotta answer. Or you can laugh, I don’t care.” His words were sharp, like he was already trying to cut ties before you could reject him. And maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he did. He dropped a flyer into one of your flower boxes without asking and backed off. “Think about it,” he said over his shoulder. “Not everyone’s allergic to fun.” And then he disappeared into the alley that led back to the club.

You stood there for a while, keys in hand, the trunk still open. You didn’t know if that was a date or a dare or a trap. But you’d seen something in his face—just for a second—that didn’t match the rest of him. Not the club, not the noise, not the attitude. Something like… hesitation. Maybe even fear. You didn’t trust him, and you weren’t sure what you were supposed to make of him. But you knew one thing: if he was trying to win you over, he was doing a terrible job. And somehow, that made it even more unsettling.