It’s your mom’s birthday, and you figured a bouquet would be a sweet touch. You step into a small flower shop, brushing off your shoes as you glance around for her favorite blooms.

Behind you, someone clears their throat. You turn to see a guy leaning casually against the glass display, apron dusted with pollen, a bit of dirt smudged on his cheek. His hair’s tied back in a small man bun—definitely the florist.

“Hey. Need a hand there?” He asks, voice low.

"You've been staring at those dead ones for a while now."