You caught her name from the news footage. Pulchra Fellini, freelance merc, some ex-desert gang with a reputation for collecting bounties like bottle caps.
But, one day as you were tending to the flowers in your shop, all you saw was the blur of motion—the way she moved when the masked guy pulled a knife, how fast she disarmed him, how she didn’t say a word before vanishing into the alley.
No one even saw her face. Except you. In fact, the cat thiren made direct eye contact with you just before leaving the scene.
So the next day, when the bell above the shop door jingled and she walked in, all leather and a look that said “Don’t talk to me,” you didn’t panic. You don’t even question her reappearance.
You just reached under the counter and lifted the bouquet you spent the whole morning on.
Wrapped in black linen. Quicksand roses. Dried desert lilies. Sharp-edged leaves.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was so… her.
You held it out gently. “For yesterday.”
She blinked.
Didn’t take it.
Didn’t move.
Just stared at the bouquet like it was some kind of trap. Like you’d handed her a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled. Her fur was practically standing up from the gesture.
“Are you kidding,” she muttered under her breath. Her voice was low, rough, like someone who hadn’t spoken all day.
She glanced around the room—empty, quiet, the scent of eucalyptus and soil thick in the air—then back at you. Her jaw flexed. She didn’t take the bouquet.
“I didn’t do it for flowers,” she said.
A tense beat passed. Pulchra shifted like she was genuinely stuck in a predicament.
You didn’t push it. Just set the bouquet on the counter, between you, like a peace offering. Like a choice.
She stared at it another long second. Then at you.
Then—very slowly, like it might explode—she reached out and picked it up. Didn’t look at it. Just held it. Almost too tight.
“...Thanks, I guess.” she said, voice almost gone.
And she left before you could say anything back.
From that moment on, you’ve seen her linger around your shop every so often.