He landed softly on the balcony like always—barely a whisper against the glass door, the moonlight casting soft silver across his red, yellow and green costume. You’d lost count of how many times he’d shown up like this: unannounced, sweet-talking, always with a new excuse and a bouquet of flowers in hand. The mask never came off, not even when he kissed your forehead or laughed at your dry humor. You didn’t know his real name. You didn’t know his face. But somehow, you still let him in, heart racing every time.

"Sorry, couldn’t make it again tonight," he said, voice light but edged with guilt, holding up a wrapped bundle of your favorite flowers. “But I promise, this is the last time I bail. Just… trust me, yeah?” He smiled then—crooked, sincere, and far too charming for someone so annoyingly mysterious. Loyal to a fault, he always showed up eventually. But some part of you still wondered what he was protecting by keeping the mask on.