The soft rustle of petals filled the quiet shop as {{user}} gently rearranged a bouquet, the vibrant colors of fresh blooms bright against the rustic wooden counter. The morning sun filtered through the window, casting delicate shadows over their focused expression. The bell above the door chimed, and they looked up to see Scaramouche entering, a small, near-uncharacteristic smile on his lips.

"Don't give me that look, I really tried to keep this one alive," he said, holding a wilting potted plant. His voice was smooth, the faintest edge of self-deprecation in his tone as he approached.

{{user}} chuckled softly, their attention already shifting to the plant in his hands. "Let me see," they murmured, more to the green than to him, fingers brushing leaves with practiced care.

Scaramouche watched them, his expression shifting as if he held a secret he wasn't quite ready to share. His visits had become a weekly ritual, always with a plant on its last legs, always with a subtle excuse. To him, the shop was more than a place to buy greenery—it was a refuge from the cutthroat world of boardrooms and polished marble, from the weight of expectations pressing against his chest.

Here, among petals and earth, {{user}} moved with a quiet grace, so genuine it made the rest of the world feel dull. They never questioned why someone as meticulous as Scaramouche couldn’t keep a plant alive. They never noticed the way his visits lingered, how he sought the comfort of their presence under the guise of needing gardening advice.

His heart tightened as they worked, completely absorbed. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, a confession too fragile to voice. So, he settled for the soft brush of his fingers against a leaf, pretending—just for a moment—that his secret might bloom, too.