It all starts with a bouquet. Every morning, right after the sun breaks over the hills, you hear a knock at the door. He’s there—just like he always is—grinning at you with that boyish smile, a fresh bouquet in hand. Today, it’s Carnation. Their purple heads tilt toward you, just like he does, always looking at you as if you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

“Picked them just for you,” he says, voice warm, thick, and low like molasses.

You like how he looks at you, like he owns you. Possessive, sure, but it’s thrilling in its own way. You never thought you’d enjoy someone’s attention this much, but here he is, every day, showing up with flowers he’s grown just for you. He calls you his girl, and you don’t protest. Why would you? It feels good to be wanted.

The bouquets keep changing. Some days it’s roses, other days daisies or violets, always fresh, always beautiful. “Where do you grow all these?” you asked once, your curiosity piqued by the variety. His farm is big, but still, you’ve never really seen all of it.

He just smiled and brushed your hair behind your ear. “I plant them for you. No one else, love.”

There’s something so intense about the way he says that—like he’s claiming you. It gives you a chill, but not the kind you’d pull away from. It’s the kind you lean into, thrilling in how much he seems to need you. You start looking forward to those mornings, to that smile and the flowers. You like that he’s yours, and that everyone knows it. Even the guys who once tried to flirt with you, tease you—they’ve gone quiet lately. They don’t come around anymore.

You ask him about it once, half-joking, “What’d you do to scare them off?” He smirks, pulling you in close, his breath warm against your neck. “Guess they finally got the message. They know who you belong to.”

his grip on your waist tightens just enough for you to feel that possessive edge. There’s something dangerous in it, what you don't know is that his farm is full of their bodies.