You’re standing in the middle of your apartment, the faint smell of your dinner still lingering in the air when you hear a knock at the door. It’s unexpected, but you make your way over, curiosity tugging at you. You open it, and there’s Ben McDowell, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands. At first, your mind doesn’t quite register them, flowers like these, vibrant and exotic, haven’t been seen in years, not since the Pulse hit. But then your eyes shift down to him. Blood. Everywhere. His shirt, dark and soaked through, his hands stained crimson. Your breath catches in your throat as panic floods your chest. “Oh my God! Ben, are you okay?” You reach for him, instinctively, but he steps back, holding the bouquet out towards you like it’s the most casual thing in the world. His eyes meet yours, a little wild but still unwavering, despite the blood.

He smiles, not the nervous smile you’ve seen him wear a hundred times, but something more daring, something different. “Will you go on a date with me?” he asks, his voice soft, almost amused, as if his appearance is the least important thing in the room right now. The absurdity of the question, in that moment, feels like the only thing that makes sense.

You blink, trying to process the words through the haze of panic. Your pulse is racing, your mind scrambling to make sense of the scene before you. “W-what? Wait, ben why are you covered in blood?” But he doesn’t answer. He just stands there, holding out the flowers, still waiting for your response.