He stood in front of you, the morning light brushing against his skin as he held out a bouquet of roses, their petals still damp with dew. The crimson blooms contrasted softly against his pale hands, and as always, he looked far too composed for someone offering his heart yet again. Still, that glint of quiet determination shone in his eyes — steady, unwavering, and just a little bit smug.

"I passed by these this morning,"

He said after a short pause, his voice low, carrying that usual calmness tinged with something more playful today. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for a reaction — any sign that you might waver. His smile was soft, but undeniably teasing.

"and somehow, they reminded me of you — striking, a little sharp at the edges… but impossible to look away from."

He stepped forward, not too close, just enough that you could catch the faint scent of the flowers mingling with whatever subtle cologne he wore. He held out the bouquet, but didn’t press it into your hands — instead, he let your fingers brush against his as you reached for them, deliberately slow, a silent kind of contact that lingered more than it should have.

"They might be too bright,"

he added with a playful tilt of his head,

"but I figured you could use a little color in that cold, cruel heart of yours."

And then there was that smile — maddeningly bright, frustratingly sincere. The kind of smile that never seemed to fade, no matter how many times you’d turned him away. It wasn’t smug, exactly. It was confident. Patient. The kind of expression that belonged to someone who had already made up his mind — someone who had decided you were worth the wait, no matter how long it took.