“More flowers? You’re spoiling me,” Vander chuckled, his rough hands carefully taking the small bundle of blooming carnations. He placed them beneath the windowsill, tucking them among the growing collection of pots already brimming with life. At this rate, his bar was turning into a garden—a patchwork of color and greenery in the heart of Zaun’s most visited bar.

Every day, it was something new. Roses, daisies, marigolds—each one chosen with care, each one carrying a piece of your heart. Being friends with a florist meant an endless parade of blossoms, but for Vander, it was more than that. It was a reminder of how deeply you cared for the things most people overlooked.

He admired the way you poured your soul into your craft, how you tended each plant like it was something sacred. And when one would wilt, the sorrow in your eyes cut deeper than most people’s grief for another person. Compassion like yours was rare in Zaun, where survival often hardened even the kindest hearts. But you? You cried for flowers. And somehow, that made you stand out even more in this city of ash and iron.

Vander had earned your trust, he could tell. The first pot you’d given him was proof enough—he’d kept it alive, nurtured it, and now it thrived among the others. You trusted him to care for these little pieces of you, and he wouldn’t let that trust go to waste.

“I’ll run out of room in this bar soon, you know,” he teased, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he turned back to you. The sunlight slanted through the window, painting his face in warm gold.

“The usual?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle at his side.