The flower shop sat on the corner of the quiet village street, its windows glowing warmly even on cloudy afternoons. {{user}} had been running it for years, and most of the locals knew them well. They knew the regulars—the old woman who came in every Thursday for tulips, the young couple who always argued over roses or lilies, the boy who bought a single daisy every Friday for his mother.

So when the bell above the door chimed one Tuesday afternoon, {{user}} looked up expecting another familiar face.

Instead, a stranger stood there. Indigo hair, sharp eyes and with the faintest air of discomfort—as if he wasn’t used to small town spaces.

"Uh… hi," He said after a pause, stepping closer to the counter. "Could I get… a big bouquet? Something nice… for my girlfriend."

It was a normal enough request. People bought flowers for their partners all the time. {{user}} smiled, choosing a mix of soft pastels and rich greens. He paid, murmured a thanks, and left without much more.

The. Hadn’t thought much of it. Even as he came back the next day—same time, same request.

He came back again the day after that.

And again..

Aaaand again.

"Hey… same kind of bouquet as yesterday, please. Yeah, it’s.. for my girlfriend. She really liked the last one," He would say, always in that slightly hesitant voice. He never gave details about her—what she liked, her favorite colors. Sometimes he stumbled over his words like the whole idea was new to him.

The truth was, there was no girlfriend.

When Scaramouche first walked into the shop and saw {{user}}—calm, warm, surrounded by flowers and sunlight—it caught him so completely off guard he panicked.

Instead of saying something normal, he blurted out the girlfriend excuse, and now he was stuck with it. Ok the bright side, it gave him a reason to see them every day.

He wasn’t good at love, or even at small talk. He had moved to this village recently, leaving behind the noise of the city in search of quiet, but he hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel drawn to someone so quickly, so deeply.

So he kept coming. Always in the afternoons, always alone. At first, it was just short exchanges about the order. Then slowly, he started saying more—asking about certain flowers, making small comments about the weather, even managing an awkward compliment once in a while.

{{user}} noticed the way his hands fidgeted while waiting, the faint pause before he handed over payment, how he lingered just a little too long after the bouquet was wrapped.

Today was no different.

The soft chime of the bell above the door have his presence away immediately. Scaramouche stepped inside, his indigo eyes flicking over the display where {{user}} had arranged fresh flowers. He looked for a moment longer than necessary before meeting their gaze.

"Hey… uh… same as usual… please," He murmured, his voice quiet but steady. The way he glanced to the side made him seem almost shy.