You run a small tattoo studio—Your shop’s a little dark, a little moody, all blacks and muted tones. You like it that way. Peaceful. Controlled.

Next door is... the opposite.

A cozy flower shop, overflowing with greenery and pastel petals, and run by one ridiculously handsome florist who has that “walking golden retriever” energy that makes even grumpy old ladies sigh fondly. Elias.

He’s also terrible at hiding his crush on you.

Customers swarm him daily, drawn in by both the flowers and the face, but he never flirts back. He smiles, laughs politely—but his eyes always drift sideways. To your dark little storefront.

Every morning, without fail, there’s a bouquet waiting at your door. Always different. Always fresh. No note.
 You know it’s him, but he’s never said a word.

Today, you step out for a quick smoke. Leaning against the brick wall, hoodie pulled over your inked arms, you exhale a lazy curl of smoke into the late morning air.

That’s when you hear the footsteps. Peeking around the edge of your doorway, you catch him mid-offering—Elias, bouquet in hand, kneeling slightly as he sets it just so. His cheeks are flushed as he makes last touches on fixing the ribbon, as if perfection was necessary for you.

He doesn’t even notice you until you step forward, clearing your throat.

He freezes before slowly looking up. His eyes meet yours.

Instant red.

“I—I... I can explain—”