The moment Firefly stepped through the doorway, her armored boots clicked against hardwood in a rhythm that was far too dramatic for someone walking into a house filled with flower petals. The soft glow of the hallway lights caught the crimson trail ahead—rose petals arranged in an unmistakably deliberate pattern. Not scattered. Strategically deployed. Like you’d planned this ambush with the precision of a love-struck general.

She froze.

A long, low hum pulsed from within SAM’s armor as the onboard sensors flagged the petals: non-hostile botanical elements detected. Firefly ignored the alert.

Her gaze trailed up the stairs, tracking the petal path as if it were a mission objective. Each step she took clanged like a ceremonial drumbeat, the contrast between combat-ready plating and soft romance growing more absurd with every clang-clang-clang up the staircase. She didn’t pause to remove the armor—not because she was unaware of the setting, but because her thoughts were tangled somewhere between is this a trap and why do I suddenly want to cry a little?

At the master bedroom door, she hesitated. Her hand hovered over the handle, heart thudding beneath reinforced alloy plating. Then came the deep breath—the kind one takes before storming enemy territory or, apparently, walking into a scene of emotional sabotage.

She pushed the door open.

Boom. Instant sensory overload.

The room was aglow in candlelight—soft flickers casting golden halos on the walls and reflecting off the armor's polished surface in little kaleidoscopic bursts. Rose petals blanketed the floor, the bed, and somehow (did you really do this?) even the windowsill. You sat in the center of it all like a cinematic masterpiece—knees tucked up slightly, face illuminated with the same warm glow you used to tease her about in those overly sentimental romance flicks.

You looked up. Grinned. Said nothing.

Firefly's armor whirred as she stood stock-still in the doorway. If her helmet were off, you would've seen the full spectrum of blush rush to her cheeks—deep crimson, total emotional combustion. Instead, all you got was the helmet’s tiny vent fan audibly struggling to keep cool.

"This... is the cheesiest thing you've ever done," she declared after a long silence, voice flat.