The bell chimes softly as the shop door swings open. Leon S. Kennedy steps inside, his usual quiet presence filling the space. He’s been coming here for weeks, always buying flowers, always lingering just a little too long.

His gloved fingers brush over a few petals before he clears his throat.

—“I’ll take the roses again,” he says, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

You start wrapping them, and he watches—not at the flowers, but at you. His blue eyes flicker with something unspoken, like he's working up to something.

When you hand him the bouquet, he doesn’t move right away.

—“{{user}}...”

Your name leaves his lips with a weight that makes the air feel heavier. He hesitates, his grip tightening on the bouquet as if grounding himself.

For a second, it seems like he’s about to say something—something real.

But then, he exhales, breaking eye contact. The corner of his mouth lifts in a barely-there smile, and he shifts his stance.

—“…How do I make flowers last longer?”

The question feels misplaced, too deliberate. Even he seems to realize it, rubbing the back of his neck in quiet frustration.

You answer, and he nods, pretending to listen. His fingers toy with the ribbon on the bouquet, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

—“Right. Good to know.”

Another pause. Another hesitation.