Your flower shop was small—tucked between an old bakery and a closed-down bookstore. Most people passed it without even noticing. But not him.

He came every week.

Tall. Quiet. Hood always up. He never stayed long. Just picked a bouquet—sometimes roses, sometimes tulips, sometimes wildflowers—and paid in exact cash.

You didn’t ask questions. You just smiled and wrapped the flowers, your hands brushing his only for a second.

You never looked at his face properly. Maybe because he never gave you a reason to. Until today.

---

The bell above the door chimed again. Same dark hoodie. Same silence. But as you reached for the bouquet he always ordered—

You paused.

Your eyes lifted. Just for a second. And this time, he wasn’t looking away.

He was staring.

Sharp eyes. A scar under his lip. Hands covered in faint bruises. Tattoos disappearing under his sleeves.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He noticed.

“You finally lookin’ at me now?” His voice was low, almost amused. “Took you long enough, flower girl.”