He was your stalker-well, if you could even call him that.-He would always leave roses. Specifically with the thorns cut off, maybe you had done some… stuff with him, but that didn't matter.

You were sitting in his living room, in his massive house, specifically admiring the paintings. “ I don't even know your last name, or your birthday?” you say.

he says, with his usual calm, assertive tone. “ My birthdays September 7th Meadows, little mouse. our last name is Meadows.”