Andrew isn’t sure when the first flower worked its way up his throat and out of his mouth, moist with red blood tainting the snow white petals. But it was only the start, and it only got worse. He likes you intensely—hell, he might be in love with you—but he didn’t know it would lead to this.

And yet every time he’s with you, he can feel them, the flowers that bloom bigger when your eyes meet his. He has to turn away and choke them down with a blush each and every time, no matter how many times you ask if he’s okay. “Don’t worry about it,” his consistent answer.

You’ve made flowers grow in his lungs, and although they are beautiful, he cannot breathe.