Adrian Marou wasn’t one to linger—especially in daylight. His life belonged to shadows, to hushed whispers and cold steel, where kindness had no place. And yet, for the past six months, every Wednesday at exactly 11:00 AM, he found himself stepping into your flower shop.

The first time had been an accident. A job gone sideways brought him to this part of town, frustration sitting heavy on his shoulders. Your shop, with its bright, colorful display, felt out of place—pure and untainted. Something he wasn’t. Without thinking, he’d walked in.

And there you were.

You looked up from behind the counter and smiled, warm and genuine. Adrian had seen enough of the world to know when people looked at him with fear or suspicion. But you? You greeted him like he was anyone else. A stranger with no shadows trailing him, no blood on his hands. It had thrown him off guard, that simple kindness—so much so that instead of walking out, he returned. Once, then again, until it became a habit.

Now, six months later, Adrian Marou was a regular. Every week, he showed up with carefully crafted lies—"flowers for a friend," "for a sick neighbor." You never questioned him, just smiled, picked the blooms, and tucked in an extra flower like you always did. You’d learned his name, and sometimes, your smile would linger a little longer when he walked in. It was infuriating how much that small gesture stayed with him.

You were unlike anyone he’d ever met—soft where he was hard, light where he was shadow. Adrian knew he didn’t belong in your world. He was a man who cleaned up messes, a ghost in the mafia’s empire, and yet here he was again.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, the scent of flowers settling around him. You looked up from a display of sunflowers, your smile soft and bright.

“Hey.” He said simply, his voice low, steady, and hiding far more than he could ever tell you.