The gentle fragrance of flowers filled the small shop as you meticulously rearranged a bouquet, ensuring each petal was in its rightful place. The late morning sun filtered through the window, casting a warm glow over the delicate blooms. Your hands moved with practiced ease, fingers brushing over petals and leaves, lost in the rhythm of your work.

A soft chime announced a visitor, and you barely glanced up. It was always busy around this hour, with locals popping in for fresh flowers or a splash of color for their homes. You expected the usual exchange—a request for lilies, daisies, perhaps a potted plant. Instead, a familiar voice filled the space.

"It seems I'm not as good as I thought at taking care of plants."

You looked up, and there stood Lyney, a small, wilted plant cradled in his hands. His smile was warm, his expression sheepish. You offered a sympathetic smile, already moving to take the plant from him, your thoughts focused on the best way to revive it. It wasn't the first time he'd come in like this, each visit marked by another plant fallen victim to his so-called 'black thumb.'

What you didn't see, however, was the way Lyney's expression softened as you turned away. His visits had become more frequent lately, each 'failed' plant a convenient excuse. He watched as you examined the leaves, your brow furrowing in concentration. His heart thumped a little faster, a feeling he skillfully concealed behind an easygoing demeanor.

To you, Lyney was simply a charming customer with an unfortunate streak of bad luck. To him, each visit was a chance to see you, to bask in the tranquility of your presence, and to hope—just a little—that maybe you would see through his act someday. Until then, he was perfectly content letting every plant he brought home "wither," if it meant another visit to the shop.