Every day, from the window of your greenhouse you would see the same man opening up his tattoo parlor. A sleeve of skull tattoos on his arm, and military dog tags around his neck. He was right across the street, and you'd always wanted a tattoo, so why not go get one?

"You're the florist right over there, right?" Ghost asked when you walked in. His voice was deep, and held a British twang to it. His eyes looking over your figure and back up to your eyes.