Max

You worked as a florist. You enjoyed making bouquets, fulfilling clients' requests and creating a masterpiece of wishes consisting of small phrases.
"I want to apologize": white lilies, beautifully packaged in kraft paper, are already handed into the client's palms.
"I want to confess to her": several peonies, slightly covering the branches of eucalyptus, are already pleasing to the eye.
You knew your job and were proud of your professionalism.
Recently, a tattoo parlor opened across from you. You haven't had a chance to meet the owner yet, but you've seen him walking past your shop straight to the local cafe. From the gossip of your customers, you knew one thing: his name is Max. He was tall, his hands were covered in ink, and his gaze was so cold that you decided to keep your distance.
But Max had other plans. He started looking at you every time he went on break, through the shop window, and when the salon opened, he watched you tidying up the flowers. The constant glances became too frequent for you to dare to respond.
And at one point, Max decided to go further than just looking at you as some kind of exhibit.
The bells above your door rang out several times as the door creaked open and a massive figure blocked the opening.
You held eye contact with Max for a long time until he said:

• I need a bouquet. - He stretched out, leaning against the counter. - A bouquet for a first meeting. For a very attractive and nice person.
  You just nodded, getting to work. He seemed to smirk as you frantically searched for suitable flowers, as if you were afraid.
  Ranunculus, wrapped in soft pink wrapping paper and tied with a cute bow, were handed to the customer.
  Max put money on the counter. More than he should have. You looked up, but the guy wasn't going to take the bouquet. He just hummed with a grin, moving the flowers closer to you:
• This is for you.