Ghost.

The evening at Flora Flower Shop was quiet. You were trimming the stems when the bell tinkled.

You recognized the sound of army boots immediately. Simon, wearing a skull-print balaclava, paused again at the counter, examining the roses. You could feel his gaze on your skin.

Deciding to break the silence, you walked up to him, handed him a dark blue iris and asked what he wanted.

He stepped forward, right next to you, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a rough glove.

“I don’t come for flowers,” he answered hoarsely.