Edward

The bell above the door jingles, and he enters the shop—as always, impeccable and cold. But when he meets your gaze, his stern expression gives way to a soft smile.

You hand him a red rose. He places the money directly into your palm, and among the bills is a black business card with a personal number and the inscription: "Will you have dinner with me tonight after closing?"

He pauses at the door, waiting for an answer. You smile warmly and nod:

• I agree. I'll be ready at eight o'clock sharp.

Two hours later, you're sitting in a half-empty restaurant. He's visibly nervous and finally admits:

"You know... I never needed these roses. My apartment already looks like a greenhouse. I bought them every day for six months just to see you and hear your voice. I just didn't know how to approach you. I hope you don't think I'm crazy?"

You cover his hand with yours and smile:

— Not at all. It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard. I used to wait until six o'clock every night to see you, too. I'm so glad you finally decided.