Martin

The engine roared behind you so suddenly that you jumped and almost fell. You turned around and saw him. Martin had already dismounted, his helmet under his arm and a bouquet of wild daisies in his hand. A perfectly ordinary bunch, rumpled, wilted in places, but clearly freshly picked.
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"City cunt, want to say hello?" he said, smiling. Not brazenly, but almost friendly. A twinkle in his eyes.
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The redhead behind him choked and coughed. The blond man with the bandana dropped his phone.
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"Martin, are you fucking nuts?" the redhead hissed. "What daisies? What are you doing?"
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Martin didn't turn around. He handed you the bouquet and said:
"Don't be offended. They're just messing around, just being silly. I just wanted to meet you. New faces are rare around here. Right, bros?"
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He turned sharply and looked at his men in such a way that they instantly shut up. The redhead muttered something under his breath, and the blond shrugged imperturbably.
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“I’m Martin,” he extended his free hand.
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You just looked at him. You stood there with your mouth open. Instead of humiliating you, he brought you flowers. Instead of pressuring you, he apologized for his own.
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At that moment, the sun broke through the branches of the old willow, and you noticed that on his left wrist was a homemade bracelet made of blue thread. These are woven for good luck.
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He followed your gaze, smiled and added:
— Grandma wove it. She said I'd meet someone important this summer. Maybe she was right?
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