Chase stood in the middle of the street, hands shoved deep into the cavernous pockets of his baggy jeans, eyes scanning the display window of the flower shop "The Gentle Bud." The name was disgusting. Pink letters, filigree, all that shit made for church grandmas, but inside, in the dark, lit only by a distant streetlamp, there they were. White lilies.

Alright, fuck it, let’s go. Mission "get a bouquet for the weird chick." Phase one: floral infiltration. Sounds like a fucking killer System of a Down album.

Chase looked at the door. Obviously locked. Who the fuck leaves a flower shop open at midnight? He circled the building. The back door was solid wood with a barn-style lock that would take a brick of C-4 to bust open. But nearby, at chest height, there was a small ventilation window covered with mosquito mesh. It was cracked open. About an inch.

This wasn’t just an opportunity. This was a fucking invitation from the Universe.

"Thanks, Universe!"

He pulled himself up on the windowsill. Inside, it smelled fucking insane. A mix of roses, carnations, and something else that made his nose twitch. He slid his fingers into the gap, popped the flimsy latch, and pushed the frame up. A soft, protesting creak. Chase froze, listening - quiet as a tomb.

Okay, grace is key. I’m a fucking ninja. Fred Durst playing a ninja.

He swung one leg over the sill, then the other, and landed on the concrete floor with a soft thud. It was dark inside, the air even heavier, but he didn’t waste time admiring the floral arrangements.

Chase found a bucket of lilies and grabbed a bunch - seven or eight, maybe. Enough to make an impression, but not so much it looked like he robbed an entire flowerbed. At the counter, he spotted a jar full of loose change for cash payments. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill, and stuffed it into the jar.

"Now that’s fucking romantic. My biggest contribution to Vineville’s small business economy," he muttered to himself.

Getting back out the window with the bouquet was harder. He nearly snapped one of the flowers but eventually tumbled out onto the street, landing on his feet with the grace of a sack of potatoes. He dusted off his jeans and cradled the bouquet to his chest like a fucking bride at a wedding.

Chase had no idea what kind of flowers you liked. He didn’t know jack shit about you, except for two things: 1. Your dad, Mr. Adams, was the local gravedigger/graveyard caretaker - bearded, quiet dude who always looked like he’d just played poker with the devil and won. 2. You lived with him in a tiny birdhouse of a home, stuck right up against the wall of Elmwood Cemetery like some kind of fungus.

Which is exactly why lilies were a conceptual power move. A sign that he wasn’t just some asshole looking to get laid (though that would be fucking awesome), but that he actually knew something about you. You'd have to respect that.

Alright, Adams, you think you’re the most mysterious bitch in town? Well, meet the most mysterious asshole. Tonight, we’re speaking the same language - the language of dumbass ideas.

The walk to the cemetery took fifteen minutes. Elmwood Cemetery wasn’t scary at night. The huge wrought-iron gates were always left slightly ajar - Mr. Adams used to say, "The dead don’t care, and the living shouldn’t be here after dark anyway."

Yo, ghosts, what’s up? Party in full swing? DJ Casper spinning the hits? Don’t mind me, I’m on a mission. Pure romance, no grave desecration tonight.

He turned off the main path onto a narrow, barely visible trail worn between graves. He knew this place like the back of his hand. As kids, he and Nash used to sneak in here to scare Dwight. As teens, they drank beer out here, since the cops never came past the gates. To Chase, it was just another hangout spot - a park with stone dick-monuments.

The Adams house appeared ahead, behind a low stone wall - a two-story wooden house with a single lit window on the second floor. That was your window - he felt it in his ass.

Chase climbed over the low wall, careful not to crush the flowers, and walked right up under your window. His heart, which had been totally chill until now, suddenly kicked into a drum solo straight outta "One Step Closer." He gripped the lily stems tighter.

What now? Toss pebbles at the window like some shitty rom-com? Shout your name? He grimaced - that was basically an invitation for your dad. Mr. Adams looked like the kind of man who kept a loaded shotgun under the bed and really fucking enjoyed using it.

Chase looked around. Against the house wall was a pile of junk: old clay pots, empty fertilizer bags, a busted garden cart. And a trellis, one of those wooden lattice things for ivy, running from the ground almost all the way to your window. Another sign. The Universe was really on his side tonight. He tucked the bouquet into his waistband and grabbed the trellis. Old, but looked sturdy enough.

"Let’s fucking go, Romeo," he exhaled, and started climbing.

Finally, his fingers found the cold stone of the windowsill. He hauled himself up, threw a knee over, and crouched there outside your window, panting like a fucking gargoyle. Mission nearly complete. Chase pulled the bouquet from his waistband. The lilies were a little squished but still alive.

The window was shut, but the curtains were open. Chase peeked inside.

Alright, showtime. Sack up, Vander. You didn’t climb all the way up here just to stare at her picking her nose. Though... that’d be interesting too.

He straightened up and gave the glass a gentle knock with his knuckles.