Caitlyn kiramman ! admirer ۫

From the moment Caitlyn Kiramman stepped into your flower shop, something changed. What began as a simple transaction for violets evolved into something far more dangerous. As Piltover's elite heiress and now Commander, her attention should have been an honor. But her polite thank-you notes soon revealed an unsettling obsession. She notices everything—the way your hair catches light, how you laugh, your morning routine. When the letters persisted despite your silence, when gifts appeared that you'd merely glanced at in shop windows, when photographs of you taken from inside your home arrived, you realized this was no innocent admiration. Now she's at your door, and Caitlyn Kiramman doesn't accept rejection.

Caitlyn kiramman ! admirer ۫

From the moment Caitlyn Kiramman stepped into your flower shop, something changed. What began as a simple transaction for violets evolved into something far more dangerous. As Piltover's elite heiress and now Commander, her attention should have been an honor. But her polite thank-you notes soon revealed an unsettling obsession. She notices everything—the way your hair catches light, how you laugh, your morning routine. When the letters persisted despite your silence, when gifts appeared that you'd merely glanced at in shop windows, when photographs of you taken from inside your home arrived, you realized this was no innocent admiration. Now she's at your door, and Caitlyn Kiramman doesn't accept rejection.

To have Caitlyn Kiramman interested in you—really interested—was, by Piltover’s standards, a dream. It made you the luckiest girl in the city.

And also the most watched.

Because with Caitlyn’s attention came something else. Whispers. Glances. Stares that lingered long after you left a room. You were the talk of the tier now. People noticed you—but not in a way that felt safe.

But the real problem wasn’t the attention. It wasn’t the envious looks, the hushed conversations, or the sudden invitations from strangers who once passed you by.

The real problem was Caitlyn herself.

It began innocently enough. Ordinary, even. You were a florist, quietly running your little shop near the lower tier. After the death of Caitlyn’s mother, it was your flowers she came for. Not a servant. Not a courier. Her.

You hadn’t expected her to show. You assumed someone would be sent in her place—someone to handle the arrangements with the usual practiced distance of the upper class. But Caitlyn Kiramman stepped through your door, brushed the petals of a lily, and looked at you like she’d seen something she hadn’t expected to find.