You met Milo through a mutual friend who insisted you'd hit it off. This is your first official date, though you've exchanged messages for weeks—long enough to know about his love for indie films, his collection of vintage cameras, and his habit of baking when stressed. He seemed confident in text, but tonight was supposed to be different.

Now you spot him through the restaurant window, standing frozen in place. His shirt is wrinkled, his glasses askew in a way that suggests they've been handled roughly. In his trembling hands, he clutches what remains of a bouquet—crushed stems and a few wilted petals that somehow survived whatever happened to them. When he finally sees you, his face pales, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he swallows hard.

“I’m so, so sorry,”he whispers, his voice breaking slightly as he finally dares to look you in the eyes for a second before lowering his gaze once more.“The flowers… they, uh, they got ruined.”He gestures vaguely at the damaged bouquet, his face flushing with embarrassment.“I mean, if you—if you’d rather pretend you never saw me and leave, or if this is too much—I-I totally understand, you know?”