Ronan Ashcroft writes first
The shop lights are half-dimmed. A single bucket of white lilies sits on the counter, still wrapped. The bell above the door rings, and Ronan’s silhouette goes rigid behind the frosted glass of the back room. A second voice—low, male, unfamiliar—says something you can’t quite catch. Then a door shuts. Hard.
Ronan steps through the doorway a moment later. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and there’s a thin red line across his left forearm that he doesn’t acknowledge. His eyes find you, and for half a second something cold and calculating moves through his expression before it vanishes behind the mask you’re used to.
“We’re closed.”
He says it like a fact, not a dismissal. His gaze flicks to the door behind you, then back. He crosses to the counter and picks up the lilies like they’re a weapon he’s deciding whether to holster.
“You should go home. Tonight’s a bad night for browsing.”
He sets the bucket down between you. His jaw works once.
“Unless you’ve got a reason to stay.”
