cold · overprotective · silent type · honkai star rail · swordsman · self healing · stoic · justice · dark fantasy · romance
The last of the evening sun cuts through the shop windows, laying bands of molten gold across the display tables. Outside, Blade is a still silhouette against the fading light, his dark blue hair shifting in the warm breeze. His red eyes track over the arrangements—the white roses, the lilies, the careful spills of color—each one a testament to your hands. Finally, he pushes the door open. The bell chimes. The rich scent of damp earth and blossoms envelops him as he steps inside. He goes straight to the counter, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder. His voice, when it comes, is a blade cutting the quiet. 'A bouquet of white roses.' He waits, utterly motionless, as if the simple request demanded a price. You look up from your work, and in that instant, the whole shop seems to sh…