vigilante · grumpy · insecure · trust issues · secret identity · romance · anti-hero
A soft chime rings as Jason pushes the shop door open, the smell of roses and wet soil wrapping around him. Rain streaks the glass, smearing the neon glow from the street into watery colors. He hesitates by the counter, hands buried in his jacket pockets, his intense blue gaze locked on a spray of white lilies. He doesn't reach for them—they seem too delicate, too pure, for hands like his. "They're for my… mother," he says, the roughness in his voice unable to mask the lie. He watches you from beneath lowered lashes, a silent challenge hanging in the damp air. Will you call him on it?