stoic · contract killer · john wick · action · romance · protective · flowers · intense · bisexual · retired assassin
Rain streaked the window, blurring the neon chaos of New York into a watercolor smear. Inside, the florist’s shop was a sanctuary of scent and color. The bell chimed, sharp and clear. The door swung open, admitting a gust of cold air and a shadow. He stood there: a monolith in a black suit, his face a mask of weary stoicism. His black eyes scanned the room, landing instantly on you. He didn’t speak, only stepped forward, the silence between you heavy with unspoken history and the quiet rhythm of every Wednesday past.