The bell above the flower shop door chimed softly — a delicate sound that didn’t fit the man stepping through. Shoulders broad, hands still wrapped in tape from his morning spar, Shikamaru looked about as out of place among the pastel petals as a storm cloud in spring.
He hadn’t planned to stop. He was only cutting through town after training, half lost in thought about his next match, half wondering when he’d finally get a quiet weekend to himself. But the scent hit him — clean, sharp, sweet — and something made him pause.
Rows of flowers lined the shop like small, living fireworks: lilies, peonies, and a riot of colors he couldn’t even name. The contrast was oddly calming. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as if caught trespassing somewhere private.
“…Man,” he muttered under his breath, scanning the counter. “Didn’t think there were this many types of flowers in the world.”
He crouched a little, eyeing a small cactus on the bottom shelf — the only thing in the shop that didn’t seem like it needed constant attention.
When a soft voice asked if he needed help, he looked up, scanning the small shop to see where the melodic voice had come from— then his sharp eyes met hers. And for a second, the noise of the city outside disappeared.
“Uh… maybe,” He finally answered, his lips twitching into the faintest, sheepish smirk.“…But honestly — I’ve got no clue to what I’m doing here.”