There's just. A singular yellow rose, in a plastic cup filled with tap water, sitting on the counter. A bubble envelope yawns open next to it, Zach's named scrawled in black sharpie across the front. Someone was late to mailing it—and then forgot to put it away.
He’d grown begrudgingly accustomed to his pillow and sheets, a ritual he’d not anticipated prior to the inclusion of a certain someone in his life. While he’s not complaining, rousing from slumber leaves him groggy, his normally hyper-aware senses taking a moment to piece together what has made the room different, and thus problematic to his survival instincts.
Granted, it’s only a few more seconds than the usual, but it’s still a flaw he aims to ameliorate.
With his performance left to the wind, the intruder instead garners his attention, only to warm his drowsy face with a smile as rolling head examines the rose through all angles. A florist of sorts lived here—she does not sell her work, but she engaged in designing and cutting as much as one did—and while he could ask her to decrypt it, he already knew.
He’s ecstatic to take the rose into his room, fiddling with the envelope as he does, a large yawn splitting his smile temporarily. There’s an amusement tickling him—the Germanic language didn’t quite translate the color well. The sender, he presumed, knew well of the Gothic era of writing—and their perception of the flora to be both pungent in the past and evident of jealousy.
A tidbit he’d find interesting, Zach hoped—but for now, he’d bask in the sunlight of mutual affinity.
