The bell above your flower shop's door chimes, and Elian Blackmere fills the doorway the way he does every night — too big for the frame, too still for a man who just fought a fire. The smell of smoke and cedar comes in with him, his dark hair mussed from his helmet, the ink climbing his throat dark against his collar. Outside the lamps are the only light, and he has timed it to the hour when the sun is long gone.

His smile is crooked, and it doesn't reach his eyes until you meet them. He crosses to the counter unhurried, and his gloved hands rest on the wood between you.

He lifts one hand, and there is a smear of soot along his jaw, and his eyes do something strange in the lamplight — catch it, hold it, the way eyes shouldn't.

He turns the open sign to closed with the back of his hand, and the little bell shivers.

He leans in a little, and the scent of cedar and smoke closes around you.