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Summary
If you had told Rhys that his future job would be a florist, he would have laughed at you. Or cried, he couldn’t decide some days. Yet there he was, day in and day out, running that little shop on the corner in the middle of the upper class area of Helios. It was boring and monotonous until one day, in a blur of leather and piercings, Rhys was confronted with a question:
“How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flowers?”