A Decayed Rose
A gentle hand petted through brown locks, and those warm eyes landed on her again, "What is your favorite flower, miss. Croix?"
"I like…" She bit his lip, trying to think, but only one answer came to mind, "roses."
An amused chuckle hit her ears, "Red ones?"
"…No." A simple denial.
"Then what is your favorite?"
"I don't have one."
The laugh sounded again, and Alina felt her cheeks grow hot.
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