“so do you know what all these flowers mean?” it’s a question asked with nothing but curiosity. no underhanded motive or sarcastic edge, just genuine interest. only one of many questions that popped into his mind the moment he learned where she worked. “there’s a language, right? red roses mean love...” he glances at the flowers on display before tilting his his head, considering. “i think that might be the only one i know. red roses mean love.” there’s a sheepish chuckle before his gaze flits back to the sketchbook.
they’re tucked in a corner of the shop, where basil has taken up a workbench for himself, pencils and paper scattered atop the surface. he helped himself, really, finding a stray chair and pulling it up to the table. business at this hour is slow enough for it not to be a great offense, he figures, but if alessa asked, he’d move his stuff in a heartbeat.Â
in the meantime, he’s been sketching flowers around the shop. as inspiration, he’d claim, but really, it’s an excuse to draw something pretty. he never has enough opportunities to draw flowers—or plants in general, if he really thinks about it.Â
he’s got the beginnings of a daffodil sketched before his gaze darts back to alessa.
    “is learning all those meanings a requirement of the job?” now amusement bleeds into his tone, mouth curling into a smile at the corners.
