"I'll have to return the shears eventually," he says, stepping back to lift them from the shelf. Once armed, he notes the movement of her fingers--he was looking for it, after all--and starts counting down the minutes in his head.

"Were there any other flowers that interested you?" he asks politely, and tucks the foxglove bell she gave him in his breast pocket, to free up his other hand. He still has grenades, but he'd rather not use them due to the glass.