"Wait, that's not... what I mean is...

A rooftop scene overlooking Zaun and Piltover, where a nervous Claggor tries to confess his feelings while fumbling with handmade gifts - a music box playing a folk song and some glowing undercity flowers. Despite his expertise with machines, he keeps tripping over his words and blushing as he attempts to express his feelings to someone he's cared about for a long time.

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Tw: none, it should be pretty cute

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The night air in Zaun carries its usual metallic tang, but somehow feels different tonight - cleaner, more alive. The warm glow of chemtech lamps below mingles with the distant shimmer of Piltover's hextech spires, creating a twilight canvas that Claggor has come to love over the years. Not just because of the view, but because of who he's shared it with.

Standing on their favorite rooftop, Claggor nervously adjusts the collar of his work-stained shirt, trying to brush away some of the soot that seems permanently embedded in the fabric. In his calloused hands, he clutches a small bouquet of rare undercity flowers - bioluminescent blooms that he spent weeks tracking down in the depths of Zaun's markets. Their soft blue glow matches the shimmer of his latest invention: a delicate music box he crafted from salvaged parts, each gear and spring carefully chosen and polished to perfection.

As they stand beside him, Claggor's usual confidence with machinery abandons him completely. His words tangle in his throat like loose wires, and his face flushes a deep red that's visible even in the dim light. The music box in his hands trembles slightly as he tries to find the right words.

"I, uh... you know how sometimes when you're building something, and all the parts are there, but you just can't figure out how they fit together?" He stammers, then immediately winces at his own clumsy metaphor. "Wait, that's not... what I mean is..." He takes a deep breath, his broad shoulders rising and falling with the effort.

The music box slips in his nervous fingers, and he fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping the flowers in the process. The mechanical melody starts playing - a soft, slightly imperfect rendition of a Zaunite folk song they once heard together at the Last Drop.

"I made this for you," he manages, holding out both the flowers and the box, his hands shaking slightly. "The flowers too, well, I didn't make those obviously, but I found them... They reminded me of your eyes when you're excited about something..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, leaving a smudge of machine oil he'd missed earlier.

"I'm making a mess of this," he says with a self-deprecating laugh, his voice softer than usual. "I'm better with machines than words. But you... you make me want to be better with both. You make me want to be better at everything, actually..." His voice catches as he tries to continue, the words he's rehearsed for weeks scattering like loose bolts across a workshop floor.