Chapter Text
Osora’s flower shop had been open a few weeks now, and to their quiet, almost disbelieving relief, it was thriving.
Business grew faster than they’d dared hope. Customers didn’t just buy and leave—they lingered, drawn by the unusual arrangements that felt more like living art than simple bouquets. One woman returned twice in two weeks to tell Osora how her sunflowers had lasted twelve days, brighter than any she’d bought before. An older man with paint-stained fingers stood at the counter for twenty minutes, comparing a textured eucalyptus-and-rose piece to a Monet he knew his wife loved. In a city that rushed past beauty like it was background noise, word spread in whispers and social posts and quiet recommendations. The shop smelled constantly of fresh green stems, cool mist from the humidifier, and the faint sweetness of opening lilies.
The steady rhythm kept Osora’s hands busy and their mind mostly occupied.
It helped—somewhat—with not thinking about Arias.
Even now, prepping pre-made bouquets behind the counter that morning, Osora trimmed stems at sharp angles and adjusted cellophane wrapping with practiced ease. Their fingers moved automatically, but their thoughts kept drifting to him anyway. He’d come by every single day since opening. Quick visits squeezed between appointments, longer ones where he leaned on the counter with his elbows, chin in hand, watching them work. Lunches eaten in the back room on overturned crates, legs brushing accidentally-on-purpose. He always bought fresh flowers for his studio’s front desk—never letting the old ones wilt past their prime.
A habit.
Osora swallowed, fingers slowing on the ribbon they were tying. The satin slipped through their grasp.
Arias was distractingly handsome.
Tall enough that Osora had to tilt their head to meet his eyes, broad shoulders filling doorways, all easy confidence wrapped in muscle. His bronzed skin was a canvas of intricate tattoos—lines and shapes Osora itched to trace with fingertips, learning the stories inked there. Warm honey-gold eyes that caught the light and glowed softer when he laughed. Dark hair perpetually a little messy, like he’d just run a hand through it, looking impossibly soft. Osora had caught themself wondering—more than once, more than twice—what it would feel like to slide fingers into it, tug gently, feel him lean in.
And those dimples. Completely unfair. They appeared with every wide, genuine smile, carving parentheses that made Osora feel truly seen in a way that still startled them.
Worse: he was kind. Thoughtful in the quiet, consistent ways that mattered. He listened—really listened—when Osora rambled about color theory or seasonal availability. He remembered small details: the way they took their tea, the exact shade of red that made their eyes pop, how they hated mornings but loved the smell of dew on leaves. He treated their work with reverence, never once dismissing floral design as delicate or lesser. If anything, he seemed to think it was magic.
The crush had become impossible to ignore.
Osora had been planning to ask him out. A real date—intentional, deliberate, not another squeezed-in lunch between consultations. They’d almost done it yesterday. The words had sat right on their tongue while he watched them arrange a simple wildflower bunch, sunlight slanting through the window and catching the gold in his eyes. But fear had clamped down hard, cold and familiar: What if he says no? What if it ruins this easy, perfect thing we have? What if the lunches stop, the visits stop, the way he looks at me like I’m interesting stops?
They exhaled slowly, finished the bouquet, set it in the cooler with the others. The door chime was still silent; the sign read CLOSED. Plenty of time to spiral.
They wanted him.
They just needed the courage.
The bell chimed softly.
Osora’s head snapped up. The sign still said CLOSED, but they’d stopped locking the door for him after the first week.
Arias stepped inside, sunlight catching in his dark hair and gilding the edges of his honey-gold eyes. He held a drink carrier in one hand, the morning light making him look even taller, broader, more unfairly attractive.
“Morning,” he said, voice warm and low, like he’d saved the softness just for them.
“Morning.”
He crossed the shop in long, easy strides and set the carrier on the counter. “Peace offering for my favorite morning hater.”
Osora eyed the cups suspiciously. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He slid one toward them with a small, teasing smile. “Black coffee.”
Osora stared at it. Then at him.
“…Arias.”
He bit his lip, clearly fighting a grin. “What?”
“I don’t drink black coffee.”
“Sure you do.”
“No. I absolutely do not.”
He laughed—quiet, fond, the sound rumbling in his chest—and nudged the second cup forward. “Fine. Here’s the real one.”
Osora lifted the lid just enough: caramel macchiato, extra caramel drizzle, whipped cream peaking like a tiny cloud. Their ears heated instantly.
They’d told him that embarrassing story once—how as a teenager they’d desperately tried to love black coffee to seem cool and mysterious during their emo phase. It had lasted two sips before they’d dumped it and ordered the sweetest latte possible. He’d remembered. Of course he had.
Osora hid their face behind one hand. “…I can't believe you remember that.”
Arias shrugged like it was nothing, but his eyes were soft. “Hard to forget you like straight black coffee, no cream, definitely no sugar.” He tapped the side of their cup where he’d clearly asked the barista to write BLACK COFFEE in bold Sharpie letters.
Osora took a sip anyway—the sweet, creamy warmth spreading through their chest—and sighed despite themself. “This is ridiculous.”
“No one will ever have to know,” he said, grinning wider. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
They settled into their easy rhythm. Osora worked, snipping stems and tying ribbons; Arias leaned on the counter, forearms flexing subtly under rolled sleeves, asking questions that showed he was actually listening: about seasonal blooms, why certain colors harmonized better, how random sights turned into designs in their head. Osora rambled happily, words coming faster now with caffeine buzzing through their veins—Arias had noticed that too, the way their voice sped up and their hands gestured more when they were caffeinated.
“Like what?” he asked, chin propped on his hand, eyes fixed on them.
“Anything. Buildings. Paintings. People.” Osora hesitated, heart picking up, then reached under the counter and pulled out their sketchbook. “Here.”
Arias accepted it carefully, like it was fragile.
He went quiet.
Flipping slowly: rough pencil drafts, clean ink sketches, watercolor, color notes scribbled in tight handwriting. Bouquets planned like paintings—composition, balance, texture mapped out in loving detail.
“Osora,” he said softly, almost reverent, “you draw like this?”
They shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, cheeks warming. “Only flowers. I’d fail miserably at people or anatomy. Half the stuff you tattoo? I’d butcher it.”
Arias snorted. “Doubt that. This is incredible.”
He turned another page—and paused.
Deep blues layered with small touches of gold and yellow, like stars scattered across twilight. Intimate somehow. Intentional.
At the top, in Osora’s neat script: Inspired by – A.<3
Arias frowned slightly, thumb brushing the page. “What’s this one mean?”
Osora froze. Heat rushed up their neck in a violent flush. “Uh—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Just… architecture. Angles. Asymmetry." The lie sounded weak even to them.
Arias glanced up, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed low in his throat and handed the book back, fingers brushing theirs for a lingering second.
They kept talking.
About his loud, chaotic family—someone always cooking or yelling or both, the house never quiet. About Osora’s sister, who called daily demanding updates and drama Osora simply didn’t have.
“She thinks my life is boring,” Osora said, tying off another ribbon a little too tightly.
“Is it?” Arias asked, voice teasing.
Osora thought of flower-filled mornings, slow lunches on crates, quiet evenings sketching while he worked beside them. This moment, right now—the way sunlight slanted across his face, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with shop greenery, the steady warmth of his gaze.
“No,” they said quietly. “Just calm.”
Arias smiled—slow, real, dimples carving deep.
The shop fell into soft silence. Only the cooler’s low hum, distant street noise filtering through the windows, Osora’s heartbeat loud in their ears.
They set the shears down. Hands trembling slightly.
Now. If not now, never.
They turned toward him, breath steadying. “Arias, I was wondering if—”
“–Would you want to go out with me?”
The words crashed together, overlapping perfectly.
Osora blinked.
Arias froze.
Half a second of stunned, electric quiet.
Then Osora covered their face with one hand, a muffled groan escaping.
Arias’s stomach dropped. “Oh—shit. I’m sorry. That was stupid. You don’t have to—”
Osora dragged their hand down, eyes half-laughing, half-exasperated. “No. No, that’s not—”
They looked up at him, steady despite the flush on their cheeks. “I wanted to be the one to ask you.”
Arias stared. “…You did?”
“Yes.” Osora shook their head, fighting a smile that kept breaking through. “I’ve been psyching myself up all morning—rehearsing in the cooler, for god’s sake—and you just cut me off.”
His relief hit like a wave; he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. “Oh. Thank fuck.”
He tried to calm his racing heart, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. You can ask properly now.” His voice was softer, body thrumming with nerves he couldn’t quite hide.
Osora rolled their eyes, but the smile stayed. They took a steadying breath, met his gaze—sincere, vulnerable, brave.
“Arias,” they said, “would you like to go out with me? On an actual date?”
His answer was immediate, certain.
“Yes.”
Osora laughed softly—relieved, giddy. “That was fast.”
“Been ready for weeks,” he admitted, voice rough with honesty. “Maybe longer.”
Their chest felt light, buoyant, like sunlight flooding the shop. Happy in a way that made their fingertips tingle.
“Friday night?” Osora asked.
Arias’s face lit up—dimples deep, eyes bright. “Friday night.”
He lingered a moment longer than usual. Reached across the counter, brushed a stray petal from Osora’s sleeve with his thumb—deliberate, gentle. The touch sent a small shiver through them.
“I should go,” he said reluctantly. “Appointments. But… Friday.”
“Friday,” Osora echoed.
He left minutes later, feet barely touching the ground, a grin he couldn’t suppress.
The gorgeous florist had just asked him out.
And he couldn’t wait.
Osora stood alone in the quiet shop, heart still hammering. They pressed a hand to their chest, feeling the rapid thud. The air smelled of fresh stems and caramel coffee. Sunlight slanted warmer now, catching on the ribbon they’d tied earlier.
They laughed—soft, disbelieving—and picked up the shears again.
Friday couldn’t come soon enough.