Chapter Text
Spring.
It washed in like the tide, dancing onwards with warmth from the orange, glowing hues of the sun one day and retreating shyly the next, presenting itself as soft whispers of wind that twirled through not yet awakened streets and rustled the edges of forgotten corners. Golden threads of the morning light spilled gently through the cracks in the curtains of Hongjoong’s bedroom, weaving themselves around him like delicate ribbons; tangling softly in his hair, brushing against his cheek — stirring him awake from his sleep.
Such a moment of grace, of peace, could not last long, however. Hongjoong knew it was fleeting, he knew it as soon as his eyes fluttered open to see his to-do list sit on his nightstand like a tiny, judgemental mountain of reminders. Colour-coded and in alphabetical order, of course, for he had always seen organisation as being his main coping mechanism. But the yellow ‘call supplier’ and bold red ‘check inventory’ loomed over him like an ever-growing shadow, threatening to dim the glow of the morning sun that had only just risen.
But before he could sink too deep into the whirlpool of his thoughts, the sharp trill of his phone cut through the quiet, dragging him out of his spiral. He stared at the screen, blinking.
Jung Wooyoung.
Hongjoong’s close friend from college, but also… landlord. It was complicated, and mildly embarrassing for either of them to explain it to anyone. Hongjoong had taken over the café from his grandfather after his passing, situated on the downstairs of his flat. Said flat, however, was owned by the Jung’s real estate business, with some properties they owned being passed down to Wooyoung to manage once he graduated college – Hongjoong’s newly acquired flat being one of them.
“Hongjoong-ah, you’re awake already, right? Did I wake you up?”
Hongjoong didn’t think it mattered to Wooyoung all too much whether he had been woken up or not. And he’d be right.
“Yeah… yeah, I’ve been awake. What’s going on?” Replied Hongjoong after a beat. His voice was slightly slurred, thick with the remnants of sleep, but there was a focused sharpness to it too — a clarity that cut through the fog of the morning.
“Right, well… I’ve been thinking about your place; I know it’s been hard, hm?”
Hongjoong stiffened, suddenly more aware of the direction this was going. He tried to keep his tone light. “It’s been… a bit more challenging than I expected.”
“I figured.” Wooyoung began, his voice still trying to sound casual, but it was clear he was treading carefully.
“But here's the thing - and please, don’t stress out about it too much-”
“Stress out? Wooyoung, I don’t-”
“Just listen.”
Wooyoung was pretty sure he could see Hongjoong’s eye roll through the screen.
He continued, his voice firm and trying its best to be kind, although the softness of his tone was questionable.
“I was talking to one of the other tenants in the building the other day, and they mentioned something about a new shop opening soon across the street. Grand opening is s’posed to be tomorrow, actually, but don’t hate me too much if I’m wrong.”
“It’s some sort of flower shop. Could be competition, but hey, at least they’re not selling coffee too, right?” A dry, semi-awkward chuckle escaped Wooyoung’s lips in an attempt to soften the blow for Hongjoong. He was met, expectedly, by silence. They both knew how competitive Hongjoong could be, especially with how the Twilight Roast has been… underperforming lately.
Hongjoong’s mind raced. He hadn’t heard anything about this before – which was fairly unsurprising with how caught up he’d been lately with trying to keep his own place afloat – and the idea of another business opening right across from his café caused a sense of unease to sit low in his gut, sour and unwelcome.
“Great,” he finally muttered, the irritation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts to stay calm.
“A flower shop. Just what I needed. Is that all, then?” Hongjoong struggled to understand why this had to be a conversation over the phone rather than a quick text.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Wooyoung seemed to realize he might’ve touched a nerve.
“I know it’s not ideal, but... Hey, you’ve got a good thing going with the Twilight Roast - don’t let this beat you up too much. Maybe it’ll just bring in more foot traffic for both of you, yeah? It’s not all bad… I mean, more traffic means more customers, and that means that maybe it could help you pay your rent easier.”
Hongjoong scoffed quietly at that last part – the fact that it was said in a slightly quieter mutter than the rest of his words prior did not go unnoticed.
“Right, well…” He pinched his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, letting out a quick sigh.
“Thanks for letting me know, and…”
Should he mention how he thinks he'll probably struggle with this month's rent?
“I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Wooyoung.”
Probably not. Hongjoong hung up the call with a sharp exhale, letting his weight drop back onto the bed. The springs let out a quiet creak beneath him, but he barely noticed. Not only was rent due soon – something that Wooyoung liked to constantly remind him of in subtle ways – but any possibility Hongjoong had of paying said rent was diminished by a… Florist?
The Twilight Roast had always been a slow, steady thing — never booming, but never struggling. A cozy little spot tucked between bigger, louder businesses. He’d built it on routine; the same faces every morning, the same orders, the same quiet, predictable rhythm. But lately, the rhythm had broken.
People weren’t coming in like they used to. Maybe it was the economy. Maybe it was the endless construction on his street, scaring off the usual foot traffic. Maybe people just weren’t looking for slow, familiar places anymore.
Whatever it was, it was draining Hongjoong.
And that was the worst part—this place wasn’t just his . It never had been.
It had been his grandfather’s first. The kind of man who built things with his own hands, who believed in early mornings and firm handshakes and always slipping an extra cookie onto a kid’s plate. He’d run the café for decades, lived upstairs, kept the same little radio by the register playing old jazz records that scratched and skipped in the quiet hours. He used to say the café was a living thing, that if you listened closely enough, you’d hear it breathing with the people who passed through.
And then, one day, a few days after his grandfather’s memorial service and chats with his administrator, it was Hongjoong’s. Just like that. A quiet, heavy inheritance wrapped in warm memories and unpaid bills.
He hadn’t expected to take over — not completely, anyways. It was supposed to be temporary. Just keep the place running, keep the coffee pouring, keep the lights on until he figured out what came next. But somewhere between fixing the leaky sink and learning how his grandfather used to make the cinnamon syrup from scratch, the idea of leaving felt impossible.
Now, though… he wasn’t sure if staying was an option either.
The rest of Hongjoong’s day was spent as routinely as his days normally went – after freshening up, the worn-out sign on the door downstairs would be flipped, brewing the first batch of coffee while the quiet hum of the espresso machine filled the half-empty space. He wiped down the counters, arranged the pastries in the display case, and even counted the register twice even though he already knew the numbers wouldn’t magically change.
Customers trickled in, but fewer than usual. A couple of regulars, a few new faces who didn’t stick around. The bell above the door chimed every so often, but not enough. Never enough.
Still, he held onto hope — small, stubborn, but still hope . Hongjoong was never the type to give up quickly, ever; if he was, this place would have been closed down months ago. In fact, once the café dimmed with the last of the sunlight spilling through the windows in fading slivers, he made a note to himself to actually trust Wooyoung, somewhat, about the florist opening being a good thing. An iced latte, and perhaps a pastry – that's what he’d bring tomorrow morning, as a welcome gift for the florist, whoever they were. He was competitive, sure, but he wasn’t thoughtless.
The next morning, Hongjoong woke early, the quiet of the morning filling his space as he moved through his usual routine with a bit more purpose. He brewed a vanilla latte, the coffee smooth with a touch of sweetness, its warm and inviting aroma lingering in the air even after he had poured the drink into a to-go cup. Meticulous moments that felt like an eternity to Hongjoong later, he pulled a tray from the oven, setting a batch of star-shaped raspberry Danishes onto the counter, its edges golden and flaky, the faint smell of berries filling the space. Carefully, using a pair of tongs, he placed a serving into a small brown paper bag, placed on the counter with the top quickly folded down.
After throwing on a faded blue denim jacket that was probably too big for him and some white sneakers, Hongjoong took the coffee and pastry in one hand and the knob of the front door briefly in the other as he left and locked up the café to go meet the stranger behind his business's new competition.
Cardboard boxes and flower buckets were almost littered outside the lot, earning a scoff from Hongjoong as he crossed the road over. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking in through the large glass windows. Inside, the space was still in its early stages—empty shelves leaned against the walls and stray tools were scattered about—but the flowers, bursting in colours that seemed almost too bright for the quiet morning, brought it to life, vibrant and delicate against the soft, unfinished backdrop. A few potted plants rested on the counter, their leaves a soothing shade of green, and small glass vases of fresh cut stems added a burst of warmth. As much as he’d hate to admit it, Hongjoong found the scene to be the most beautiful he had seen in a while.
Walking along to the next window, his gaze caught on a figure moving inside, although his back was turned as he tended to his plants. The stranger moved with an easy kind of grace, slipping between the scattered boxes and vases as if he belonged among the blooms of the flowers himself. His hair, a mess of soft, silvery curls, caught the sunlight just right, shimmering like fresh-spun sugar, with a sweater, thick-knit and patchworked in deep navy, crimson, and ivory, hanging loosely off of his taller frame. The man had some sort of effortless charm, Hongjoong could tell; the type that made people stop and stare without even meaning to. And Hongjoong was definitely staring, much to his own irritation. Quickly, Hongjoong averted his gaze, walking towards the door with the hand holding the florist’s welcome gift beginning to tremble ever so slightly.
A quick inhale, and then an even quicker exhale.
Hongjoong knocked on the door, watching the figure from the window disappear before quickly reappearing, this time in front of his own eyes as the door opened, the taller man looking down on him with neutral eyes tinged with slight curiosity.
“Hi, uhm, I run the café opposite to you? The Twilight Roast. I just thought – well, you’re new, so… I thought I’d just say hi.” He spoke before putting his hand out.
“My name is Hongjoong.”
The man blinked at him once, slowly, his gaze dropping from Hongjoong’s outstretched hand to the paper bag and cup, then back up to his face. The expression he wore was unreadable, not quite cold, but definitely reserved.
“Seonghwa,” he said after a beat, his voice calm and clipped. He didn’t take the offered hand, just looked at it for a second too long before nodding once, as if that was greeting enough.
His eyes drifted past Hongjoong, toward the café across the street. Hongjoong quickly put his arm back down, hiding his hand away into his pocket.
“So, that’s yours.”
It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t sound particularly impressed either. There was no malice in his tone, but there was something else — like he was already bracing for trouble. Or maybe he just didn’t like being approached before noon.
Seonghwa looked back at the bag in Hongjoong’s hands and took it carefully, like it might fall apart if he handled it wrong. He studied it, then looked up again.
“Thanks,” he said, though the word was hollow and automatic. “I didn’t ask for anything, but… sure.”
Hongjoong felt his shoulders stiffen. “It’s just a welcome thing,” he replied, a little too quickly. “You know. Neighbourly.”
Seonghwa hummed — a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything. He stepped back slightly, still standing in the doorway but no longer blocking it. Not quite inviting either.
“Right. Well,” he said, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, won't we?”
The way he said it made it sound more like a warning than a friendly observation.
Hongjoong’s brows furrowed. What the hell? Maybe he wasn’t being nice enough. Maybe he came off as insincere. He’d try again.
“...Yeah. I mean, if you need any help or anything setting up, I have about an hour until I have to open up my own place, so-”
“That’ll be quite alright. I don’t need experienced businesses snooping around my own place, sizing up the competition before I’ve even opened my doors.”
Hongjoong blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
To be fair, he was… half-right. Hongjoong did want to help Seonghwa, but he also wanted to help himself in the process.
Seonghwa tilted his head slightly, his expression still unreadable but edged with something firm. “It’s nothing personal,” he continued smoothly, “I just prefer to handle things myself. I wouldn't think a barista would know much about floristry anyways.”
Hongjoong let out a breath, a disbelieving scoff slipping past his lips. “Right. Because bringing you coffee and a damn pastry is some kind of corporate espionage.”
Seonghwa hummed, barely acknowledging the sarcasm. “You never know.”
There was something about the way he said it—calm, unruffled, like Hongjoong’s presence wasn’t even worth being annoyed over—that made irritation curl hot under Hongjoong’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was the assumption, the dismissiveness, or the fact that Seonghwa had barely even looked at him properly, like he had already decided what kind of person he thought he was.
“Got it,” Hongjoong said, his voice clipped now. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt the art of plant snipping. Enjoy the gift.” He turned on his heel, mouthing a low “What the fuck?” under his breath as he walked back to the Twilight Roast, flipping his sign to the ‘We’re Open!’ side harshly before leaving the door slightly open as he manned the counter, fingers tapping against the pinewood in agitation. His mind kept circling back to Seonghwa, their interaction replaying in his head. Each word, each glance from the florist seemed sharper in hindsight. He couldn’t help but feel that Seonghwa’s cool demeanor was more than just a defense mechanism; it felt like a challenge.
And something about that irked Hongjoong more than it should.