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It started with a pot.
Not just any pot, but a scratched-up little clay one, painted with streaks of kid-sized fingerprints and one sad, wilting daisy planted inside. Hannie held it gingerly, cradling it like it was a kitten.
"This is Daisy the Third," she said seriously as she stepped into the flower shop. "Daisy the Second died over the weekend. I suspect foul play. Possibly overwatering."
Jisoo blinked at her. Then burst out laughing.
"Welcome to Everbloom," she said with a smile, wiping her hands on her apron. "I’m Jisoo. Plant rescuer extraordinaire."
Hannie grinned, bright and shy all at once. "I’m Hannie. Kindergarten teacher. Accidentally lethal to succulents."
From then on, she started showing up once a week. Sometimes twice. Always with a new plant crisis. Always with that shy, lopsided smile. Always blushing when Jisoo complimented her, which was often.
Jisoo was smitten.
Hannie was soft-boned kind of beautiful. Long lashes, thin lips, delicate wrists. Her body was gentle, unfixed by binary assumptions. Her flat chest didn’t make her any less graceful. If anything, she moved like she belonged in poetry.
Her voice was airy, often skipping to a giggle when she was nervous. Chalk dust clung to her sleeves. Her hair was always tied back in a loose ribbon.
One week, she tripped on the welcome mat and slammed her shin on a low stool.
Jisoo rushed over. "Are you okay?!"
"I’m fine," Hannie wheezed, gripping the edge of the counter. "I think the stool won that round."
She looked up, eyes watery from laughter, not pain.
Jisoo bit back a smile. "You’re really something."
"So I’ve been told," Hannie replied, cheeks pink.
It became their thing.
Weekly visits. Flirty flower recommendations. Jisoo slipping her extra stems for free.
Hannie would linger, asking about sunlight needs, seasonal flowers and floral meanings. Sometimes, she didn’t ask anything. Just stood there, fingers ghosting the petals, eyes soft and cute.
Jisoo would just reach over and gently tuck a stem of daisy behind Hannie’s ear.
Soon, Jisoo had planned the perfect confession.
A bouquet of violets, freesia, and sweet pea. A slow evening walk. Something gentle, deliberate.
Instead, she blurted it out on a rainy Tuesday, mid rose trimming.
"I think I like you," she said. "Like, really like you. Like, I’ve been writing dumb poetry about your smile kind of like."
Hannie blinked. Her cheeks flushed pink, then red, then pink again.
And then she ran.
Out the door. Into the rain. The pot she brought still clutched in both hands.
Jisoo didn’t sleep that night. Her heart twisted with regret. Maybe she’d misread things. Maybe Hannie was just kind, not interested.
But the next morning, before Jisoo even flipped the OPEN sign, the bell rang.
Hannie stood there, hoodie soaked through, hair clinging to her cheek. She looked like she hadn’t slept either.
"I’m sorry," she whispered.
Jisoo's throat clenched. "No, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have..."
"No," Hannie interrupted, voice shaking. "I didn’t run because I didn’t like you. I ran because I do like you. And because I didn’t think you could mean it. Not when you come to know I’m trans."
Jisoo stepped forward, took her hands gently. "You’re exactly what I want."
Hannie looked like she might cry. "Really?"
"Really."
Their first kiss was hesitant.
Their second, braver.
Their third? Jisoo backed Hannie against a shelf of baby’s breath and kissed her until she melted, knees shaking.
They didn’t rush.
There were lazy afternoons on Hannie’s couch, sipping tea. Cartoon marathons. Back hugs while cooking. Late night walks. Fairy lights in the flower shop, dancing to music too soft to hear.
Hannie was always careful. Always asking if it was okay to hold Jisoo’s hand, to kiss her cheek. As if afraid of taking too much.
Jisoo let her know with every glance, every whispered "You're safe with me."
Then came the day.
A phone call. A letter. A meeting behind closed doors.
Some parents had complained.
They didn’t want a "man pretending to be a woman" teaching their children. They used words like inappropriate. Unsafe. They cloaked their hate in concern.
And just like that, Hannie was let go.
She didn’t cry right away. She packed up her classroom, hugging every crayon drawing like it was a lifeline. Wrote notes for each of her kids. Left her sunflower mug behind.
She didn’t cry until she got home, locked the door, and collapsed in Jisoo’s arms.
"They said I made the parents uncomfortable," she whispered. "They said I was confusing the children."
Jisoo held her tighter. "You were the best thing in that school. You deserve so much more, my baby. I wish I could protect you from all the hurt."
Days passed.
Hannie stayed home, curled up in sweaters too big and dreams too small.
Jisoo brought flowers. Cooked meals. Made dumb jokes. Held her through the silence.
Then, one afternoon, there was a knock at the door.
Principal Lee.
He looked exhausted. Out of uniform. Holding a bag of apple bread.
"I hope this isn’t inappropriate," he said. "I just wanted to apologize."
Hannie let him in.
They sat at her small kitchen table.
"I didn’t fight for you," he said. "And I should have."
He told her about his trans son. About joining a nonprofit for LGBTQ+ educators. About the public letter he wrote denouncing the decision.
"If someone like Miss Hannie had been my teacher," his son had told him, "I wouldn’t have hated myself for so long."
Hannie cried.
Later that evening, Jisoo came home with sunflowers.
Hannie was curled on the couch, holding a slice of apple bread.
"Hey," Jisoo said softly.
"Hey."
Jisoo sat beside her, pulling her close.
"He apologized," Hannie said. "Really apologized. Said he wants to help change things."
"You deserve that."
Hannie nodded slowly. "I still feel small. Like I should be grateful even though they hurt me."
"You don’t owe anyone gratitude. Just healing."
Jisoo leaned in, kissed her forehead. "Can I hold you?"
"Please."
And she did.
She held her like something sacred. Like something precious.
Like love.
They made love that night. Not rushed. Not planned.
Hannie trembled when Jisoo kissed down her spine.
"Are you sure?" Jisoo whispered.
"I want this. I want you. Like this."
Jisoo undressed her like a gift. Kissed every inch. Every scar. Every part of her that had ever been called wrong.
"You’re perfect," she whispered.
And Hannie wept, quietly, from being seen.
From being loved.
Months later, Hannie got a new teaching offer with the help of the ex principal. At a private preschool known for its inclusivity.
Jisoo helped her pick out cute outfits. Made her lunch. Sent her off with a kiss and a flower tucked behind her ear.
And one spring afternoon, after Hannie had finished reading The Little Prince for the tenth time, she stepped outside to find Jisoo waiting at the gate.
With a ring.
And a pot.
Daisy the Fourth.