Chapter Text
The shop smelled like rain and roses, even though it hadn’t rained in days.
Iwaizumi stood behind the counter, trimming the stems of a bundle of freesia with practiced fingers. The small storefront was quiet—too quiet, especially for being in Los Angeles but honestly—he didn’t mind. Mornings were always slow. Just the hum of soft indie music from the old speaker by the register, the gentle rustle of petals, and the occasional bark from the dog grooming place next door.
He preferred it like this: calm, steady, predictable.
Not that he hadn’t dreamed of something bigger, once. There were versions of his life he’d imagined when he was younger—sports, maybe coaching, maybe even something flashy—but at some point, he found more peace in gentleness than adrenaline. Flowers didn’t talk back. They didn’t disappoint. They just bloomed, quietly, beautifully, in their own time.
He glanced at the clock. 10:42 a.m. No customers yet. He considered making a new display for the front window—something seasonal. Maybe peach ranunculus and some snapdragons. Or daffodils, if the shipment was fresh enough. He turned to reach for a vase when the doorbell chimed.
“Good morning, welcome—” he started automatically, voice warm but distracted, eyes still on the shelf—
And then he looked up.
—and froze.
Standing in the doorway, as casually as if he hadn’t just shattered the peace of Iwaizumi’s entire week, was Oikawa Tooru
The Oikawa Tooru
Hollywood heartthrob. Two-time Golden Globe nominee. Lead in the Bloodlines sci-fi trilogy and Saving Grace, that hit medical drama that half the country was obsessed with. Vogue cover model. GQ’s “Most Captivating Smile” two years in a row. Red carpet regular. Walking internet trend. And—of course—gorgeous in the kind of way that didn’t feel entirely fair.
Tall, lean, absurdly photogenic from every angle. Messy brown hair that always looked like it had just been styled by a team of experts. A smile that could derail thoughts and interviews alike. There were millions—literally millions—of fans who would do absolutely anything just for a second of his attention. People who tracked his outfits, dissected his interviews, lined up for hours at events. And not all of them were harmless.
Oikawa had had more than his share of stalkers. Paparazzi that camped outside his apartment, obsessive fans who’d sent everything from disturbing letters to stolen items, people who thought “boundaries” was a suggestion. There were entire gossip sites dedicated to his whereabouts, his love life, and even the way he tied his shoes.
And, more relevantly, the reason Iwaizumi had a very specific watchlist on every single one of his streaming apps. He’d seen everything Oikawa had been in—twice. Some things, more. He knew the exact moment in The Depths where Oikawa’s character had broken down crying after losing his partner, because he’d replayed that scene enough times to memorize the trembling in his voice. He’d watched the blooper reels, the interviews, the fan edits. He’d read that Rolling Stone piece where Oikawa talked about acting as “the only time he didn’t feel like he had to fake it.”
And still, nothing had prepared him for seeing Oikawa in person. Not behind a screen. Not in a suit on some glowing carpet. Just… here. In a hoodie and joggers, standing under the soft yellow lights of his flower shop like some impossible dream.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Nope. Still there.
“Uh,” Iwaizumi said, eloquently. His brain short-circuited. “Hi.”
Oikawa pushed his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head, revealing familiar brown eyes and the kind of tired smile that pulled at something old in Iwaizumi’s chest.
“Hey,” Oikawa said, like this was normal. Like this was fine. “Sorry to barge in. I was just walking around and—this place looked nice. You do custom arrangements?”
Iwaizumi nodded stiffly, heart hammering in his chest. “Yeah. I, uh… yeah. What are you looking for?”
Oikawa looked around the shop, eyes scanning the warm wood shelves, the clusters of plants in the corner, the hand-written signs on chalkboards.
“Something bright,” he said finally. “Not too flashy. Just… something to cheer someone up.”
Iwaizumi swallowed. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or if his soul had just left his body. He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen celebrities before—this was LA, after all. They wandered into cafés, dry cleaners, farmers markets like it was nothing. He’d once rung up an actual Marvel actor who bought a bouquet of forget-me-nots and a lavender candle for his wife.
But none of them had ever hit him like this.
None of them had been Oikawa Tooru.
He shifted into autopilot, reaching for the little notepad by the counter. “Do you have a specific flower in mind? Or a color theme, maybe? And—uh, would you like to include a note?”
Oikawa pulled off his sunglasses slowly, hooking them into the collar of his hoodie. His eyes were softer than Iwaizumi remembered from the screen—more tired, more real. And they were on him.
“Bright, like I said. Maybe orange or yellow tones? Something that looks like sunshine,” he said. His gaze flicked back to Iwaizumi, amused. “Is that too vague, or do you work well under pressure?”
Iwaizumi raised a brow, recovering just enough to find his footing. “I’m a florist, not a magician.”
“Oh no, crushed already. I was hoping for a miracle bouquet,” Oikawa teased, leaning casually against the counter. “Do you at least do sorcery on the weekends?”
Iwaizumi shot him a flat look, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Only if you pay extra.”
“Now that’s customer service.”
He moved on instinct, letting his hands stay busy while his brain scrambled to keep cool. He selected marigolds first—bold, golden, with petals like fireworks—then paired them with soft peach roses and gerbera daisies that looked like they belonged in a sunbeam.
And somehow—somehow—he kept talking. Joking. Bantering.
It hit him all at once, somewhere between trimming the gerbera stems and reaching for eucalyptus sprigs: How am I speaking to him like this?
He should be fumbling every word, sweating through his shirt, maybe hiding in the walk-in cooler for good measure. But instead, his mouth was working
just fine, teasing a man he’d only ever known through screens like it was nothing.
Like it was easy.
Behind him, Oikawa wandered the shop, fingers brushing the edge of a potted lavender plant. Iwaizumi glanced up—and caught him staring. Just for a second. Oikawa didn’t look away. He smiled instead—small, curious.
“I like it here,” Oikawa said quietly. “It smells like peace.”
Iwaizumi’s fingers stilled on a stem. “…Thanks. I try to keep it calm.”
Oikawa nodded, gaze sweeping over the walls of blooms. “It’s nice. You’ve got a good thing going.”
“Wasn’t asking for a Yelp review,” Iwaizumi muttered, gently arranging the bouquet.
Oikawa let out a soft laugh. “Grumpy and talented. The rarest LA combo.”
“Someone has to balance out all the smiling actors,” Iwaizumi shot back before he could stop himself.
Oikawa grinned like he’d won something. “Touché.”
Iwaizumi cleared his throat again, a little rougher this time, and reached for a pen. “You said you wanted to add a note?”
Oikawa nodded, and their fingers brushed as Iwaizumi handed over a small white card and the pen. It felt like nothing. It felt like everything.
While Oikawa wrote, Iwaizumi finished the bouquet, tying the ribbon tight and trimming the paper edges just so. He placed it gently on the counter, letting himself be proud of it—soft, bright, hopeful. Like a little bit of light in a bundle.
“All set,” he said.
Oikawa stepped forward, pulling out a sleek black wallet, and handed over a card with a practiced flick. Iwaizumi rang it up, pretending not to notice the
screen flashing a very generous tip.
“Thanks,” Oikawa said, pocketing the receipt. And then he looked up and smiled. Not the smile from red carpets or TV interviews. This one was warm. Real.
Iwaizumi’s heart gave a traitorous little stutter.
“By the way,” Oikawa added, tilting his head, “what’s your name?”
Iwaizumi blinked, caught off guard again. “Iwaizumi. Hajime.”
Oikawa repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the sound. “Iwaizumi Hajime.” Then, quieter: “That’s a really pretty name.”
Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond—probably with something like thanks, I guess, or you’re weird—but Oikawa beat him to it with a lazy smile.
“I’m Oikawa Tooru, by the way.”
Like Iwaizumi didn’t already know.
Before Iwaizumi could figure out a reply that didn’t make him sound like a flustered idiot, the door creaked again. A young girl in a UCLA hoodie stepped inside, then froze mid-step, eyes going comically wide.
“Oh my GOD. You’re—oh my GOD, you’re OIKAWA TOORU—”
That was all it took. The scream rang out like a flare, and within seconds, footsteps sounded from down the block. More people appeared at the windows, peering in, and someone shouted, “He’s in here!”
Oikawa winced, already pulling the hood back up.
Iwaizumi snapped into motion. “Back door,” he said quickly, stepping around the counter. “Come on.”
Oikawa followed close behind, ducking low as Iwaizumi led him past shelves of succulents and an old radio playing faintly in the background. The back door creaked open to a shaded alley, warm sun slicing between the buildings.
Oikawa turned to him at the threshold, bouquet still in hand. “Thanks for the rescue,” he said, breathless, grinning.
“Anytime.”
Their eyes met again—and this time it lingered.
“Thanks again. For the flowers. And the name.”
Then he gave a little wave, eyes crinkling, and disappeared into the alley.
The door swung shut behind him.
Iwaizumi stood in the stillness, surrounded by flowers, the soft echo of fan screams still distant and muffled.
His shop smelled like rain and roses—and now, the faint scent of trouble.