Chapter Text
The sun had only just begun to rise over the city when Arias reached his tattoo studio. The streets were still quiet, washed in pale gold and early-morning chill. He didn’t have any appointments that early—not personally, anyway—but he owned the place, which meant opening up for his artists, whether he liked mornings or not.
He’d just taken his keys out to unlock the front entrance when something next door caught his attention.
It used to be a trinket store, the kind that sold dusty figurines and chipped dolls, run by a perpetually grumpy old woman who glared at anyone who lingered too long near the window. It had finally gone under at some point, and the building complex owner had hired a crew to renovate the space a few months back.
Apparently, today the new shop owner was moving their stuff in.
A moving truck was parked out front, its back doors open, the inside stacked high with boxes. Someone was clearly inside the shop, probably organizing. Arias paused, curiosity getting the better of him, and stepped closer.
Fresh lettering had been painted across the windows, and a new sign hung above the door.
It’s a flower shop.
Huh, Arias thought to himself. That’s new. Hopefully it’s not run by a grouchy old lady this time.
He started to turn back to his studio—only to stop short when the front door of the flower shop opened.
Someone stepped out.
Arias froze.
Woah.
The person who emerged was very much not an old lady.
He looked around his own age—maybe a little younger—with fluffy blond hair and the kind of effortless attractiveness that hit Arias square in the chest, like a sucker punch he hadn’t braced for. He was dressed simply in a black wifebeater and baggy jeans with sneakers, the combination doing absolutely nothing to hide his lean build and toned arms—arms Arias definitely stared at for a second too long.
He yawned wide, scratching a hand through already-ruffled hair, his entire posture broadcasting one very clear message: mornings were a personal offense.
He shuffled toward the truck, still half-asleep, and reached inside for another box.
Shit, Arias thought. Stop staring like a creep.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he walked over, stopping near the back of the truck.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light. “So you’re the new shop owner?”
The reaction was immediate.
The guy startled like a spooked cat, jerking around with a sharp inhale. “You scared the shit out of me!” he blurted.
His eyes landed somewhere around Arias’s chest first—then slowly tracked upward. The surprise on his face doubled when he realized just how tall he was: inked arms, broad shoulders, all looming behind him at six in the morning.
Arias winced and laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry—sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He shifted his weight, trying to seem less… intimidating. “I’m Arias. I own the tattoo studio next door. Just wanted to meet my new neighbor.”
That seemed to do the trick.
He visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping as he let out a long sigh.
“Osora,” he said. “And yeah, I’m the new owner. Sorry—I’m just… really not a morning person.”
Arias huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said easily. “I can tell.”
Osora shot him a look—somewhere between excuse me? and wow, rude—and Arias immediately backtracked.
“I mean—uh,” he cleared his throat, gesturing to the truck. “You’ve got a lot of boxes, and I’ve got some time before I need to open up. You want a hand?”
Osora nodded. “Yeah—thanks.”
So Arias grabbed a box from the truck and followed them inside.
He hadn’t really seen the interior since the renovation, only brief glimpses through uncovered windows, but stepping inside made it immediately clear that the space had been designed with care. Soft, natural light filtered through the front windows, catching on pale wood shelves and clean white, blue, and yellow walls. The layout was open but intentional, like every corner already had a purpose waiting for it.
He supposed it made sense. A florist would have to be artistic.
“Just… put it over there,” Osora said, setting his box on a neat stack near the back wall. His voice was quiet, clipped, like he wasn't used to chatting with strangers.
Arias set the box down carefully, then straightened, glancing around again. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and something green—herbal, almost sweet.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “did you just move here, or…?”
Osora nudged another box into place with his foot. “Yeah. Couple weeks ago. Still figuring out where everything is.” He hesitated, then added, “The shop took longer than I thought.”
“Renovating this place took a while,” Arias said easily. “Trust me. This spot used to be… rough.” He tilted his head toward the shared wall. “I think I inhaled drywall dust for, like, four months straight.”
That earned him the smallest snort from Osora before he could stop it. He looked mildly annoyed with himself for reacting at all, which Arias found—alarmingly—kind of adorable.
“What made you pick this spot?” he asked, grabbing another box. It was lighter this time, marked vases – fragile in neat handwriting.
Osora shrugged, but there was intention behind it. “Good foot traffic. Close to downtown, but not… loud.” He paused. “And it felt right.”
Arias hummed. “Yeah. That checks out.” He glanced toward the front windows again. “You’re sandwiched between a tattoo studio and a café that burns their coffee half the time, but people love it anyway.”
Osora blinked. “Wait—really?”
“Oh, yeah,” Arias said. “Terrible coffee. Great pastries. Don’t ask me how that works.”
That got a real smile this time—brief, but unmistakable. Arias felt it land square in his chest.
He cleared his throat and set the box down. “So—uh. What kind of florist are you?” The question came out clumsier than he’d intended, and he winced. “I mean—not like—obviously flowers—but—”
Osora saved him. “I do a lot of custom arrangements,” he said. “Events, walk-ins. I like working with color theory. Texture. Balance.” He gestured vaguely as they spoke. “I also sell other potted plants too.”
Arias nodded slowly. “That’s… cool. Really cool.”
Osora ducked his head a little at that, focusing very hard on opening another box.
“What about you?” he asked, quieter. “You own the studio?”
“Yeah,” Arias said. “Started as an apprentice there when I was a teenager. Bought it out a few years back.” He shrugged. “It’s not fancy, but it’s mine.”
Osora glanced at him then, actually taking him in this time—the ink, the piercings, the relaxed confidence that came from years of standing his ground. His gaze lingered just long enough to make Arias acutely aware of his own posture, his hands, the fact that he suddenly did not know what to do with either.
“That’s impressive,” Osora said simply.
Something warm unfurled in Arias’s chest. Praise didn’t usually hit like that.
They worked in companionable conversation for a bit after that, the occasional brush of hands when they both reached for the same box sending a small jolt through Arias’s nerves. Osora murmured quick apologies every time, even when it clearly wasn’t his fault.
At one point, Arias noticed him rubbing absently at his shoulder, wincing when he lifted a heavier box.
Old injury maybe? He definitely looks like an athlete.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I’ve got it. You’ve been doing this all morning.”
Osora hesitated, then stepped back without arguing. “...Thanks.”
“No problem,” Arias replied, meaning more than just the boxes.
Arias set down the last box and glanced toward the windows. The sun had climbed higher now, spilling warm light into the shop and catching the colors on the shelves. Osora caught his gaze for a second before looking away, and Arias’s chest tightened a little, just from seeing that flicker of acknowledgement.
“I should probably go open up,” he said reluctantly. “Good luck with the rest of the setup, Osora. I’ll—uh—see you later?”
“Yeah,” Osora replied, smiling softly. “Thanks again. I really appreciate the help.”
Something in Arias’s chest tightened painfully at the sight of his smile.
Wow, he’s absolutely stunning.
“Y—yeah,” he said, clearing his throat as heat crept up his neck. “Anytime. Bye.”
He left a little too quickly.
The second he stepped into his own studio and shut the door behind him, Arias dragged a hand down his face and let out a low groan.
“How did I end up with the cutest guy I’ve ever seen owning the shop next door?” he muttered to himself. “I cannot mess this up.”
He flicked on the lights, heart still racing. How the hell am I supposed to ask him out?
With another frustrated sigh, he shook his head and started setting up for the day—already hopelessly, undeniably gone.
—----------------------
A few minutes later, the front door chimed and one of his artists, Sunni, breezed in.
“Arias!” she said immediately, eyes bright as she dropped her bag by the counter. “Have you seen the cute boy who took over Grouchy Lady’s old shop? He’s absolutely adorable!”
She was already halfway to the back to clock in, talking a mile a minute.
Arias kept his focus on the day’s schedule, willing his face to stay neutral.
“Yeah,” he said casually. “His name’s Osora. I helped him with some boxes this morning. Really—uh—nice.”
Heat crept up his cheeks anyway.
Sunni stopped dead, squinting at him like she’d just cracked a code.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “You like him.”
“What? No—” Arias started.
“You totally do,” she interrupted, grinning. “That’s adorable. You should ask him out!”
“Sunni, I don’t even know if he’s into guys. And I’m not exactly everyone’s type,” he said. Arias highly doubted someone like Osora would be into pierced, tatted, buff guys—but hey, he could hope.
She tilted her head, suddenly thoughtful. “You just have to be a gentleman! Get him flowers—wait—do you even get a florist flowers? Or is that, like, rude? Because you’d be buying from a different flower shop. Or is it worse if you buy from their shop and give their own flowers back to them? Is that too much pressure?”
Arias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sunni,” he said flatly, “your first client gets here in five minutes. Please focus.”
She laughed, utterly unbothered. “Ooooh, the boss is embarrassed~,” she sing-songed, ducking behind the curtain.
Arias groaned quietly, staring down at the clipboard.
If I’m this obvious, he thought, I’m so screwed.