Chapter Text
Park was a mystery to those in PTMC.
A question mark when it came to all things personal.
Only known for his work ethic.
An incredibly formidable surgeon.
The man you’d want in the face of a critical trauma case. If ever there was a severed limb, he was the one you’d call.
Level headed.
Focused.
But also…
Insanely terrifying.
Feared for his cold behavior, his blunt words and clipped delivery. With a gaze that could send ice hurling straight at you.
Chilling them to the bone.
It made medical students and interns quiver.
And yet…
If anyone were to take a glimpse into his office. If ever they glanced a peak when the door was open.
They would notice.
That without fail.
There would be a beautiful blooming bouquet of flowers sat on his desk.
No other personal artefacts.
Just a pen holder, neatly arranged papers, desk tidy, his certificate on the wall to the side…
Not a single personal picture on display.
And the bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.
No one dared to ask.
No one dared to question it.
Fearful for their own lives. Afraid of broaching the subject.
The last time anyone had asked him, as he was walking through the ER headed to the elevator.
Bouquet of flowers in hand.
“Is someone dying?” they had asked offhandedly.
Only to receive a pointed look from the Shark himself. A small grunt. No words leaving him.
Making the student shrivel beneath his gaze.
And that student was never seen again in the midst of the ER…
…But only because their rotation in the ER had ended.
Since then no one dared to ask.
No matter how strange or bizarre the sight was.
No matter how odd it was.
No one dared to question it.
Simply leaving it as one of those things they’d never learn.
Never once for a moment thinking that the true cause of the cheery blooms he always had in his office were sweet gifts from his wife.
From the love of his life.
A constant reminder of her.
One that made his heart settle. Sets his mind at ease.
All of this remained a simple secret for him to hold, to cherish. It’s not that Brendon wasn’t proud of his wife, not proud of being with her.
It’s simply that.
He liked keeping you to himself.
Keeping that part to himself.
…Though he often did slip your business card to those he thought were looking to purchase flowers. Or to those who complimented the flowers in his office.
And those in his OR were endlessly reminded of how sickeningly in love he was with his wife.
Forced to listen to his rambles about your recent date together. Or the recent development in your relationship together.
All of them sworn to secrecy.
Knowing better than to let slip the intimacies of Shark’s personal life.
It was safe to say that Shark’s OR was a vault of secrets.
But this little secret.
This little fact about Dr Brendon Park.
Was about to be revealed to all those speculating in the ER about him. Was about to set a blazing flurry of gossip throughout the hospital.
When a woman came through to the ER.
Wheeled in by the paramedics.
It was stupid.
Completely.
Utterly.
Embarrassingly stupid.
The kind of injury that would make Brendon stare at you with that look.
The one that said, you're smarter than this, without him ever actually saying the words.
Which was exactly why you had absolutely no intention of telling him.
…At least not until the blood was wiped clean, and your hand was fixed…
Your morning was going smoothly.
A breeze. Just like every other morning you’d had before at your store. Moving with a practiced ease. Going through the motions.
To the point you could do it all blindfolded.
An early delivery of flowers had been made to the store.
A man had come in looking for a bouquet for his girlfriend, in honour of their anniversary.
Three wedding consultations.
And approximately four hundred stems that needed trimming.
You'd done this thousands of times.
Literally thousands.
Which was why your attention had drifted for exactly one second.
One.
Second.
The floral shears slipped.
And then suddenly there was blood.
A surprising amount of blood.
For such a tiny injury.
…Maybe you shouldn’t start your journey as a blindfolded florist…Was the thought that crossed your mind.
"Okay,” You stared at your hand. The event of it all not fully sinking in. Still in a state of shock, "Okay."
One of your employees stared too, gasping, "Oh my God."
"It's fine," you said. Understating the true severity of this.
"That is not fine," She shook her head.
"It's a finger, barely a snip," you said.
They counteracted, "It's bleeding everywhere,” already dialling 911.
And so.
Twenty minutes later.
You found yourself sitting in the ER. Feeling deeply annoyed. And mildly embarrassed.
A towel wrapped around your hand whilst the blood slowly soaks through.
The cut itself isn't catastrophic. No missing fingers. No shattered bones.
Just a deep slice across the side of your index finger.
Deep enough to need stitches.
Deep enough to be annoying.
Especially for a florist.
It made you groan at the thought.
Moved to a bay, your hand is checked over. A woman with a poised posture. With a look in her eyes that revealed she had seen everything there was to see in a place like this. A look that said nothing could surprise her.
And that.
Was exactly what you needed right now.
The woman, the nurse, Dana, carefully unwraps the towel. Winces slightly on your behalf.
Not because of the pain but because of the inconvenience this would undoubtedly cause for you.
"What?" you asked, peering at your hand.
She shakes her head regretfully, "That's probably six stitches."
You groan, shoulders slumping from the thought. There was no way you were going to hide this from Brendon now…
A head ducks into the room, as a young woman enters.
Dana clicks her tongue, “Ah, Santos. Perfect timing. We’re going to need some stitches here”
She nods, moving over before her lips twist into a frown at the sight.
“Ouch–what’d you do?”
Dana strips her hands of the gloves she wore, wiping them clean with hand sanitiser. While Santos takes over under her supervision.
You mutter quietly, a little embarrassed, “I was trimming flowers–and my hand slipped,” squeezing your eyes shut, “So fucking stupid”
Dana shakes her head, “Coulda happened to anyone–It’ll be good as new as soon as you know it”
“Flowers?” Santos asks, moving deftly to repair your hand.
“Hmm–Oh, I’m a florist. That’s why this is so dumb. I’ve probably trimmed thousands of flowers by now. And while it's not my first floral related injury, I can definitely say this is one of the worse ones.”
You continue to talk with them both.
Sharing your experiences as being a florist.
Bonding over the difficulties of having frustrating customers–patients. Who believe they know better.
And then falling into a tangent about flowers and why you had fallen in love with what you do.
And how they had actually brought you and your husband together.
All in an effort to distract you from the needle threading through your skin. Despite the local anesthetic.
There was something to be said about a phantom pain if ever your gaze drifted to it.
Both Santos and Dana knew better than to draw attention to it.
Instead choosing to indulge in your stories.
And then, just as Dana sits beside the computer. Typing, taking down your details, she glances over to you with a raised brow, "Okay–Anyone you want us to call for you? An emergency contact?”
She gestures to your left hand, to the rings glimmering beneath fluorescent lights, “A spouse, maybe?”
"Emergency contact?" You freeze, biting your lip. It’s not that you didn’t want your husband here. It’s just…you knew he could be a bit much.
Especially when it came to your well being.
You still remember the last time you twisted an ankle when on a stroll in the park with him.
He had insisted on carrying you in his arms all the way back to the car…
You could only imagine what he’d do now.
"...do I have to?" Dana and Santos immediately look suspicious. Sharing a look with each other. Mind flaring with concern.
"Yes," Dana nods carefully.
You sigh.
Deeply.
Tragically.
Like someone preparing for execution.
You recite his number first. Then his first name…and then–
“Park?” Santos blinks, “As in Dr Brendon Park–orthopedic surgeon?”
“Uh–yes?” you said, shifting slightly uncomfortably beneath the weight of their gaze.
Santos’ mouth practically drops open–”Oh my god, wait until I tell Huckleberry about this”
“Santos–” Dana sends her a pointed look. Before shifting to look at you, “I’m going to page your husband and he should come down soon, for now Santos will go over the next steps of your care.”
She steps out. While you nod.
Santos pulls up a chair closer to you, with a wide grin on her face, “So what can you tell me about Shark”
You laugh softly, murmuring under your breath “So he really does go by Shark, huh…” Before you look up at her, arching a brow, “What do you wanna know?”
And whilst Brendon raced down from the moment Dana paged him concerning his wife in the ER.
“Where is she?” he asked her as soon as he came in contact with the hub where she stood beside Robby.
They share a quick look, before both pointing towards your bay…
Your bay, that was now crowded by medical students, interns, and nurses alike. All with the same questions buzzing in their minds.
How were you married to the infamous Shark?
How did you meet?
Are you sure it’s the same Brendon Park we know??
In what felt like a borderline investigation led by Santos.
You sat on the bed.
A smile on your face, a gleam in your eye as you talk about Park. About the husband you had fallen so helplessly in love with.
Robby leans closer to Dana while they watch Park stalk over, he mutters to her, “So…The florist that all my staff are hounding is Park’s wife”
Dana hums in agreement.
And immediately has to fight a smile.
Because suddenly the intimidating orthopaedic surgeon doesn't look intimidating.
He looks worried.
Actually worried.
The kind of worried only reserved for people you love.
She smirks, commenting, “You know it makes sense with all the flowers in his office”
“Who would’ve thought…” Robby says, scratching his face while they watch the crowd part whilst Park enters the bay.
Everyone sending him looks. Little smirks as they look at him.
Only for him to send them fleeing with one pointed look.
Until soon it is just you, Park and Santos still by your side.
He eyes settle onto you and only you.
And though reluctantly…Santos slips out of the room. Pulling the curtain closed around you both.
And there you sit before him, on the hospital bed.
Looking sheepish.
Holding gauze against your finger.
But all Brendon can focus on is the fact that you’re okay. That you’re fine. The relief that washes over his face is immediate.
Visible.
Instant.
His shoulders drop.
His breathing eases.
And for a second.
Just a second.
He closes his eyes.
He steadies his thoughts. All the terrible things he had imagined are now fading from his mind.
"Hi,” Your voice is small.
Brendon opens his eyes.
Stares.
And then his eyes soften.
Coming closer to you he settles by your side, encircling you in his arms. Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, sighing as he mumbles out, pure love flooding his words, “I’m so glad you’re okay–I don’t know what I’d do if this was worse”
Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him.
Before remarking, “You’d probably terrify everyone until I was okay”
“I wouldn’t hesitate to do that for you,” he replied, “Because I love you, so much sweetheart, so much”
Vulnerability drenches his words.
Words that make your heart bloom with the warmth you’d come to cherish since the moment you’d met him.
“Love you too,” you whispered softly, leaning your head against his chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner–You know I would’ve dropped everything to be here–”
“That’s why,” you interrupted, looking up at him, with kind eyes, “I didn’t want to bother you–”
“Bother me?” he asked, shaking his head. “You could never be a bother to me–Tell me you understand that”
Sighing, you nod, “Ok”
He arches a brow at you.
Before you melt further into his grasp, “Ok, I promise I understand that I’m never a bother to you”
His eyes trace your stitched up hand. Analysing the work.
Though a little disgruntled at the thought that this was an intern’s handiwork…he couldn’t deny the fact that it was done perfectly.
“Hey–look at me,” you tilt his head towards you, “I’m okay. Everything’s ok”
He sighs, nodding, heeding your words.
Before you lighten the mood, with a small joke, “I can’t believe you didn’t bring me flowers,” you said with a teasing grin.
He chuckled softly, kissing your cheek, “Unfortunately my favourite florist is unavailable right now”
“Hm, must be a lucky person to be called your favourite”
“I think I’m the lucky one,” he replies smoothly, “Very lucky indeed.”
You smile so widely, leaning up to kiss his jaw.
He stays by your side.
His surgeries are rescheduled and moved to other surgeons.
Choosing to be by your side.
Your support.
Your anchor.
As his colleagues send curious glances, whispers spread throughout the ER. Gossip fuelling the morale for the day. Gossip involving him and his beautiful wife.
But that doesn’t matter to him.
His image doesn’t matter to him.
His pride be damned.
For you he would be as soft and caring as you needed. If only to see you smile. If only to hear you laugh.
And to think.
It had all started years ago in the halls of this very same hospital.
A day he would think of fondly for the rest of his days.
The day he met you for the first time.
The day he was gifted his very first flower…
…
You shuffle through the halls.
Eyes scanning the numbers upon the walls, brows furrowed whilst you read each number.
Searching.
Looking for something in particular.
The faint rustle of paper as you adjust the bright bursting bouquet of flowers in your arms, as a flower blocks your view. A small card peeking out from your bag.
Feet moving quickly as you tread through the halls.
Reciting the room number under your breath, the same one the clerk at the reception had informed you with.
Room 412.
A faithful customer of yours.
Always a friendly face in your store.
Who’s wife, Margaret, had informed you that he was post-op.
A successful procedure.
He was an elderly man, James Miller, who always stopped by at least once or twice a month, always coming by to buy a beautiful bouquet of flowers for his wife.
And thankfully these bouquets were never bought as apologies. Or bought out of regret.
–Which couldn’t be said about all your customers.
No Mr Miller always simply bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers, merely an expression of his love for his wife.
Because he knew how much they made her smile.
Because he loved how much they made her smile.
It was a love you hoped to one day have.
But for now…
Your mind was dead set on searching for his room to drop off this bundle of flowers. The colours added a much needed burst of colour in the dreary halls.
Fresh-cut flowers always feel slightly out of place in a hospital. Too alive for somewhere that smells faintly of antiseptic and exhaustion.
But that’s exactly why you brought them.
A pop of colour to brighten his journey in recovery.
A little way to support him, as a way to say thanks for his support of you and your business.
It was just as you were peering at a doorway, scanning for the set of numbers you were looking for.
Half distracted, as your feet kept moving.
That was when you had walked straight into what felt like a wall.
Stumbling back, only to be steadied by a set of hands.
“Oof,” you let out a small squeak in surprise, eyes darting to the bouquet checking for any damage. Muttering out rambled apologies, “I’m so sorry—I should’ve been looki–”
And then you stop short, just as your eyes lift to meet the handsome stranger’s.
His brows knit. Lips pulled into a thin line as he looks at you.
“Just keep an eye out, don’t want to add another patient to the wards,” he says cooly.
You nod, with a sheepish laugh.
“Right, yeah. I’ll keep a better look out,” you say, stepping around him.
Not to be slowed down, even if he was quite nice on the eyes.
Even if he was quite tall.
Quite built.
With a quiet sort of dependability–
Nope.
You were here for your friend. And that took precedence.
Not realising how his eyes trailed after you. Stopped in the hall, simply watching your figure turn the corner.
The bright bunch of flowers brings vibrance to his day.
How your smile made his heart flutter–
Just what were you doing to him?
Shaking his head, he continued on his way. Checking up on his recent patients. Checking in.
While many might say Park didn’t care. Or was too cold hearted to care.
…They would be wrong.
A bleeding heart concealed behind his tall concrete walls. Tucked away from those around him.
His secret to bear.
Turning the corner, your eyes light up finally reaching the room you were hunting for.
Knocking lightly at the door, “Delivery,” you say gently, already smiling.
Seeing as Mr Miller lights up, while Mrs Miller sends you a kind smile. Her hand gently wrapped with his.
“Oh–hun. Those are beautiful,” She greets you.
Moving, as you shift to set the bouquet down on the bedside table, adjusting the stems so they fan out properly, as to not bruise the petals. Soft pinks, and greens, sprigs of greenery, with pops of lilac blue threaded throughout.
Nothing too loud.
A gentle beauty.
“There you go,” you murmur, “Something a bit nicer than hospital lighting”
Mr Miller laughs weakly, “Thank you–”
You hold up a hand.
“Don’t even think about it–Its my way of saying thank you–” you look at him with a smile, before joking, “–It would’ve been terrible to lose my best customer.”
They laugh at your words.
The moment cut off, at the sound of a clearing throat.
“Just checking in to see how you are Mr Miller,” the doctor from before. Leans in, trying to hide how his eyes flick over to you.
A silent question behind his eyes.
Before switching back to observe Mr Miller, coming up to his side, as he checks the monitors and his vitals.
“Oh, Dr Park,” Mrs Miller smiles. Her hand squeezing Mr Millers. She looks over to you, with this glint in her eyes. “I don’t think we’ve properly thanked you”
He clears his throat, with a small shake of his head, “That’s not necessary”
“Nonsense,” she insists. “You saved my husband’s life”
Brendon visibly resists the urge to retreat. To slink away from the praise, “It’s my job”
Mr Miller snorts, “Doctors always say that”
You bite back a smile.
Brendon glances toward you.
Just briefly.
Ever so slightly.
Then looks away.
As though he's afraid of getting caught.
Caught doing what, exactly, you're not sure.
Mrs Miller notices.
Of course she notices.
Women like her always notice.
"Oh Dr Park, you’ve probably not met–this is my favourite florist," she says.
Your head immediately snaps toward her, "Margaret."
"What?" she asks innocently.
"You don't have to introduce me."
“We’ve met, actually,” Brendon speaks up, a small teasing glint flickering in his eyes.
Mrs Miller’s eyes practically sparkle, “Oh?”
You shake your head slightly, feeling a heat rise to your cheeks, “Just in the halls–I mistakenly walked into Dr Park, again I’m sorry about that”
He waves off your apology, “I can see why you were in a hurry”
Mrs Miller then continues on. Catching onto the slight chemistry brewing between you both.
“Well–Then you should know that this lovely girl keeps me supplied with flowers year-round,” She flatters you, before sending you a pointed look, "And bankrupts herself making sure stubborn old men receive recovery bouquets."
You roll your eyes, no malice behind your action, only affection.
“She truly is the best florist around,” Mr Miller adds.
To which you deny, “I’m really not”
Mrs Miller waves you off, looking to Brendon, “She’s being modest”
Brendon bites back a grin. Feeling it threaten to form upon his usually steely facade. He watches the exchange quietly.
Observing.
Listening.
Something soft appearing behind his eyes.
The kind of expression most people never got to see.
Because Dr Park had perfected the art of appearing untouchable.
Cool.
Collected.
A little arrogant.
Perhaps definitely intimidating.
The kind of doctor who walked into a room and immediately seemed in control.
But every now and then–
You caught glimpses of something else.
Something gentler.
Something hidden.
And Mrs Miller catches him watching. Whilst her grin widens. Dangerously, "Oh yes," she says, "She's a good one."
You point accusingly, warningly, "Margaret."
"What?"
"Stop."
The older woman merely smiles.
Brendon gives a final satisfied nod towards Mr Miller. His eyes meeting yours briefly once more. Before he steps out.
With a murmured, “It was nice to meet you”
And your heart clenched at the idea that your paths wouldn’t cross any more…
Mrs Miller leans into your side, teasingly remarking, “I didn’t see a ring on that finger did you?”
You groan with a small laugh, “I can’t believe you”
They both simply laugh, shrugging.
“There are worse men to date–Besides, didn’t you see the way he looked at you?” She added, before sharing a look with her husband.
“He did seem pretty smitten”
“I think I might just take these flowers back,” you said jokingly.
“You’re too nice to do something like that,” Mr Miller calls your bluff. To which you only smile softly, agreeing almost immediately.
And then several minutes later.
After another round of goodbyes.
After promises to visit.
After Mrs. Miller squeezed your hand and whispered, "He's handsome."
Words which nearly made you trip over your own feet.
You finally escaped into the hallway. But not before slipping one of the flowers from the bouquet.
Carefully selecting one stem.
A pink amaryllis.
Elegant.
Beautiful.
Strong.
You turn it between your fingers.
Standing outside the door, you shake your head.
Honestly. Mr and Mrs Miller were by far the most meddling of your customers.
Then continue down the corridor.
Only to nearly walk straight into someone.
You stop short, "Oh." Eyes lifting to meet the very doctor from before. Brendon Park.
He sends you an arched brow, “We have got to stop meeting this way”
Your lips stretch into a smile. Letting out a soft laugh.
A laugh that makes his heart race. A flurry of thoughts clouding his mind. The feelings unfamiliar to him. Foreign to him.
His mouth twitches.
Dangerously close to a smile.
The flower catches his attention. Brows furrowing slightly, before asking, “Do you have another flower delivery?” he tilts his head to the side, as he glances at you.
Your eyes flicker down to the flower, then back up, “Uh–yes, actually”
And before you can second-guess yourself–
Before you can overthink.
You hold it out to him.
His eyebrows lift, "For me?"
"A small gesture of thanks,” you say lightly. As though this was simple. As though this wasn’t a big deal.
His expression shifts.
Subtly, "Thanks?"
You reiterate, "It’s for a job well done."
He’s been thanked many times. By overwhelming grateful patients, by their friends and family.
But no one had ever.
Given him flowers.
So this.
This was a first for him.
Brendon looks genuinely caught off guard.
Which seems impressive.
You suspect not many things catch Dr Park off guard.
"You don't have to thank me," he says, unsure of where to go from here.
"Maybe not,” You nudge the flower towards him, before adding, your words soft, sweet, as delicate as the flower in your grasp, "But I wanted to."
“It’s pink?” He notes.
You only shrug, “It’s pretty,” waving off his statement.
And then slowly.
He accepts it.
Almost carefully.
Like the stem might break.
Like the gesture itself might.
The sight makes something warm settle in your chest.
"Amaryllis," you inform him. Watching as he observes the flower, tentative with his hold of it.
“Fun fact it represents strength,” you state, before adding unable to hold back on your little floral trivia, “And back in the Victorian era they were believed to represent pride”
“Pride?” He asks.
You hum in agreement.
Before he looks at you pointedly, “Are you calling me arrogant?”
You huff out a laugh. Caught off guard by his question.
And the brightness.
The fullness of the sound.
Echoes through the hall.
Makes him crack just a small grin.
Passersbys glance over, before shuffling away at the sight of Park. Averting their gaze.
You correct him, “Strong-willed”
“Right,” he nods sarcastically.
Grinning, you put your hands in your pockets, about to speak up. About to take a chance, when–
His pager beeps.
He swallows thickly, glancing down at it, “I should–”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Can’t leave a patient waiting”
He hesitates for a moment, about to speak up, to ask you for a number.
Until you simply say, “Goodbye Dr Park”
Left to simply watch you leave down the hall.
The only reminder of you was the flower in his hand.
Soon he’s rushing off, placing the flower carefully in his locker. Racing towards wherever his pager called him to.
Left with the lingering memory of you.
The pretty woman.
With radiance in your eyes.
And flowers in your arms.
Thankfully…you’ve got a couple friends looking out for you. With perhaps a bit too much time on their hands, as they meddle in your affairs.
The next time they catch Dr Park passing by.
Just perhaps.
Mrs Miller lets it slip that her husband frequents your shop, always leaving with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, neatly wrapped up and elegantly finished.
Personalised, with a hidden meaning behind each flower.
So much thought is put into your work.
So much joy poured into it.
Both very evident in your floral arrangements,
And…
They may have let slip just exactly where your shop is…
A tidbit of information that Brendon tucked neatly in his mind. Something for him to ruminate and think over.
Something for him to ponder over in the moments between surgery.
In the moments where Brendon is finally left alone in peace.
Until…
Three days later.
When he finally takes action.
A day off had led him to drive all the way to your store. Had led him to sit in the car for far longer than necessary. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, thinking whether he should bail or go in.
But then your face would flash in his mind.
The simple action of you gifting him a flower…
He decided then and there.
That he had to try.
Walking to your store, taking in the quaint storefront. The delicate signage.
Nothing bold. Garish. Nothing loud.
But it drew the eye.
The colours were warming. Inviting.
With large glass windows, allowing the sunlight to filter in, bright blooms of all kinds are placed around inside.
The little doorbell above rang out once he opened the door.
“Hello!” You called out from your bench facing away from him, voice as cheery as the sunflowers to his left.
“How can I help–Oh, uh. Dr Park, right?” You finally meet his eyes. Surprise filtering across your features. A little stunned by the familiar figure.
It was quite the sight.
Seeing him standing there.
Broad shouldered,
And sharp edged.
Now surrounded by pure softness.
The contrast was quite drastic.
And yet…
In your eyes.
It appeared so natural.
It simply fit.
He nods at your words, brows furrowing before realising, “I–uh, didn’t catch your name?”
Blinking for a moment.
Caught off guard.
Before your lips widened into a smile.
“I’m Y/N,” you introduce, warmly, “Now, Dr Park—”
He coughs, trying to calm the racing of his mind, thrown off by just your simply dazzling smile.
“You can call me Brendon,” he says.
“Ok Brendon,” you nod, “How can I help you today? Got a lucky lady—or guy in need of flowers?”
“Something like that,” he answers vaguely. Walking up closer to the bench you’re at.
Scanning the tools behind you lining the walls.
The weathered gloves you wore on your hands to protect them from the pricklier of flowers.
To the endless array of different ribbons, of various papers, and twine.
The preprepared bouquets all set to go for those in need of a quick arrangement. Ranging from small to large.
And then the individual blooms around the room.
For those looking for something a little more personal.
“So what are we thinking?” You asked.
And if you were being honest.
Your heart stuttered at the idea he had someone in his life special enough for flowers.
Fearful that any hopes you had built up were now to be dashed away…
It was a nice dream while it lasted.
He stood in thought scanning the room. Really thinking it over.
Before meeting your eyes.
Noting the curiosity sparkling in them.
“What would you suggest—if you were to pick out your favourites?” He answered.
Only to leave you with more questions.
“Nothing more specific?”
He shook his head, “No, I trust your judgement,” Before he adds jokingly, “This isn’t quite my OR, so it’s really your area of expertise”
You let out a laugh, one that makes his smile widen.
And then your mind sparked with excitement.
Racing with ideas.
You didn’t always love when your customers came in with vague ideas.
Finding that difficult to work with, when they um’d and ah’d over the different flowers. Only to completely scrap whatever ideas you had.
—You also didn’t love it when they came in with hyper specific ideas.
Also finding that difficult to work with when they were asking for Peonies in the mid Winter…and trying to tell them just why they cost more in comparison to the Summer season.
That simply came with the job. And truly you couldn’t complain when you were currently living your dream of being a florist.
Normally such a vague request such as Brendon’s would make you internally groan.
But…
There was something about Brendon’s request.
That made you simply think of your favourite flowers.
Those specific blooms come to mind.
And perhaps…
The flowers that came to mind.
The flowers that popped into your thoughts while you mentally curated the bouquet.
The flowers you imagined. Just perhaps were the ones you would love most if he were to give them to you.
“So what would you suggest?” he questions, shaking you from your daze.
“Oh-” Your mouth twists, mind lost in thought, “It sort of depends what or who this is for?”
“Let’s just say it’s for someone I’d like to get to know better,” he answers.
You nod, not really taking in the way he looks at you, not catching the undertone of his words, the pointedness of them.
Instead eyes flicking around the room. Scanning all the different flowers on display.
“And money’s not a factor,” he added, before fearing it would come across a little too egotistical by that, “Not that–not that I’m trying to brag. I just wanted to say I don’t mind how much it costs”
You laugh softly, sending him a look, “I see the Amaryllis really stuck with you, huh?” you teased.
Rounding the bench you began to pluck different flowers. While Brendon trailed after you, asking you about each choice.
“And those are, peonies?” He asked, trying to scrape the barrel on his knowledge of flowers.
Grinning up at him, you nod before overexplaining, “Specifically, Duchesse de Nemours, these guys were bred in the 19th century France”
But Brendon simply listens to you.
He doesn’t roll his eyes.
Doesn’t avert his gaze.
Doesn’t tell you to stop.
He truly listens.
As though you were the most fascinating person in the world.
You would be lying to say that didn’t send a thrill through you.
“And they mean?...” He probed.
“Purity and new beginnings,” you said, admiring their cream coloured, yellow petals, “I think that suits what you were wanting”
Continuing around the room you grasp onto other flowers.
And the conversation continues to flow.
“These are Ranunculus, also known as Persian Buttercups–”
“And why is that?”
“Well it’s said, in a Persian legend, that a young, handsome prince was so hopelessly enamored with a water nymph that he died of a broken heart. And that the first ranunculus sprouted from the exact spot he passed away,” you explained.
He arched his brow in faint amusement, “That’s a little depressing?”
You shake your head, eyes softening while glancing at the flowers, “It’s meant to be charming”
“So long as you like them,” he commented. Before pointing out another set of flowers.
Unaware of the flurry of feelings his words made bloom in your chest.
You threaded through some greenery, to help make the colours pop.
Just as you were about to ask what paper he’d like them wrapped in. You were stopped short.
“Can we add some violets?” He suggested.
You lift a brow in question, glancing at the bouquet. Before shrugging lightly, “It could definitely work”
Gently plucking the delicate violet purple flowers.
Gazing at it in satisfaction.
“And do you want them wrapped?”
He nods, “Just pick what you think suits best, and a white and blue ribbon please”
“Ok–that I can do,” working with practiced ease you arrange the flowers, clipped when needed, tying them in place.
You ask, “And why exactly, violets?”
He wanders the store, looking at all the flowers, the decorations on the walls, the framed pictures of past bouquets, he replied, “I was told recently that I needed a little humility”
You almost clipped your own finger, stunned by his straightforwardness. Coughing lightly. Caught off guard.
You miss the way his lip quirks up.
How they curl up into a small smile.
You distract yourself by preparing the bouquet. The air filled with the faint rustle of the paper, the gentle murmur of music playing in the background, and the few snips of your scissors.
“And–” you tie the last ribbon, before looking incredibly pleased by your work. “Ta-da, your beautiful bouquet is complete.”
He walks back over, taking it in his hands, admiring the elegant beauty of it, the precision of it all.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” he nods, whilst paying for the flowers.
You hold back the frown as you realise your time together is coming to an end. Soon he would be leaving your company. Leaving to gift these beautiful flowers to a beautiful person…
When.
He extends his hand out to you, flowers in hand, “These are for you”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Confusion colouring your features.
Before lifting your eyes to meet his.
“Uhh–” you clear your throat, “I don’t understand?”
He shifts slightly, side to side. Nerves building within him as he second-guesses his gesture. Perhaps he came off too strong. Perhaps this was a bit much–but from what he gathered from the Millers…this was the sort of gesture you’d appreciate–
“The flowers–they’re for you…” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly.
Your heart skips.
Then promptly forgets how to function.
For a moment all you can do is stare.
At the doctor standing in your flower shop.
Holding out a bouquet built from your favourite flowers.
Little violets threaded amongst them.
Humility.
A quiet admission.
A man setting aside pride.
Choosing honesty instead.
And perhaps for the first time since meeting him–
Dr Brendon Park looks completely vulnerable.
You take them gently from his grasp, admiring them once more.
“Thank you,” you smile so brightly.
A smile, that Brendon craves to be the cause of.
Craves to see more of.
“Now, I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything–but I was hoping I could take you out on a date,” he feels the courage build within him.
“Yes,” you nod. Before your eyes soften as you look at him, “I’d love to.”
“Good, great,” He nods, a smile stretching across his lips, hands clamped together, “Does tonight sound too soon?”
You laugh softly, before shaking your head, endeared by his efforts, “Tonight sounds perfect”
The relief on his face is immediate.
Almost comical.
And as he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, you think Mrs. Miller is going to be absolutely unbearable when she hears about this.
Somehow, though–
You don't mind at all.
And after plans are made.
Times arranged.
When Brendon walks out of your shop. He has the widest grin imaginable spread across his lips.
He had a date…
You stand in your store, gently admiring the flowers in your grasp. A warmth burrowing in your heart.
You had a date…
And who would’ve known that that date would turn into two, into four, ten, into an endless number of dates.
Until one day he was no longer your boyfriend.
But the man you had fallen in love with.
The man you had said yes to.
The man you married.
And the man that you were building a future with.
And the love that Brendon festered for you, grew within his heart. Swelling and blooming like the prettiest flowers in your store.
Made to last forever.
Cherished forever.
Who would’ve thought?
That the Shark of PTMC would be so deliriously enamoured by the woman with an impressive knowledge of flowers.
By the woman who had gifted him an Amarrylis.
With a tact for all things delicate and beautiful.
That he would have fallen for you.
And that you would love him just as much.
It was certainly quite a shock to those at PTMC…
And just perhaps you owed Mr and Mrs Miller a few bouquets free of charge.
A little way to say thank you for their involvement in your lifetime of happiness…
Even though that could never fully amount to how grateful you are to them. Grateful that through them, you and the love of your life were brought together.
You and Brendon.
Truly so intertwined.
With a love everlasting.
Ever growing, with every passing day.