Emma

The unmistakable voice cuts through. You don’t even have to look up to feel a warmth rising from your collar to your cheeks.

Jack leans against the counter right next to you, entirely violating your personal space in the best way possible.

"I just checked the wound that you stitched up in bed 4," Jack says, with his characteristic natural charm. "Impeccable technique. Honestly. You're making the rest of the department look bad."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you mumble, keeping your eyes glued to the computer screen. You can feel the heat radiating from your own face. "It was just a standard procedure."

"Oh, don't do that, doll," Jack chides softly, shifting closer. "Don't downplay your talent. You have gorgeous hands for surgery, truly. So precise."

Your fingers freeze over the keys.

You blink rapidly, your cheeks turning red.

Jack watches the blush spread across your skin with... satisfaction. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips.

He thrives on this; he knows you're a perfectionist, and he knows that his validation makes you feel things.

"Look at you," he teases playfully. "Are you blushing?"

"It's just... warm in here," you lie terribly, finally looking up to meet his eyes.

Big mistake.

His gaze is intense and entirely focused on you.

"Right. Of course," Jack says, not buying it for a second. "But seriously, you handled that beautifully today. I noticed how you kept the patient calm."

You swallow hard, trying to maintain your professional composure. "I'm just doing my job, Jack—sorry, Dr. Abbot."

Jack lets out a chuckle.

"You know I don't mind 'Jack' when it's just us," he says smoothly, keeping his eyes locked onto yours.

"Stop," you whisper.

Jack leans closer.

"Why?" Jack asks with a dangerously playful glint in his eyes.

"You do it on purpose," you accuse him. "You just want to see me flustered."

"Yeah," he confesses without a shred of remorse. "I like it when you blush."

"Jack..."

"Take a break if you need to. I need my favorite resident sharp for our next rounds."

He gives you one last look before turning on his heel and walking down the corridor. You sink back into your chair, taking a deep breath, completely aware that he is going to do the exact same thing to you in a few hours.

And that you're going to let him.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

He found you exactly where he feared: sitting in front of your painting, eyes closed, one hand clutching your head and the other on your stool, trying to keep your balance. As if you were trying not to fall. His eyes went straight to the untouched plate of food on the side table, and then to the terrifyingly familiar pallor of your skin.

"Hey, baby... Look at me," Jack muttered desesperatly.

You lifted your head and he caught you before you could slip to the floor. You felt terribly light. Jack lifted you and laid you on your back on the living room couch, quickly propping up your legs with a couple of cushions.

"Damn it, not again" he breathed, pressing two fingers to the side of your neck. Your pulse was thready and rapid, racing to compensate for a body running entirely on empty. You closed your eyes just a minute, trying to gain energy but you lost consciousness.

He knew your absolute refusal to stop painting when the spark hit you. You had spent the last fifteen hours painting, completely forgetting that your body actually required sustenance to function.

"Baby," Jack pleaded, gently tapping your cheek. "Open your eyes."

A groan escaped your lips. Your eyelids fluttered open as your brain scrambled to figure out which way was up.

"Jack... I don't feel well," you said, feeling disoriented.

"Yeah, I can see that. Stay still," he ordered softly, his hand resting on your forehead. "Don't try to sit up, okay? You're going to pass out again."

You tried to turn your head toward the canvas. "I... I just need to finish the shading..."

"Don't move, please," Jack's voice cracked with deep frustration. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself before looking at you again. "Your blood pressure is crazy right now because you probably forgot to eat all day."

"I just got caught up," you whispered, tears of exhaustion blurring your vision. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apology, I want you to take care of yourself," Jack loved your passion, but it was terrifying to love someone who consistently burned themselves out just to keep a creative spark alive. "I'm going to get you some water, and then we're going to go to ER, you probably need more than food on you," Jack said.. "No arguments. I can't keep finding you like this."

-

"What the fuck, Jack?"

Robby received the stretcher as it entered the ambulance bay, his eyes scanning back and forth between Jack and you. Seeing his partner instantly changed the atmosphere in the ER.

"Syncopal episode at home," Jack said. "History of chronic iron-deficiency anemia. Non-compliant with nutrition and supplements. I think she's tachycardic."

Robby didn't hesitate. "Alright, let's get her into Trauma 2. Jack, step back and let us work."

"Robby, I can—"

"Step back." Robby repeated, his tone firm but not unkind.

Nurses swarmed around you, hooking up an IV, slapping telemetry pads onto your chest, and drawing several vials of blood. Through the haze, you could see Jack standing just inside the doorway, looking helpless.

An hour later, Robby walked back into the curtained cubicle, holding a printout of your lab results. He looked at the paper, then up at you, and finally at Jack, who was sitting next to you.

Robby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, the numbers, honestly, are horrible."

Jack leaned forward. "What’s the hemoglobin?"

"It’s at a six point two," Robby said bluntly, looking directly at you. "Your iron stores are completely depleted, and your electrolytes are a total mess. You're severely anemic. I’m surprised you managed to stand up long enough to paint anything at all today."

You shrank back into the hospital pillows, looking down at your hands. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know you didn't," Robby said, his voice softening. "But your body is starving. You can't just walk out of here with a prescription and a promise to eat better."

Jack closed his eyes. He knew it would be bad, but hearing the numbers gave him a reality check.

"I'm admitting you," Robby announced, rewriting something on his chart. "We're going to put you upstairs for a few days. You need a couple of units of red blood cells, continuous IV fluids, and a dietary consult. We need to monitor you."

"A few days?" you whispered, panic rising in your chest. "Robby, please, I have a deadline. The studio—"

"The studio will be there when you get out," Jack interrupted, his voice cracking as he finally looked up. "You're staying, baby. Robby's right. You need this."

Robby looked between the two of you, nodding gently. "I'll get the admission orders started and call up to the floor. Get some rest."

Robby caught Jack’s eye, tilting his head slightly toward the corridor. It was the universal shorthand for we need to talk, doctor to doctor.

Jack swallowed and gently let go of your hand. "I'll be right back."

He stepped into the hallway. He leaned back against the hospital wall, trying to hold himself together.

"Talk to me, man. What’s going on here?"

Jack rubbed his palms over his face.

"She just... she stops," Jack said. "When she's working, everything else just ceases to exist for her. It's not the first time I come home and I find her almost passing out. It’s like she doesn't care. I'm cooking meals that just sit there and go cold. I'm forcing iron pills down her throat since last month, hoping it does something. I'm terrified one day I’m gonna come home too late."

The raw panic in Jack's voice was palpable. Robby listened quietly, letting Jack vent the terror he’d been bottling up for months.

"Hey." Robby said firmly until Jack met his eyes. "You need to take off your scrubs for a minute. You are her partner. You are not her primary care doctor, and you are not her therapist."

"But I should be able to—"

"No, you shouldn't," Robby interrupted gently, cutting him off. "This isn't just about her forgetting a meal or two. This is a deep behavioral pattern, maybe some hyperfixation or burnout. You can't love her out of an eating habit like this, and you certainly can't bully her into it."

Jack looked down at the floor, his shoulders sinking. "I don't really know what to do with her when she's like this."

"We get her professional help," Robby said. "Once we get her blood counts up and stabilize her, I’m going to put in a referral. A professional can help her unpack why she shuts down her own bodily needs when she paints."

"She’s going to be okay, Jack," Robby promised, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "We’re going to fix the numbers. And then we’re going to get her the tools to fix the rest. You don't have to carry this whole thing on your back. Let us help you."

Jack nodded slowly. "Thanks, man. Seriously."

Jack stood outside the curtain for a long moment before he stepped back into your cubicle. He sat down and gently took your hand.

You looked up at him, bracing yourself for a lecture. You knew your numbers were terrible, and you expected him to be angry.

Instead, he just looked at you softly.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hi," you whispered back, shifting uncomfortably against the hospital sheets. "Is Robby mad at me?"

"No. Robby cares about you. And I care about you, too" Jack said. "I just talked to him. He...."

You swallowed hard. "He what?"

"Robby suggested something," Jack continued softly. "He wants to put in a referral for a specialist. A professional who works specifically with people who struggle with this kind of burnout. Someone who can help you find a way to keep you painting without starving yourself to do it."

You tensed slightly. "A therapist? Jack, I'm not... it's not like that. I don't have a problem with food, I just forget—"

"I know you just forget," Jack interrupted. "He, we, think it's a behavioral habit. But it’s a dangerous one, and doing this on our own isn't working anymore. I can’t keep finding you almost passing out, baby. There’s no shame in letting someone help us navigate this."

He leaned in closer. "Please. Do it for you. For us. Do it so I can come home from a shift and just love you, instead of checking your pulse."

The honesty in his plea broke through you.

You realized he was right.

You couldn't keep living like this.

"O- Okay," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Okay. I'll see someone."

A visible relief washed over Jack and he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

"Thank you, beautiful." he breathed against your skin, his hands wrapping securely around yours. "Thank you. We’re going to get through this. I promise."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

You were already by the crib, a mug of coffee warm between your hands. You looked up as he slipped into the room, your eyes softening at the dark circles under his.

"Hey, handsome," you whispered, setting your mug down on the side table. "Survived the night?"

"Barely," Jack murmured back. He walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Missed you, beautiful."

"Missed you too, Doctor." You tilted your head, kissing his cheek. "Say hi. She’s just waking up."

Jack smiled, pulling away to step over to the crib. Inside, your daughter was starting to stir. She blinked sleepily, her eyes rubbing against her fists until they landed right on Jack. Instantly, a tiny smile broke behind her pacifier.

"Dada!" she screamed with a sleepy voice.

She immediately poked her hands up into the air, making her uppie arms.

Jack’s heart completely melted. He leaned over the railing, scooping her warm body up against his chest.

"Hi my beautiful girl," Jack whispered as he pressed a long kiss into her hair.

She let out a giggle, her hands immediately coming up to cup his face. Her fingers patted his cheeks, testing the rough morning stubble on his jaw. "S'atchy," she mumbled, but she didn't pull away. She leaned her forehead against his nose, rubbing it side to side in a sleepy greeting.

"Yeah, Daddy needs a shave, doesn't he?" Jack cooed, rocking her gently from side to side as she buried her face into his neck.

As he hoisted her a little higher, Jack noticed something else in the crib. A familiar fluffy brown teddy bear dressed in a miniature set of blue hospital scrubs with a very cute little stethoscope.

"Since when does she sleep with plushies?" Jack asked softly, turning to you with an arched eyebrow. "She usually kicks everything out the second she lays down."

You let out a soft laugh and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his shoulder. Hearing your voice, your daughter reached one hand to pat your face, ensuring both of her favorite people were within arm's reach.

"She only sleeps with that one," you explained. "And only on specific nights. When you're on a night shift and you can't put her to bed, she gets incredibly restless. She sits by the door waiting for you."

Jack’s chest tightened. The guilt of the long hours at the hospital was a constant weight.

"So, I started giving her the bear on those nights," you continued, reaching out to smooth a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. "I told her that whenever Daddy is at the hospital helping people, this guy is on duty to keep her safe until you get home. Now, she won't go to sleep without him when you're gone. I think it's her way of keeping you close until you come back."

Jack looked down at the scrubwearing bear on the mattress. He reached down with his free hand and picked up the plushie, holding it up so his daughter could see it.

"Who's this, sweet girl?" Jack asked her gently, shaking the bear's little paw. "Is this your helper?"

The toddler blinked sleepily at the bear, then looked right at Jack, her little thumb poking the bear as she nodded. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and pointed a tiny finger at the plushie.

"He's night dada," she mumbled softly, her voice muffled around her paci.

Jack froze. New emotions emerged at the realization that she considered the little bear her version of him when the sun went down.

"Night Dada, huh?" Jack pressed the plush bear gently into her arms, and she instantly hugged it tight against her chest, right alongside his own neck. "He takes good care of you when Daddy's at work?"

The toddler nodded and whispered. "Dad doctor."

He wrapped his free arm securely around you, needing the comfort of his family. He kissed the top of your head.

Purple lisianthus. Lavender stock. A few deep violet carnations.

He stared at them like you’d handed him a live grenade.

Then he pulled out a wad of cash big enough to pay for half your front display.

You carefully handed most of it back.

“You’re overpaying.”

“Aye.”

“…Did you mean to?”

“Aye.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He stared back.

Then he nodded once, abrupt and awkward, before leaving your shop like a man fleeing a crime scene.

You watched through the window as he climbed onto his Harley.

Across the street, parked outside the auto shop, a large man with wild hair nearly fell off a crate laughing.

The biker flipped him off without even looking.

You would later learn that was Tig Trager.

At the time, you simply decided Charming was full of weird people.

You weren’t wrong.

Your florist shop sat on the corner of Main and Teller, squeezed between a bakery and an antique store nobody ever actually entered.

It wasn’t much.

A little old.

A little crooked.

The sign outside had faded paint and one flickering bulb that buzzed at night.

But it was yours.

You’d moved to Charming two years earlier after inheriting the shop from your aunt, expecting to stay temporarily.

Then somehow the town wrapped around you like ivy.

People knew your name.

Kids waved when you swept the sidewalk.

Older women stopped to gossip beside the hydrangeas.

You learned everyone’s usual orders.

Sunflowers for anniversaries.

Lilies for funerals.

Roses for apologies.

Charming was small enough that emotions traveled through town before words did.

Which meant you noticed patterns.

And Chibs Telford became a pattern very quickly.

Because three days after the mechanic-wife-surgery bouquet, he came back.

This time he stood awkwardly in front of the counter while you trimmed stems.

“I need flowers.”

You looked up slowly.

“For?”

“…A dog.”

You stared.

“A dog.”

“Aye.”

“What happened to the dog?”

“Birthday.”

You blinked.

“The dog’s birthday.”

“Aye.”

There was a long silence.

Then you leaned both elbows on the counter.

“What kind of dog likes flowers?”

Chibs looked deeply offended by the question.

“A good one.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop smiling.

“What kind of flowers?”

He paused dramatically.

“…Yellow ones.”

So you made him sunflowers.

He paid in cash again.

Overpaid again.

Then escaped again.

The bell above the door had barely stopped ringing when someone else walked in.

“Tig,” you greeted.

The man grinned like a feral animal.

“You know he’s makin’ those excuses up on the drive over, right?”

“I assumed.”

Tig slapped both hands on your counter.

“Dog birthday. Jesus Christ. That’s the worst one yet.”

“Yet?”

“Oh, sweetheart, this ain’t ending anytime soon.”

It did not, in fact, end anytime soon.

In the following month, Chibs purchased flowers for:

a neighbor recovering from food poisoning

a cousin’s graduation

someone named “Mags” who turned out to maybe be a cat

“general emotional support”

a church thing he could not explain

“table decoration” despite clearly not owning a table suitable for decoration

a woman named Linda who might not actually exist

Each excuse somehow became more suspicious.

And Tig began ranking them publicly.

He started showing up specifically to heckle Chibs.

The first time it happened, Chibs was trying to buy peonies.

“What’re those for?” Tig asked.

Chibs didn’t even look at him.

“Funeral.”

“Whose?”

“…Plant.”

Tig stared at him.

“A plant died.”

“Aye.”

“You bought flowers for a dead plant.”

“Aye.”

Tig slowly turned to you.

“Current ranking: second worst excuse so far. Dog birthday still holds first place.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh.

Chibs glared at both of you.

Unfortunately for him, the glare lost some effectiveness considering he was holding pale pink peonies.

“You gonna tell her the real reason yet?” Tig asked.

“Shut up.”

“Brother, at this point you could just say ‘I think she’s pretty’ and we could all move on with our lives.”

Chibs looked horrified.

You nearly dropped the ribbon spool in your hands.

Tig burst into hysterical laughter.

Chibs grabbed the bouquet, shoved cash onto the counter, and stormed out.

The shop door slammed behind him.

Silence.

Then Tig leaned toward you.

“He’s got it bad.”

Your face felt warm.

“You’re messing with him.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tig grinned wider. “But I’m also right.”

The thing about Chibs was that he was difficult to read at first.

Most people in Charming found him intimidating.

The scars.

The accent.

The dead-eyed stillness he carried when he wasn’t smiling.

But florists notice details.

You noticed how gently he handled delicate stems.

How carefully he listened when you explained flower care.

How he always stepped aside for elderly customers.

How his voice softened around children.

How he never interrupted you.

And eventually—

You noticed the staring.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then one afternoon you looked up while rearranging dahlias and found Chibs already watching you from the doorway.

Not creepy.

Not cold.

Just… intent.

Like he’d forgotten to look away.

The moment your eyes met, he cleared his throat and abruptly inspected a ficus.

You hid a smile.

“Need help?”

“Aye.”

“With?”

He looked around frantically.

“…Plant.”

“That is generally what I sell.”

His mouth twitched.

You realized then that Chibs Telford was dangerous.

Not because he was violent.

But because watching a hardened biker unsuccessfully attempt to flirt was catastrophically charming.

The excuses continued.

Tig’s rankings became more elaborate.

He made a physical list at one point.

“TOP TEN WORST CHIBS FLOWER EXCUSES.”

He tried pinning it inside the clubhouse.

Juice added ratings.

Happy apparently just drew skulls beside the especially bad ones.

According to Tig, the rankings currently stood:

#1 — Dog Birthday #2 — Funeral For Plant #3 — Sympathy Bouquet For Neighbor’s Hamster Divorce #4 — “Emotional Support Tulips” #5 — “Bike Felt Empty”

You laughed so hard you cried hearing that last one.

“My bike felt empty?” you repeated.

Chibs looked deeply betrayed.

“It sounded better in my head.”

“It sounded insane.”

“Aye, well.”

Tig wiped tears from his eyes.

“He practiced that one before he came in. I heard him.”

“You said it with confidence,” you managed.

“That’s because I commit to bad decisions.”

The words slipped out casually.

But something flickered in his expression afterward.

A softness.

Warm and startling.

Like maybe he hadn’t meant flowers anymore.

You learned quickly that SAMCRO existed in a strange place within Charming.

Everyone knew them.

Everyone pretended not to know certain things about them.

They protected the town.

They also terrified it.

Sometimes simultaneously.

And Chibs existed strangely within that contradiction.

Women flirted with him constantly.

You saw it often.

At the grocery store.

Outside cafés.

Leaning across bars.

He was handsome in a rugged, dangerous way.

Older than you.

Sharp-eyed.

Broad-shouldered.

The Scottish accent certainly didn’t hurt.

But he never seemed interested.

Polite, maybe.

Amused sometimes.

Never invested.

Then he’d come into your flower shop and forget how to function.

You found that absurdly endearing.

One rainy Thursday, he arrived soaked through.

Water dripped from his leather jacket onto your hardwood floors.

“You’re going to ruin my shop,” you informed him.

“Aye.”

“You look freezing.”

“Aye.”

You sighed and pointed toward the back room.

“There’s coffee.”

He blinked.

“For me?”

“You’re dripping on my carnations, Chibs.”

His mouth curved slowly.

That smile hit like a truck every single time.

“Right then.”

You made arrangements while he sat in the back drinking coffee from a mug decorated with painted daisies.

The image alone nearly killed you.

When you finished, you carried over a small bouquet you’d been experimenting with.

White snapdragons. Eucalyptus. Blue thistle.

He looked up.

“What’s that?”

“An arrangement.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s not for anyone.”

You held it out.

“It’s for you.”

Chibs froze.

Actually froze.

You suddenly worried you’d crossed a line.

Then he accepted the bouquet carefully, like it mattered far more than it should.

“No one’s ever bought you flowers before?” you asked softly.

His laugh came quiet and rough.

“Can’t say they have.”

“That’s tragic.”

“Aye.”

Something shifted that day.

After that, he stayed longer.

Not always talking.

Sometimes just sitting nearby while you worked.

He’d help unload deliveries.

Carry heavy buckets.

Fix shelves.

Once he repaired your flickering shop sign without being asked.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said afterward.

“Aye.”

“That doesn’t even make sense as a response.”

Tiny grin.

“I know.”

Tig became unbearable.

“Oh, this is serious serious now,” he announced one afternoon while leaning dramatically across your counter.

“You say that every week.”

“He fixed your sign. That’s husband behavior.”

You nearly choked.

Tig continued solemnly.

“Next stage is grocery shopping together.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t understand. Chibs hates errands. If he willingly enters a supermarket with you, it’s over. Marriage. Domesticity. Throw the whole man away.”

“Please stop saying things like that.”

“Can’t. It’s too funny.”

The bell rang overhead.

Tig immediately straightened.

Chibs walked in carrying grease-smudged gloves.

The moment he noticed Tig, his expression flattened.

“Oh no,” Chibs muttered.

Tig pointed dramatically.

“She was just askin’ about your favorite flowers.”

“I absolutely was not,” you said.

Chibs looked at you anyway.

You felt heat creep into your face.

“…Were you?”

Tig gasped like a scandalized Victorian woman.

“Oh, he’s smiling. Brother, you’re doomed.”

“Shut the hell up.”

It happened gradually after that.

The flirting.

Subtle at first.

Lingering smiles.

Private jokes.

Accidental touches that stopped feeling accidental.

Chibs leaning too close while helping you reach high shelves.

You brushing dirt off his knuckles after he repaired one of your display tables.

The tension became palpable enough that customers noticed.

Even Gemma Teller noticed.

Which was horrifying.

“You know he likes you, right?” she asked bluntly while examining orchids.

You nearly dropped a watering can.

“…What?”

Gemma stared at you.

“Honey, that man looks at you like you invented breathing.”

“Well that’s dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

You focused very hard on the orchids.

“He’s sweet.”

Gemma barked out a laugh.

“That’s not usually the first word people use for Chibs.”

“He’s sweet to me.”

That seemed to surprise her.

Then her expression softened.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He would be.”

The first time you saw the dangerous side of him, it startled you.

A drunk man wandered into your shop near closing.

He was loud.

Aggressive.

Grabby.

You’d dealt with worse before, but unease crawled up your spine when he cornered you beside the counter.

“You should smile more,” he slurred.

“I think you should leave.”

He reached for your wrist.

And suddenly—

Chibs was there.

You didn’t even know he’d entered the shop.

One second the man was crowding you.

The next, Chibs had him shoved backward hard enough to rattle the display shelves.

The entire room changed.

Gone was the awkward man buying emotional support tulips.

This was something colder.

Sharper.

Terrifying.

“Out,” Chibs said quietly.

The drunk sneered.

“Mind your business.”

Chibs stepped forward once.

That was all it took.

The man paled and stumbled toward the exit.

The bell slammed violently overhead as he fled.

Silence settled.

You realized your heart was pounding.

Chibs turned toward you immediately, expression shifting.

“You alright?”

The concern in his voice grounded you instantly.

“A little shaken.”

“Aye.”

He looked furious.

Not at you.

For you.

You stepped closer before you could overthink it.

His hands hovered near your waist like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he should.

“I’m okay,” you reassured softly.

His jaw flexed.

“You call me if that ever happens again.”

The words came instinctively.

Protective.

Certain.

You should’ve probably been alarmed by how much comfort that gave you.

Instead you nodded.

“Okay.”

Neither of you moved.

The shop suddenly felt very small.

Very quiet.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth.

When you looked back up, his pupils had blown wide.

Then—

The bell rang.

Tig walked in carrying fast food bags.

He stopped dead.

Looked between both of you.

Then sighed heavily.

“Oh my God JUST KISS ALREADY.”

You burst into laughter.

Chibs looked ready to commit murder.

The club began treating you strangely after that.

Not badly.

Just…

Differently.

Like they’d collectively decided you belonged near them somehow.

Juice brought you coffees.

Happy silently fixed your broken delivery van one afternoon.

Bobby carried mulch bags for you without being asked.

Even Clay nodded hello when passing the shop.

You realized eventually they were all watching Chibs watch you.

And apparently finding it entertaining.

Which was mildly horrifying.

One evening, Chibs arrived just before closing carrying a bruised cheekbone and split knuckles.

Your stomach dropped immediately.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“That is objectively false.”

“It’s handled.”

You crossed your arms.

“You’re bleeding on my floor again.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“Sorry, lass.”

You disappeared into the back room and returned with a first aid kit.

“Sit.”

“You dinnae have to—”

“Sit.”

He obeyed instantly.

That probably should not have affected you as much as it did.

You cleaned the cut carefully.

Chibs watched you the entire time.

Not speaking.

Just looking.

Your fingers brushed his jaw while applying antiseptic.

He inhaled sharply.

You paused.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Your pulse skipped.

The air felt heavier suddenly.

Outside, evening rain tapped softly against the windows.

Inside, it was just you and him and the smell of flowers.

“You worry about everyone like this?” he asked quietly.

“Mostly people bleeding in my shop.”

His eyes softened.

“You’ve got a good heart.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid you.

You swallowed hard.

“So do you.”

He laughed softly.

“That’s debatable.”

“No,” you said firmly. “It isn’t.”

Something vulnerable crossed his face then.

Gone almost immediately.

But you saw it.

And somehow that felt important.

Tig’s ranking board eventually evolved into categories.

MOST CREATIVE MOST PATHETIC MOST OBVIOUSLY MADE UP WORST DELIVERY

Current champion for Worst Delivery remained:

“I panicked.”

That was the entire excuse.

Chibs had entered the shop, forgotten how words worked, and simply blurted that out.

Tig had laughed for ten straight minutes hearing the story.

“I hate all of you,” Chibs informed the club later.

“Nah,” Tig said cheerfully. “You love us. We’re supporting your journey.”

“My journey?”

“Toward finally asking out the florist.”

Juice reportedly started taking bets.

Happy bet silently by sliding twenty dollars across the bar.

“No one asked you,” Chibs told him.

Happy shrugged.

The actual asking-out happened because of lilies.

Specifically because you couldn’t reach a box of them stored too high.

Chibs appeared behind you while you balanced dangerously on a stool.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, immediately steadying you by the waist.

“I had it handled.”

“You absolutely did not.”

You climbed down carefully.

Except your foot slipped slightly.

And suddenly both of Chibs’ hands were fully on your waist.

Strong.

Warm.

You froze.

He froze.

The entire world seemed to pause.

Your faces were suddenly very close.

You could see every detail of his scar.

Every fleck of hazel in his eyes.

Neither of you moved away.

“Lass,” he said softly.

The nickname melted something inside you.

“Yeah?”

His gaze flicked to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

“You maybe wanna get dinner sometime?”

Your heartbeat became absolutely unmanageable.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Aye.”

You smiled slowly.

“Good. I was starting to think you’d buy flowers forever instead.”

He laughed then.

Full and genuine and warm.

You’d never heard the sound properly before.

It made your chest ache.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Chibs.”

The relief on his face was almost unbearably sweet.

Then the bell over the door rang.

Tig entered.

Took one look at your faces.

And screamed:

The silence that shrouds the store would be unnerving if it weren’t like it all the time, the buzz of electricity becoming a monotonous hum you learnt to drown out after your first week here. The place is practically desolate, too large for how little furniture you actually sell, and for once Clark isn’t around. 

Rain thunders against the windows outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the street before thunder rattles the walls, making your heart skip once, your nerves already on edge. Bobby is seated beside you, twirling a pen absently between his fingers, the clicking of the plastic only adding to the few sounds breaking the silence.

“You could go home, you know.” You glance up from the list in front of you, the endless sprawl of words that make no sense, with check marks you’ve learnt mean nothing. Clark doesn’t check inventory and it seemingly hasn’t changed in months: no deliveries, no sales. 

Bobby meets your gaze quickly, eyes darting away almost immediately. “Yeah.” 

Your brows raise. “Then why are you still here?” 

For a moment, he’s quiet. He spins the pen again but fumbles halfway through, and it clatters to the ground, rolling beneath the desk, forgotten. He makes no move to pick it up, simply cursing under his breath and slumping back further in his chair. His shirt pulls up just enough to flash a line of tanned stomach before he tugs it back down again, so quickly that you’re almost sure it never happened. “I don’t know.”  

“Then go home.” You huff, laughter seeping into the words as you finally cap your pen and let it drop into the otherwise empty pot occupying the desk. The same row of ticks remain on the paper and you clip it back onto the board behind you, marvelling at it for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps, marvelling is generous—your job isn’t amazing. Nobody comes in, and even if they do, they don’t buy anything. The pay isn’t great, and your boss is always cooped up in his office or making Bobby film him as he hobbles around in a pirate suit, a futile attempt at an ad in hopes of drawing more customers in. 

It’s yet to work. 

Bobby clears his throat from where he’s still slumped, straightening immediately once your attention turns back to him. He drags a hand through his blonde locks, making a few strands stick up in every which direction, eyes meeting your own. They’re a piercing blue beneath the sickly lighting and another flash of lightning reveals gold flecks hidden beneath, catching the light just right before disappearing once again. 

“You leaving now?” 

“Are you?” You counter, reaching for your jacket on the back of your chair and shrugging it on. It isn’t waterproof at all, and you don’t doubt that the rain will soak through it by the time you reach the bus stop. 

“No point in hanging around on my own.” He shrugs, standing too. You note that he was wiser than you, pulling on a thin coat that at least has a hood, though he doesn’t pull it up just yet, instead glancing briefly at the clock hanging precariously on the otherwise bare wall. “What time is your bus?” 

“Eight-fifteen.” You follow his gaze. 8:05 pm. “I’ve got ten minutes.” 

Bobby frowns, gaze shifting to the rain still hammering down outside, back to the clock, and then to the watch on his wrist. “You sure?” 

You fix him with a look, tucking your hair behind your ears in a weak attempt to preserve it from the rain. “I think I can read a clock, Bobby.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He nods, following after you. “Except… Well, that clocks fifteen minutes behind. It’s eight-twenty.” And as if to prove his point, he flashes his watchface at you, the hands glaring beneath the flickering lights, pointing in completely the right directions, vastly different to the clock on the wall. The harrowing reality dawns over you in a rush of panic. 

“No.” You glance up at him, half expecting him to smile and laugh, but he expression remains unchanging, mildly apologetic. “No, no. That’s the last bus and it’s an hour walk from here–” 

“Oh.” 

The silence seems to return between you, the rain outside growing louder and louder by the second, another rumble of thunder passing through the building. Bobby shifts on the balls of his feet, changing his weight like he isn’t sure what else to do, as though moving too much might disturb something else. He rubs the back of his neck, attention firmly on the ground, as though the sterile, cool tile is suddenly the most interesting part of his day. 

“I mean. I’m heading that way. I could drop you off at home.” You glance up sharply, hope overriding your disappointment, and he quickly adds. “If you want. I’m not gonna force you but–” 

“Are you sure?”  

He lapses into silence, his rambling cutting off and he gives a firm nod. “Yeah.” 

Everything after that seems to pass in a blur; he heads downstairs to switch off the lights, bathing you in darkness, leaving you with only the dim shine of the streetlamp outside and the more frequent flash of lightning. The overhang beyond the door isn’t exactly big enough for the both of you, and you huddle together awkwardly as he locks up the door, checking it one before turning to the empty expanse of parking lot, his car far out in the middle. 

He turns to you, giving you a once over, before gesturing to your jacket, which is now pulled tightly around you, blocking out the chill. “That thing isn’t waterproof.” 

You huff a weak laugh. “Clearly.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes at the comment and before you can say anymore, he’s taken off his own and is handing it out to you like some sort of peace offering, like he isn’t standing there in a tshirt, jeans and nothing else. 

“Take it.” 

“No.” You push it back. “You’ll get soaked.” 

“I’ll be fine.” he insists, and the words don’t waver. “My hair won't take ages to dry.” 

Reluctantly, you wrap his coat around yourself, trying not to focus on the way his cologne envelops you, the hood shielding you from the rain still pelting down from above. You both hurry across the empty lot, and you don’t let yourself breathe until you're safely in the passenger's seat, droplets hammering on the tin roof in a deafening cadence. 

His door slams shut and he starts the engine, hot air immediately filtering in through the vents and banishing the chill that had begun to creep into your bones. His coat is drenched and you place it apologetically in the back footwell, careful not to drip water all over the seats. 

“Thanks.” You mutter eventually, voice strangely quiet. 

Bobby looks over as he checks over his shoulder, a useless action considering no one is around at all, before backing out of the car space. “What for?” 

“The coat. Taking me home.”

“Oh.” He nods once, attention fixed firmly on the road ahead, though you’re almost certain his cheeks tinge a faint shade of pink as he merges into traffic, finally joining the rest of civilization. “It’s nothing. Really.” 

Yet, beneath his tone, there’s a tacit understanding that it means far more than he lets on. 

Cars pass around you, everyone going on with their own lives, and you watch headlights dance amongst the haze of the rainfall, glittering in puddles, the occasional horn cutting through the quiet. Bobby remains silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable as much as it is grounding, finally giving you a moment to settle with your thoughts. The store might be empty, but the consistent buzz of the lights and unease that courses through you the moment you step inside seems to block out any rational thought. 

Sparing a glance to the backseat, you notice a camcorder and a few tapes scattered around as well as a crumpled script. Your brow furrows in curiosity as you reach back for the camera, letting it settle in your lap. 

“I didn’t know you were a film student?” 

Bobby clears his throat, a quiet laugh escaping him that sounds more like a rumble in his chest. “I’m not… I mean, not properly. I’d like to be…” 

“Then why aren’t you?” 

“Money.” He takes the turn onto your street; you didn’t realise he remembered where you live and you’d only mentioned it once, yet there's something almost endearing about it. “Which numbers yours?” 

“The third one.” 

He pulls up on the curb outside, finally killing the engine, leaving only the patter of rain on the room and the silence that hangs suspended between you. Carefully, he takes the camera from your hands, his fingers brushing your own. The touch is fleeting, lasting only a second before you can think too much about it. 

“I’m not that good. But everyone has something they wanna do, right?” 

You offer him a weak smile. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

He nods, swallowing thickly, fingers tapping against the side of the camcorder. He clears his throat once, a habit you’ve to notice he does when the quiet lingers a few moments too long. 

“Thank you.” You smile, genuine this time, not so tight. The tension in his shoulders loosens as he returns it, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes seem to light up. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have too—” 

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk home.” He cuts in, catching himself quickly. “I mean… You don’t know who's hanging around at this time. Would’ve felt bad.” 

You tilt your head, smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “You would've felt bad?” 

Bobby nods earnestly. “Yeah.” 

“You worry too much.” 

His expression tightens slightly, as though you’ve hit something far deeper than he intended to make obvious, but he corrects it quickly, schooling the twitch in his brows into something more unreadable. “Probably.” 

“You’re a good guy, Bobby.” The confession slips free before you can think about what you’re saying, and his eyes widen slightly, lips parting just enough that he looks like a fish dragged from water. 

“You think?” 

You nod, the motion causing a strand of hair to flop in front of your eyes. His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing it back behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than necessary. The space between you both suddenly feels impossibly small and you find yourself gravitating closer, as though pulled by some mystery force.

His eyes search yours for permission, for any sign of wariness—when he finds none, he closes the distance, lips meeting yours in a kiss so featherlight and tender that it's no more than a brush. It doesn't last long, and the quiet that returns when you both pull away is heavier than before, though this time with something you hadn’t realised was simmering between you both. 

Bobby blinks once. “Sorry.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of you happens before you can stop it, abrupt and seraphic, the kind that fills the space and drags a smile out of him despite his nerves. 

“For what?” 

He shakes his head, his own laugh escaping until you’re both practically boneless. “I don’t know.” 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there, giggling like children until you’re red in the face. When you finally glance at your house, the windows dark, the reflection of the car looking back through the blur of rain, you take a long breath. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Bobby nods, suddenly sobering up as though you’d just asked the easiest question. “Yeah.” 

You reach for the door handle, pushing it open, legs already soaked by the rain. However, now, you find you don’t mind. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing is the whole world that matters. 

“Thanks again.” 

He grins. “Anytime.” 

And as you hurry inside, you notice he stays parked at the curb until you’re safely inside. Only then, does the engine grumble to life once more and he drives to his own home with a lovesick grin. 

three days of learning where everything is, pretending you know the difference between fifteen nearly identical couches, and trying not to get lost in the warehouse.

it’s going surprisingly well.

you adjust your oversized polo shirt, the fabric still stiff because it is still so new. you are currently clutching a clipboard, looking over your barely memorized map of the showroom floor, when the heavy front doors swing open.

a guy walks in carrying a heavy equipment bag over his shoulder, a camera case balanced precariously under his arm. he is wearing a casual jacket and a baseball cap turned backward. despite being completely loaded down with gear, he has a bright, energetic grin on his face.

it is bobby franklin. clark already told you he’d be coming today to film a commercial.

he takes two steps into the showroom, looks at the endless maze of sofas, and lets out a low sarcastic whistle. "wow. the empire is looking majestic today."

clark hurries out from the back office, looking pale and incredibly nervous. "bobby! thank goodness you're here. i've been practicing my lines all morning, and i think i'm going to throw up. i can't do it. i can't go on camera, bobby."

"hey, relax clark! stage fright is totally normal," bobby chuckles, slipping the equipment bag off his shoulder. "we'll figure something out."

clark just shakes his head, muttering about checking the inventory, and retreats back into his office. bobby sighs half-amusedly, wiping his hands on his jeans. his eyes scan the room to look for a solution, and that is when they land right on you.

instead of looking away, a smirk breaks across his face. he walks right past a row of coffee tables and stops a few feet away from you, his eyes locking onto your nametag.

"well, hello there," bobby says, his voice casual and friendly. "i haven't seen you around the empire before. you the new recruit?"

"i've been here for three days," you admit, holding the clipboard a little tighter to hide the sudden flutter in your chest.

bobby gasps dramatically, a spark of pure inspiration suddenly lighting up his eyes. "three days? perfect. timing is everything in show business."

you blink, confused. "what do you mean?"

"clark is currently having a total meltdown in the back," bobby whispers loudly, flashing a bright grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "he refuses to be the face of the commercial. and honestly? looking at you in that official polo... you have way more star potential."

your eyes go wide. "wait, what? no way. i'm not an actor, bobby."

"oh, you know my name already? see, you're already a fan," bobby jokes smoothly, leaning against the back of a nearby armchair and looking at you with pure amusement. "and as the director of this fine establishment's next big marketing campaign, i am officially casting you as the star of cap'n clark's ottoman empire."

"i seriously can't act in front of a camera," you laugh, your face heating up.

"don't worry, i'm great with talent," bobby says, stepping just a little bit closer. he picks up his camera bag and gives you a playful, encouraging nod. "it's simple. you just have to sit on a couch, look pretty, and tell the people why they need a new footstool. plus, it gets you out of doing actual inventory."

you glance down at your boring clipboard, then back up at bobby’s hopeful grin.

"come on, partner," bobby coaxes, gesturing toward a plush velvet sofa. "let's go do some screen tests. i promise i'll make you look like a natural."

you follow him over to a deep, forest-green sectional that you spent half of yesterday trying to tag correctly. bobby sets his heavy equipment bag down on the floor and begins unpacking his gear with practiced efficiency.

"alright, starlet," bobby says, looking up with a grin. "hop on up there. let's see how you look in the frame."

you nervously sit down on the plush cushions, smoothing out you shirt and keeping your clipboard firmly on your lap. bobby peers through the viewfinder, his brow furrowing in concentration for a second before he looks up.

"oh, yeah. the camera absolutely loves you," he declares, taking a step back. "clark wishes he had this kind of screen presence. okay, for this first test, just look at the lens and say, welcome to the empire."

you take a deep breath, your heart doing a strange little flip under his encouraging gaze. you clear your throat and look directly into the camera. "welcome to the empire."

bobby shakes his head. "too stiff. you look like you're being held hostage by a furniture salesman. give me some warmth! smile like you actually enjoy being surrounded by fifteen identical couches."

you break character, letting out a genuine laugh at his teasing. "i'm trying! it's harder than it looks."

"there it is! that's the million-dollar smile," bobby points at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "keep that exact energy. let's try it again."

for the next twenty minutes, bobby has you trying out different spots in the showroom. you read a few lines off his crumpled script, completely butchering clark’s cheesy dialogue about "unbeatable savings," but bobby just laughs along with you, making you feel completely at ease. by the time clark finally peeks his head out of the back office, looking slightly less green, you are actually having fun.

"alright, bobby, i think i'm ready to try a take," clark calls out, running his hands over his pirate costume to smooth out some remaining wrinkles.

"you got it, cap'n!" bobby calls back. he turns to you, lowering his voice as he starts to move back to the main aisle. "well, you're officially relieved of your acting duties. you were fantastic."

"thanks," you smile, suddenly feeling a little disappointed that the screen test is over. "good luck with clark. you're going to need it."

"oh, absolutely," bobby chuckles. he looks down at his camera, adjusting a dial, and for a second he seems almost uncharacteristically hesitant. then, he clears his throat, steps a little closer to you, and looks up.

"hey, so... i usually charge a pretty hefty fee for acting lessons," bobby says, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur that is just for you to hear. "but since you're a natural, i think we can settle the bill differently."

you eyebrow goes up, a small smile playing on your lips. "oh yeah? and how's that?"

bobby leans his arm against the high back of a nearby armchair, looking at you with confidence. "let me take you out for dinner tonight. after we wrap up this cinematic masterpiece and you're finally off the clock. there's a great little diner down the street, and i promise there won't be a single ottoman in sight."

your heart does a much bigger flip this time. you look from bobby’s face down to your clipboard, and then back up at him.

"dinner sounds a lot better than doing inventory," you admit softly.

bobby's smile widens into a triumphant grin, his eyes lighting up. "awesome. it's a date. i'll find you the second clark finishes his lines."

he gives you a quick, playful wink before picking up his camera and heading back toward the main set, leaving you standing in the aisle with a massive smile on your face, officially deciding that your third day on the job is the best one yet.