Pr∆smEblan

Picture Unum talking about on how impressively big Thalassa can change her form into.

"So... Can I fight you in this form?"

"No, Unum."

"Aww, why notttt? Why even bother being this huge if you aren't going to let me try to knock you over?"

Possible ship? Unsure to be honest.. (๑'ᴗ')ゞ

Though I originally didn't placed her to be shipped with the main 3

So she's open for everyone else (like oc x oc, oc x self stuff etc!)

"I Like Me Better when I'm with you"

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• Day 1

• Day 2 Newly posted!

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Reader 'trying' to flirt with Nulla but it sorta backfired.

‧₊˚🌻 ༉‧₊˚.

Morning always started the same way. Light spills through your apartment window like pale gold ribbons covering the floor and eventually reaching the collection of pots crowded near the glass.

You didn't start the coffee or check your phone first. Instead, you spend those first few minutes checking over the familiar greens to check the soil's moisture, turning a pot half an inch so it gets more sunlight. Little changes. A kind of repetitive care, but you’d learned that if you paid attention long enough, the plants actually reacted. They grew straighter. They looked healthier.

Only after the apartment is settled, you then head downstairs into the flower shop.

To you, it has never felt like work, and never had. It felt more like stepping back into a room you had only left for a moment, picking up a task right where you'd dropped it.

When you unlocked the door and stepped inside, the air was heavy and cool. It carried the sharp, distinct smell of damp stems, fresh leaves, sweetness lingering beneath it all. You took a breath in without thinking.

You kept your hands busy as you moved through the aisles. Sometimes, you’d stop in front of an arrangement and move a single flower an inch to the left. You couldn't always explain why it looked wrong before you moved it, but you knew exactly when it felt right.

Once the shelves were straight, you walked to the front and flipped the wooden sign hanging in the window.

OPEN.

Morning settles in as your usual routine working at a minimal wage begins.

Customers began to drift in and out in quiet waves. A man spent several minutes pacing the floor, clearly struggling to find the right bouquet for someone he’d disappointed. His eyes darted nervously as if the flowers could do the talking for him. Later, a teenager came in, clutching the exact change for a single daisy. Then a Uni student who wandered in, clearly just looking for a break from the heat and the air conditioning, though they ended up leaving with a surprised smile anyway.

You helped where you were needed, staying behind the counter or stepping out to offer a suggestion.

You wrapped stems in brown paper, tied lengths of twine into clean bows, and answered the same basic questions about how much sunlight a succulent needed or how often to change the water.

But mostly, you watched. People tend to reveal themselves through their hesitations, the specific flowers they reached for but didn't buy, and the ones they avoided entirely. To most of them, the shop wasn't a place of growth. It was a place of symbols. They were looking forbirthdays, anniversaries, or apologies. To them, the flowers were just obligations and deadlines wrapped in cellophane.

You’re behind the counter adjusting an arrangement that feels too crowded, flowers clashing together competing for space instead of existing together in the vase. You were trying to find the odd one out that could throw off the balance when the bell above the door rang again.

“Welcome,” you said automatically. You didn't look up yet, your attention still fixed on a particularly stubborn stem that kept leaning the wrong way.

They stop near the counter.

You sensed the pause before you actually looked up, a brief moment of stillness that made the air in the shop feel slightly different.

The man standing there was unfamiliar. Clearly not a local, he carried the subtle, worn-out look of someone who had been traveling for too long. His clothes were pressed but creased from hours of sitting, and he held his phone loosely in one hand, as if he hadn't quite finished a task.

His eyes moved around the area, not just scanning the prices, but cataloging the walls and the ceiling as if he were trying to memorize the layout.

He didn't speak immediately. He just looked at the flowers, at the decor, and finally, at you.

“…This place looks different from the ones I’ve seen,” he finally said. His voice was quiet and carried a faint accent that softened his words. “Nicer, I think.”

That made you stop what you were doing and glance up properly. “…Different how?”

He didn't answer right away. He considered the question seriously, as if it were a technical problem that deserved a genuine effort.

“Less like decoration,” he said slowly, his gaze drifting back to the floral displays. “More like… they live here.”

You blinked, surprised. Most people just saw the shop as a retail space, a stop on the way to somewhere else. They didn't notice the atmosphere you worked so hard to maintain.

“…They do,” you replied simply.

A faint smile touched his face at that, a look of quiet relief as if he were glad he’d guessed correctly.

“I’m Nulla,” he added after a moment. “I’m visiting. For a business trip.”

You gave a single, professional nod in greeting. “Nice to meet you, Nulla.”

He stepped closer to the counter, his gaze drifting over the arrangements again. The initial curiosity in his expression shifted into something more practical, though no less focused.

“I actually came in because I need something for my workspace,” he said, looking at a row of succulents before turning back to you. “But I’m… sort of bad at this kind of thing.”

There was something almost apologetic in the way he admitted it, a brief crack in his professional composure.

You tilted your head. “…Bad at buying flowers?”

“Bad at understanding what they’re supposed to say,” Nulla corrected. “I don’t want to pick something meaningless. Even if it’s for an office- it’s easy for things to feel ‘stale’. I want something that actually feels alive, but I never know where to start.”

Ah, that earned your full attention. You stepped out from behind the counter, the floorboards making a familiar creak.

You stepped out from behind the counter. “Well,” you said, motioning for him to follow you toward the back of the shop, “that depends on what kind of atmosphere you're trying to create.”

He followed easily, hands tucked into his pockets now, watching you.

“I spend a lot of time at my desk,” he explained as you passed a display of vibrant lilies. “Work, travel... it gets repetitive. I just want something that serves as a reminder of the world outside the office. Something quiet.”

You hummed stopped beside a modest arrangement, nothing overly extravagant. It was a collection of gentle Lavenders and sturdy, architectural greens, balanced and calm. “These are good for that,” you said. “They’re very low-maintenance, so they won't demand much of your time. People usually choose these when they want to bring a sense of serenity to a room. It helps with the anxiety of a long day without being overwhelming.”

Nulla studies them closely, like he’s trying to memorize your reasoning rather than the flowers themselves.

“…So flowers have intentions,” he said, his voice thoughtful.

“They can,” you replied. “If someone pays attention.”

He laughed softly under his breath, a genuine sound that seemed to relax his shoulders. “I like that answer.”

A silence settled between you, not the uncomfortable kind that needs to be filled, but a thoughtful pause. You felt his gaze shift away from the lavender and toward you.

“And you?” he asked suddenly. “Do you ever get tired of looking at flowers all day?”

You shook your head. “Not really. There’s always something new if you actually look.”

His expression brightened slightly, as if you had just confirmed a theory he’d been holding onto. “I’ll remember that too.”

You gestured toward the arrangement again. “This one works well if you’re starting from nothing.”

“I’ll take it.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “That was fast.”

“You decided,” Nulla replies easily. “I’m trusting the expert.”

“If you say so.” a small smile formed on your lips.

You moved back to the counter to wrap the flowers. Your hands moved from habit, the paper folding with crisp precision, the stems secured, and the ribbon tied without excess. Nulla watched the entire process with a surprising amount of focus, his eyes following the movement of your fingers.

“You must get a lot of people wandering in,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Not as often as you'd think.”

“And people who actually want to understand the flowers?”

You paused, the twine held between your fingers. “…Not many.”

His smile softened. “Good.”

You looked up, curious. “Why?”

He started to answer, then seemed to change his mind, simply shaking his head. “It feels nicer discovering places that aren’t crowded with people like me yet.”

“Good point. I like the confidence,” you said, handing him the bouquet.

He accepted it gently, his grip far more careful than it had been when he first walked in. “Thank you, truly,” he said.

He turned and stepped toward the door, the bell above him ready to chime. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“I’ll probably come back tomorrow,” Nulla said casually. “If that’s alright.”

“You don’t have to,” you replied automatically.

“I know.”

The bell rings as he opens the door.

He glanced back once, a quick, thoughtful look that lingered just long enough to feel like he was committing the layout of the shop to memory. Then he stepped out, and the morning street seemed to swallow him whole.

The quiet returned to the shop instantly, but it wasn't the same silence you had started with. It felt different now, as if the air had been stirred and hadn't quite settled back into its original shape.

You walked back to the counter and looked down at the arrangement you’d been struggling with earlier. The one that had refused to feel right no matter how much you fussed over it. You stood there for a second, just looking at it, before reaching out to remove a single, stubborn stem. You shifted it slightly to the side, letting it sit in the space you had cleared.

It was better. The tension in the vase vanished.

Your hands stilled against the glass, the cool surface grounding you. It was only then, in the renewed stillness of the room, a thought came to realization, a few minutes too late.

“…I never gave him my name.”