The Language of Flowers
Pairing : The Milkman x Reader
Summary: Night after night, you exchange gifts, speaking what you both cannot say.
Warning : N/A
Other : Ive been working on this one for a while (totally not a whole month...haha.) but had this idea of forbidden love.
Speaking of...this creature doesnt get enough love. And hes in my top 3 haha. I have some more ideas coming in the future, but who knows for now.
Enjoy :) and dont forget, requests are open! (And more to come!)
The first flower appeared on your windowsill. It wasn't there when the sun went down. But when you checked the window before bed, a single white daisy rested against the glass. No footprints. No note. Just a flower. You threw it away.
The next night, there was another. This time, a yellow buttercup. The night after that, a blue cornflower. Each sunrise, you found a different bloom waiting outside.
The town had barely any flowers grow. You had no idea where they were coming from. Victor frowned when you mentioned them. "The forest doesn't grow those." Hands scribbling away at his most recent drawing.
"Then who keeps leaving them?" Victor looked toward the road outside the diner. His expression turned uneasy. "I think... I know."
That evening, you waited by the window instead of hiding from it. Just before sunset, he appeared.
The Milkman.
Neatly dressed in his crisp white uniform, carrying the same unsettling smile as every other creature. Except tonight. There was something clutched carefully in his hand.
Another flower. He walked to your porch with slow, measured steps and gently placed it on the railing. Not tossed. Not dropped. Placed; as though it were precious.
When he looked up and saw you watching he gave a small nod.
"You're the one leaving them." The words were barely above a whisper. Your eyes darting from the gift, to the creature.
He smiled. "Yes." Hands, too human, too wrong, brushing against his pants, as if it were natural.
"Why?" Eyes narrowing, not from anger, but confusion. These creatures...you seen tear flesh from bone, treating something with such care and consideration.
His eyes lowered briefly to the flower. "I remembered." His voice sounded distant, as though reaching through layers of fog. "Someone once liked receiving them."
"You don't even know if it was me." Head threatening to shake, yet remained still, as if, you moved a second, you'd miss everything. "I don't." He looked back at you. "But it feels right."
You didn't know what to make of that. Monsters didn't bring gifts. They lured. They lied. They killed. Yet every evening, another flower appeared.
Never the same kind twice. Always carefully chosen. Always untouched. Eventually curiosity won.
The next morning, while helping Kristi gather herbs, you picked a tiny purple wildflower growing beside the path. You carried it home.
All day, you debated with yourself. This was ridiculous. He was one of them. And yet, that evening, just before sunset, you stepped onto the porch while there was still daylight.
Your heartbeat hammered in your ears. You laid the little purple flower on the top step. Then hurried back inside before darkness fell.
When the creatures emerged, The Milkman stopped. He stared at the flower. For a long time, he didn't move. Then, with surprising care, he picked it up.
He held it as though it might break. When he looked toward your window, seeing your watchful glaze, his usual smile had softened. "For me?"
You nodded once. His fingers tightened gently around the stem. "How quaint" He stopped himself, thumb and index moving the flower too and frow. "I don't remember the last time someone gave me one."
After that it became a quiet tradition. He left one for you. You left one for him. Neither of you crossed the invisible line between the porch and the doorway. Neither of you forgot what he was. Or what would happen if you invited him inside.
But for a few moments every evening, the flowers spoke where words failed.
One rainy night, he arrived carrying a single red poppy. He placed it beside your usual white daisy. "You gave me two." He brow raising slightly.
"I missed yesterday." You replied, cup of tea in hand, indulging in its warmth. A storm had kept you away from the window the night before. "You noticed."
"I always notice."
Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. "You know," you said softly, "people usually exchange flowers because they care about each other."
The Milkman looked down at the blooms in his hands. "I don't remember much from before." He met your gaze. "But I remember..." A sigh escaped the creature, pulling at string he couldn't quite connect. "that flowers are meant to say things people can't."
Another sip. "What are yours saying?" Eyes exploring the 'man' before you. You wondered if he was as warm as the tea, or as cold as outside.
He looked almost...uncertain. As if, fighting his own instincts. "I'm glad you're still here."
Your throat tightened. You glanced at the daisy waiting on your windowsill. "I think mine says the same."
As summer faded and the leaves turned brown, the flowers became harder to find. Still, every evening, one somehow appeared. Sometimes fresh. Sometimes slightly wilted.
Never forgotten.
The townspeople eventually stopped asking why your windowsill was always covered in blossoms. They never learned the truth. That every flower was a conversation.
A thank you.
A promise.
A reminder that even in a town ruled by monsters, certain..unexplored, feelings could still bloom in the smallest, strangest places.
And every night, beneath the fading light, a human and a creature continued exchanging flowers. Never touching. Never crossing the threshold.
Simply letting the blossoms say everything their impossible hearts never could.
Omg this was so sweet. π₯Ή Now Iβll have to write something for the Milkman too, I love him, for a creature he is such an adorable Teddy bear. π§ΈβΊοΈ
