#florist reader

The bell above the door chimed, light and sweet, a sound that did not belong anywhere near him.

You were behind the counter arranging peonies, sleeves pushed up, flour streaked across your forearm like careless war paint. You looked up with an automatic smile that didn’t falter when you saw him.

That was new.

He was used to hesitation. To recognition. To the slight widening of eyes when people placed him.

You just tilted your head.

“Hi. Give me a second,” you said, fingers still working with twine. “These are being difficult.”

Hongjoong watched you adjust each stem until the bouquet looked balanced, like you cared about symmetry more than survival.

“I need white lilies,” he said.

You glanced up again, this time assessing him more carefully. His coat was immaculate. His rings caught the light. The faint bruise near his knuckles suggested he had handled something personally instead of delegating.

“For a funeral?” you asked gently.

“Yes.”

You didn’t press further.

The funeral was for a man who had worked under him for eleven years. Loyal. Efficient. Dead because a rival syndicate wanted to test whether Hongjoong would retaliate publicly or quietly.

He would do both.

But he would also attend the burial himself.

Respect, in his world, was currency. He did not send subordinates with flowers for men who had bled for him.

While you wrapped the lilies in crisp paper, you spoke without looking up.

“You don’t look like someone who lets other people handle important things.”

His gaze sharpened. “And what does someone like that look like?”

“Like you,” you replied simply.

No fear. Just observation.

When you handed him the bouquet, your fingers brushed his for half a second. Your hands were warm from the oven.

He noticed that more than he should have.

=====

He returned three days later.

This time, there was dried blood along the cuff of his shirt. Not his.

You noticed immediately.

“You know I sell bread too, right?” you said as he approached the counter. “Flowers aren’t my only personality trait.”

“I need red roses,” he said.

“Romantic or threatening?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

You smiled. “The number matters.”

“thirteen.”

You nodded once. “Threatening.”

The roses were for a message. A competitor had attempted to undercut one of Hongjoong’s shipments through the port. Hongjoong had responded by seizing their warehouse and leaving thirteen red roses on the office desk beside a signed contract demanding compliance.

Roses were cleaner than bullets, sometimes.

He wrapped them himself before leaving the shop. You watched his hands move with unexpected care.

“You’re precise,” you commented.

“I have to be.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

It was.

He found himself lingering longer than necessary, the scent of sugar and fresh soil softening the metallic edge that clung to him after meetings.

Before he left, you slipped something into the bag.

When he checked later in the car, it was a small paper-wrapped pastry.

For after threatening someone, the note read.

He stared at it for a long moment before taking a bite.

=====

By the second week, you had stopped asking what the flowers were for.

He had come in for white chrysanthemums after negotiating a truce that felt more like a temporary pause in violence. He bought pale blue hydrangeas before meeting a council of older crime bosses who believed he was too young to lead.

Hydrangeas signaled apology in some cultures. In others, gratitude.

He liked the ambiguity.

“You pick flowers like you’re sending coded messages,” you observed one afternoon, leaning against the counter while he examined a bundle of orchids.

“Sometimes I am.”

You didn’t laugh.

Instead, you studied him in a way that made him feel strangely visible.

“Do you ever send flowers for yourself?”

He frowned slightly. “That’s not how this works.”

“How what works?”

“My life.”

You considered that answer like you were weighing flour.

“Maybe it should.”

=====

The third week was when things shifted.

He arrived later than usual, long after sunset. The shop was closed, lights dimmed except for the back kitchen where you were pulling trays from the oven.

You jumped when he knocked against the glass.

When you saw it was him, you hesitated only long enough to check the street before unlocking the door.

“You’re bleeding,” you said immediately.

A thin line of red trailed from his temple down toward his jaw. His knuckles were split open.

“It’s handled,” he replied.

“That wasn’t my question.”

You guided him toward the small table near the window without waiting for permission. You disappeared into the back and returned with a damp cloth and a small tin of antiseptic.

He could have refused. He did not.

As you cleaned the cut on his temple, your brows furrowed in concentration.

“This is from someone who doesn’t know when to stop talking,” he said quietly.

“Did you stop them?”

“Yes.”

You nodded once, as if that answer made sense in a way it shouldn’t.

“You don’t send someone else for this?” you asked while wrapping gauze around his knuckles. “For… whatever this is?”

“I don’t delegate lessons.”

The man who had hit him had been a lower-ranked member who thought Hongjoong’s recent negotiations made him appear soft. Hongjoong had corrected that misconception personally.

You finished tying the bandage and leaned back.

“You carry everything yourself,” you said.

“I’m supposed to.”

“According to who?”

He did not answer.

You disappeared again and came back with a single sunflower.

He stared at it.

“It’s not for an event,” you said. “It’s for you. No hidden meaning. Just because it’s bright.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know,” you interrupted gently. “That’s not why I’m giving it to you.”

He took it slowly, like it might burn him.

In his world, gifts were leverage. Favors were traps.

This was neither.

=====

By the fourth week, your shop had become a fixed point in his routine.

His men noticed.

They pretended not to.

He arrived one afternoon in a dark mood, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.

A deal had collapsed. A shipment had been intercepted. He would need to respond decisively to prevent future challenges.

You handed him a cup of tea before he even asked for flowers.

“You look like you’re about to start a war,” you said.

“Maybe I am.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Then sit for five minutes first.”

He almost refused. Instead, he sat.

The shop was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rustle of leaves as the air shifted.

“Why do you come here yourself?” you asked after a moment. “Someone like you probably has people for errands.”

“I don’t trust errands to people who don’t understand the weight of them,” he said. “If I send flowers, they need to be correct.”

“And you think you’re the only one who can get it right?”

“Yes.”

You studied him for a long second, then smiled softly.

“Maybe you just don’t like letting other people carry things for you.”

The words settled heavier than any accusation.

He looked around your shop, at the handwritten signs and uneven stacks of bread cooling on the counter.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said.

“You’ve never been cruel to me.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not cruel.”

You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell vanilla and rosemary on your skin.

“I know you are,” you said quietly. “I just don’t think that’s all you are.”

No one had ever suggested that before.

In the span of a month, he had buried a man, threatened another, negotiated alliances, broken a traitor’s confidence with his own hands, and tightened his control over half the city.

And yet here he was, holding a sunflower because you had pressed it into his palm.

He exhaled slowly.

“For someone who sells flowers,” he murmured, “you involve yourself in dangerous things.”

You smiled, bright and steady.

“For someone who runs the city,” you replied, “you keep coming back for something soft.”

He did not deny it.

Outside, the city continued to bite and bruise and demand blood.

Inside your shop, flour dusted the air like harmless smoke, and Hongjoong, merciless and precise and feared, allowed himself exactly ten minutes of peace before returning to war.

Masterlist

Hongjoong knew how cruel the world could be. He experienced it firsthand when his parents died, leaving him in the care of his uncle.

He didn't know it then, but in five years time, he would become one of the most feared leaders in the mafia world. His uncle was a strong willed man, albeit a bit easy when it came to women. Hongjoong watched as his uncle, his only rock, became so obsessed about an average accountant that he left his empire and fled to another country, just to live a normal life with her.

What a stupid man, Hongjoong thought at the time. He could have enjoyed the riches, people bowing to him out of respect, expensive cars and a plethora of beauties waiting to jump his bones. Instead, he was now an ordinary mechanic, drinking beer from his small front porch in a house somewhere along the coast of Italy.

What the fearless leader didn't know, was that he would soon wish to do the exact same, with a woman so special and unusual.

.

.

"Lisa, is the order for Mr. Jung ready? He'll be here in about ten minutes."

"Almost, just let me add a nice bow to the bouquet."

Y/N sighed, knowing how Lisa loved adding her finishing touches in the last minute. She couldn't complain, every customer adored their order, so she let the silly girl have her fun.

Running a florist shop was Y/N's childhood dream. After years of saving money, she got her little heaven with Lisa as an addition a month ago. She was a couple of years younger than Y/N, still in school, but she had a knack for arrangements.

"Lisa, honey, you can go now. I'll wait for Mr. Jung and close up."

The red haired teen came from the back room with a bouquet of white lilies, placing them on the counter.

"Are you sure? You know the street light doesn't work, they still haven't fixed it."

"I'm sure. My apartment is right around the corner, I'll manage."

They said their goodbyes and Y/N waited for her last customer of the day before starting to clean up. She changed the sign on the door to 'closed', but left the lights on inside. The lamppost outside flickered, but it still didn't turn on properly.

Just as she was about to grab her bag and head out, she heard the door opening. When she turned around, her breath got caught in her throat.

There stood a man in an expensive suit, his blonde locks combed neatly from his forehead. He looked like a model, but his stance was casual.

"Hi there. I saw you through the window, you don't mind helping out a man in need?"

She shook her head, almost hypnotized by his voice.

"H-Hi. I mean, we are closed, but if you are in need of a flowery emergency, I can make something happen."

Hongjoong chuckled, noticing how the woman checked him out. He knew he was handsome, but he had nothing on the lady in front of him. She was a true beauty, and for some reason, Hongjoong's heart started beating a little faster. He had to get it together, it's not like he hasn't seen beautiful women before.

"I would highly appreciate it. It doesn't have to be anything fancy."

Y/N nodded, going around her shop and showing him different types of flowers.

"What's the occasion?"

"The cemetery."

His curt answer made her freeze for a second. She turned to look at him, his expression now a little colder than before.

"Oh... Isn't it a bit late to go there now?"

"I was too caught up with... Work. I think my parents won't mind the time seeing as they are six feet under the ground."

Y/N didn't know what to say, thinking she would only make the situation even more awkward. It was clear that both of his parents were gone. She nodded, going over to the bucket of fresh white carnations. She took a good amount, cutting the stems and wrapping them in white paper. The man was watching her every move, and it made her feel a bit self conscious. When she was done, she handed the little bouquet to him.

"Here. Carnations are usually given to grieving families. They also represent Mother's day. Do you have a vase at the gravesite?"

He only shook his head, a bit touched by her effort. She could have picked up anything just to get him out faster, but she made sure the flowers had a meaning.

The lovely woman went behind her counter to retrieve a small vase, seemingly plastic, and handed it to Hongjoong.

"Make sure to put a bit of water in here so that the flowers can stay alive longer."

"I will. Thank you, Miss...?"

"Y/N. And you are?"

"Hongjoong." They looked into each other's eyes, not sure what was happening. The atmosphere in the room changed, and if Hongjoong's phone didn't ring, who knows how long they would have been at it.

"Hello? Ah yes Mingi, I got held up. I'm coming out in a second." He put the phone back in his pocket after ending the call, taking out his wallet.

"How much do I owe you? For the vase and the flowers."

Y/N shook her head, giving him a smile.

"It's on the house. I..." She sighed, her expression turning a bit sad.

"I also lost my parents, so I know the pain. I hope they are at peace."

For the first time in his life, Hongjoong was speechless. There she was, a woman who didn't know him or his background, doing a good deed just because she wanted to. The cruel mafia boss was surrounded with so much evil that he forgot what kindness felt like.

It was refreshing.

"Thank you, Y/N. I'm sorry for your loss as well. My mother... She would have loved these." He motioned to the flowers now sitting in the vase.

"No problem. It's getting late now, maybe you should..."

"Ah, yes. Sorry for barging in so late. Thank you, again. Enjoy the rest of your evening." The man nodded before turning around and exiting.

Hongjoong took out his phone, dialing Mingi's number.

"Yes, boss?"

"Mingi, I'll manage alone for tonight. Wait at the flower shop I just left and make sure the lady gets home safe. The street lights are off."

.

.

A couple of days went by since Hongjoong's last visit to Y/N's shop. Honestly, she was still thinking about him, and she hoped he would come back again. She felt like there was something between them, something that could be explored. Maybe he thought the same?

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" She whispered to no one in particular. Lisa had the day off for volleyball practise, so Y/N was left to her own devices. The afternoon rush was over - people buying flowers for hospital visits, one lovely grandpa coming to get his granddaughter's birthday sunflowers, and husband's rushing home to surprise their wives with bouquets of red and pink roses.

Wouldn't that be lovely? Y/N never got any flowers from her previous boyfriend. Notice the singular noun, because she only had one. Relationships weren't her thing because she was too shy to try and meet someone new. However, she could imagine a certain blonde man giving her a dozen red roses after a romantic dinner. But that was just wishful thinking. He probably forgot about her already. He seemed like a busy man, his suit pressed and expensive, and by the sound of if he had a driver of some sort with him. She shrugged off her thoughts and focused on making another bouquet that would make a wife somewhere in town very happy once she receives it.

The day went by quickly, and she was preparing to close up. For some reason, of because of false hope, she didn't turn the sign on her door to 'closed' yet. Her back was turned when she heard someone come in. When she looked over her shoulder, there he was.

"Hello again. I promise I'm not coming so late on purpose."

She smiled at Hongjoong, now facing him fully. He noticed how her dress moved, exposing her smooth legs a bit more to his watchful eye.

"Hi! It's no big deal, you stil have about... Two minutes left."

"Well I better make them worthwhile, am I right?"

Somehow, she knew there was a hidden meaning behind his words, but she had yet to discover it.

"What can I do for you today, Hongjoong?"

"I need a bouquet, a fancy one. Something... Pink?"

You glanced down at your dress, seeing its baby pink checkered pattern.

"Got it. What's the occasion this time?"

Hongjoong smirked, looking right into her eyes.

"A date."

Her face fell, and she tried to get herself together. Of course he would have a date, he's gorgeous! What was she thinking imagining them together? His date was probably some rich chick, dressed in branded clothing and adorned with expensive jewellery.

Y/N cleared her throat, managing to get it together. Hongjoong noticed how her mood changed, and he felt amused by the situation.

"Oh. Yes, okay. Wait here, it might take a minute longer. Any preference on the flower?"

He shook his head. "You choose what's best."

Going over to the pink roses, you grabbed them along with some baby's breath to give it a softer vibe. The wrapping paper was in baby pink tones, and you added a nice bow to finish it off. It was a bouquet you'd love to receive yourself, and the girl he was about to take on a date should feel lucky.

"Here you go. Pink roses for admiration. I hope she likes them."

He took the flowers from your hands, and your fingers touched for a moment. It was a light graze, no longer than a second, but you both stopped and looked at each other. Hongjoong got himself together before you did, and cleared his throat.

"I think she will. She was great taste, I can tell you that. And pink looks good on her."

You told him the price, and he handed you his black card. You knew he had money, so it almost didn't surprise you. After finishing the transaction, you were ready to go home and wallow in self pity.

Hongjoong had other plans.

"So, Miss Y/N, what do you like more - Italian or French?"

"I'm sorry, what?" You asked, a bit confused.

"I personally like Italian more, but French pastries can't be beaten. I'll have to take you to Paris sometime, just for the whole experience."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

You watched as the man in front of you smiled, handing over the bouquet you made.

"Y/N, would you like to go on a date with me?"

You were shocked. Did he really just ask you out? He made it seem like he had plans with someone else, when all this time he wanted you?

"Hello? Earth to Y/N?"

"Oh, Hongjoong..."

He could almost feel the rejection burning his heart. Maybe he should have had a different approach? He thought this would be cute.

"Yes, I'd love to go on a date with you. You just surprised me, sorry."

The blush on your cheeks now matched with Hongjoong's, and the both of you chuckled.

"I swear I've seen this in a movies, it went so smoothly, unlike this. But really, the flowers are for you. You deserve them."

Taking the roses from his hands felt like a brand new experience for you. Having never gotten flowers before, it turned out to be a wonderful feeling.

Hongjoong waited for you outside, and you were soon in his expensive car driving towards a nice secluded restaurant. He wanted to have some privacy with you, and he also had to avoid certain parts of town where people knew who he was.

He didn't really think everything through, but he knew he wanted you. That was enough for now.

When you went inside to get seated, you were surprised at how homey the place felt. The staff knew Hongjoong, and they took you to a secluded booth for more privacy. Once you got your drinks, the conversation kept flowing naturally.

"So, Miss Y/N, what's your story?"

You took a sip of your white wine before answering.

"Well, as you know, my parents died when I was young. I was raised by my grandparents until I saved up enough money to move. Flowers were something my mom loved, and she always told me I had a green thumb. So, after a lot of dirty dishes and lunch rushes I experienced as a waitress, I opened up my little shop. It's not much, but it's my pride and joy."

Hongjoong nodded along as you told him about your life, your assistant Lisa, your wish to have a pet but your landlord not allowing it, and so on. He took in every word you said, trying to memorize the things you liked.

"What about you? You seem like a guy who has a much more interesting life than me."

Oh, you didn't know the half of it.

"After my parents died, I went to live with my uncle. We have a... Family business, so I took over when he moved away. I don't do much besides work, to be honest, but I love my job. It just gets a bit lonely sometimes."

You looked at him curiosly.

"Lonely? Don't you have colleagues?"

"I do, lots. But majority don't speak to me directly. I have my right hand man, Seonghwa, he takes care of the communication between all of us. If it weren't for him, I'd be a lost cause."

You nodded, sipping on your second glass of wine. You were a bit of a lightweight, so you had to be careful not to overdo it.

"What exactly do you do?"

Hongjoong went silent. You were confused for a second. You were just chatting about jobs, nothing major. Why would he stiffen up so suddenly?

"I do... Accounting."

"Accounting?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Mhm. A lot of accounting."

He changed the topic after that, not giving you a chance to question him further. You kind of got the message. Dinner went by smoothly, and you were in his car again making your way back home.

"I had a lovely time tonight, Hongjoong."

The man gave you a quick smile before focusing on the road again.

"Me too. I would love to do this again, and soon. I hope I'm not coming off too strongly, but I really like you Miss Y/N."

You blushed, looking down at the roses in your lap.

"Why do you keep calling me Miss Y/N?"

"I like how it sounds. Maybe I should start calling you something else, though. What do you say, rosie?"

The redness of your cheeks only got worse after that.

"I kind of... Like that better."

"Then it's settled."

He pulled up in front of your building too soon for your liking.

"I have to be honest with you, rosie."

You turned your head towards him, seeing his soft expression.

"Yes?"

"I really want to kiss you right now."

Silence followed his statement. You didn't know what to do. On one hand, you'd love to kiss the man, while on the other, you knew it would probably be too soon.

"I... We just met, and..."

"Hey, hey, I get it. I wasn't really expecting to do it now. Keep it in your mind, though, because I'm not a patient man when it comes to things I want, and I really want to have you, rosie."

Once you said your goodbyes you went to your apartment with flushed cheeks and your first bouquet. Hongjoong was something else, and you were looking forward to exploring what the connection you felt with him.

What you didn't know was that your little dream would be ruined the next evening.

.

.

"Okay Lisa, it's time to head out."

"But Y/N, you never let me stay and close up with you."

You looked at the teen sporting a new plaster over her brusied nose. Lisa loved volleyball, but the ball loved Lisa's face even more. The poor girl always had another injury after practice, but she was determined to keep going.

"That's because it's still light out, and I already told you the street lamp isn't working properly. I don't want you roaming around in the dark."

"Oh, but what about you?"

You smiled, arranging another order for tomorrow morning.

"I have a feeling I won't be going home alone tonight."

"Ah, yes. Your little mystery lover. Well, if that's the case, then I'll be off. Have fun, Miss Y/N."

You shooed her away, giggling along with her before going back to the counter. You didn't really know if Hongjoong would stop by, but you had a feeling he would.

Another hour passed before you went around the shop cleaning up and preparing to leave. Your back was turned when the door opened.

"Now, you said you wouldn't come by after clo-"

"So, you're the boss' new toy? He sure knows how to pick 'em!"

You turned around, shocked to find another man there instead of Hongjoong. He was tall and buff, but what caught your attention the most was the gun in his left hand. A gun pointed right at you.

"Say, do you think he'd be angry if I borrowed you? Only for tonight, I'll make your exit quick afterwards."

"Please, I don't know what your talking about. Here, take all you need from the register, my wallet is in my purse."

The gruff man stepped closer, shaking his head.

"I don't want your money, I want your blood."

Your hands were now in the air, your body trembling with fear.

"Please... I didn't do anything."

"Oh, maybe you didn't sweetie, but the little king did."

King? Why would he call him a king. Before you could dwell about it some more, the man started talking again.

"You see, Hongjoong owes me. You know how they say, and eye for an eye. Killing my brother was a mistake, and now I've come to get revenge. The mafia world is too cruel sometimes."

The blood in your veins froze, your heart beating rapidly. You were about to plead some more with him, not knowing anything about the mafia he was going on about. What in the world did Hongjoong do?

Luckily, the door opened again, and there was the man of the hour, also holding a gun in his hand.

"Drop the weapon Chan, you know I'm a better shooter than you. You should ask Hansol."

At the mention of his brother, the gruff man turned his head in Hongjoong's direction, but his hand was still outstretched in yours.

"Don't talk shit, boss. I have your little princess at aim. My finger is about to slip."

Before you knew what was happening, the man was on the ground, a hole right between his eyes.

"I hate traitors."

Hongjoong stepped over his body, going over to you. His face softened, noticing your trembling form. Your eyes were still locked on the body bleeding out on your shop's floor.

"Rosie, sweetie, look away. Come, we need to get you out of here."

"No! Don't touch me!" You swatted his hands away from you, but Hongjoong was persistent.

"Please, rosie, we need to go now. My men will clean everything up."

"Your men?! Who the hell are you?" You were now starting to panic, but Hongjoong managed to wrap his hands around you to keep you grounded.

"I'll explain everything once we get to my house. Please, you have to trust me."

You were to shaken up to notice how he was guiding you outside, hands still firmly planted around your waist.

"Mingi, take care of everything with Yeosang. I want the place spotless. You hear me?"

The two men standing outside nodded, and off they went.

Hongjoong somehow placed you in his car, making sure you were comfortable. The ride through the city was silent, your head hurting from the events replaying in it.

It was clear Hongjoong was involved in something dark. Something that made a random man come into your flower shop and try to... You couldn't even think about it.

"Y/N, we're here. Come, let's get you inside."

The mansion in front of you was lavish, to say the least. There were bodyguards all around the premises, with one of them waiting by the front door.

"The place is secured, boss. We've prepared a room for Miss Y/N."

"Thank you, San. You're free to go now. Make sure to keep me updated if you notice anything unusual. Chan was alone tonight, probably acting out of rage, but we should be careful."

"Of course, boss." The buff man nodded, walking away to give you and Hongjoong privacy.

He led you inside, the front room looking like it came from an expensive movie set. Everything was decorated tastefully, with modern furniture and expensive paintings. The living room was no different, where you were currently sitting and holding a cup of warm tea. You still haven't said a word, and Hongjoong was getting concerned. He knelt down in front of you, placing a blanket around your shoulders.

"Rosie, I know you're confused, and probably terrified, but you're safe here with me. You can ask me anything you want, and I'll answer truthfully."

"You're not an accountant, are you?"

The man chuckled, standing up and making himself comfortable next to you.

"No, I'm not. I'm a leader. This is my world Y/N."

You're voice trembled as you spoke. "You're in the... In the mafia?"

"Smart girl. Yes, that I am. I have my own empire, left to me by my father and uncle. We don't always do things such as what happened tonigh but your safety was my priority."

"You killed a man."

"That was about to kill you. It was an easy decision."

The anger you felt soon came up on the surface.

"But you didn't know him! Maybe he had a family as well? Why would you do that?"

"Do you know what him and his brother did, Y/N? They traded girls around brothels for easy money. Sometimes they beat them until they passed out. They took one of our workers and almost killed her. They deserved what was coming for them."

You went silent after that.

"Y/N, I know this is too much to take in at once, but you've got to listen to me. I like you, hell, I'm falling for you so quickly it's insane. When I saw the gun pointed at you, I snapped. I couldn't let you be in danger a second longer. You still owe me a kiss, don't you remember?"

A small smile appeared on your face.

"Owe? I don't know about that."

"Okay, call it how you want, but I want to kiss you. Everyday, all the time."

You looked at Hongjoong, seeing how intense his gaze on you was. The man seemed smitten, and you never had someone admire you like this.

"What do we do now?" You asked.

"Now? Now, you're mine. You get to be my queen. You'll never have to worry about a thing, my rose."

"But... My shop? I still want to work at my shop!"

"Hey, hey, that's okay. You can do whatever you want, I won't meddle in that. I just want you to know that you don't have to worry about anything else anymore. I'm going to take care of you, for however long you let me. Do you feel the same as me? Tell me you do, I won't survive the heartbreak."

He fell against the couch, closing his eyes and placing a hand over his chest.

Without much thought, you leaned over and placed a light kiss on his cheek. Hongjoong's eyes opened, and he stared at you with so much adoration, you felt shy.

"You... Oh, my rose."

"We need to take things slow, Hongjoong."

"Absolutely, no problem. As slow as you want. But not too slow, please, or I won't make it."

Again, he pretended to faint against the couch, hoping you'd place your lips on him again. Instead, you pinched his cheek.

"Ow!"

"Don't be dramatic, sweetie."

The two of you laughed before you settled against his chest. The fireplace was crackling, the tea in your hand going a bit cold, but you still took sips. Hongjoong's hand was going through your locks, and his breathing made you calm.

Somehow, you found yourself in the embrace of a mafia king, but it didn't matter. He was still Hongjoong.

Dramatic, over the top, but lovely Hongjoong.

You could get used to it.

.

“Hmm…this is the right address.” He looks at the piece of paper in his hand. Sometimes he’s just old-fashioned. Everyone can use their phone to find a place. “This should be a biker shop.”

Bucky squares his jaw. Maybe searching for the parts for his bike online was a bad idea. Now he’s standing in front of a flower shop. “I don’t need flowers, punks.”

“May I help you?” He doesn’t look up when someone speaks to him. Bucky is beyond pissed. He wasted half a day coming here only to end up in front of a flower shop. “SIR, you are blocking my door.”

You speak a little louder when the man standing in front of your door doesn’t react. “SIR! I’m talking to you. This is a flower shop, not an exhibition.”

“Exci—what?” Bucky finally looks up from the piece of paper in his hand. “What did you call me?”

“I told you that this is not an exhibition. And, because you just said you do not need flowers, I must ask you to leave. You’re scaring off my customers.”

Bucky cocks his head to glance at you. His shoulders relax, seeing you stand before him, wearing a cute sundress and an even cuter apron with flowers on it and the name of your shop printed on top of them.

“Y/N’s flower power.” He snickers at the bad name. “Who forced you to name your shop like that?”

“No one,” you snap at the stranger disturbing your peaceful day. “You have some nerve showing up at my shop, not buying anything, only to make fun of my name and the name of my shop!”

“OH!” Bucky tries not to laugh. You are standing tall and pursing your lips. If only you knew you’re talking to one of the most dangerous men you've ever heard of. “I didn’t want to make fun of your name,” he says, still smirking. “It just sounds funny.”

“What can I say? My granny was a flower power girl, okay. Love. Peace.” You shrug. “You know, the good stuff.”

“Good stuff,” Bucky hums, looking you up and down to check if you are hiding something behind your friendly appearance. “I was looking for parts for my bike and ended up here. So, no good stuff for me today.”

“Parts for your bike? Wait—are you TWT10317?” You shush him and grab his wrist to guide him inside your shop. Bucky wants to protest and tell you off, but you’re too cute to ignore in your apron and with no shoes.

“What are you up to, lady, leading me on with promises of bike parts?” He huffs when you close the door behind him and turn the little sign to closed. “Do you think you can take me?”

“In a fight or…” You giggle and shake your head. “Never mind. Follow me to the back. I told you Granny liked the good stuff. This included bikes.”

“Bikes?” Bucky blinks a few times. He’s standing in the middle of a flower shop, almost drowning in the flowers’ sweet scent. “Where are you hiding a bike?”

“Not a bike,” you hiss, pressing your index finger to your lips. “Listen, this is a secret side business of mine. Okay. If you keep on yelling about bike parts, the cops will come and close my business.”

“Cops?” That piqued his interest. Bucky didn’t take you for someone doing anything illegal. “Did you steal that stuff?”

“No,” you chuckle nervously. “People bring stuff to me, and I sell it for them. It was my granny’s side business, and now it’s mine. I make some extra cash with the bike parts. Do you want them now or not?”

“I’ll have a look around. If you tricked me, you are in big trouble, girl!” He mutters under his breath. Bucky is a little grumpy lately. His friend is conspiring with Brock Rumlow to bring some douchebag down, and Bucky doesn't like it one bit.

The guy seems to be in a bad mood, and you don’t want to be the one poking the angry bear even more. “I did not trick you. You were interested in the parts I offered. Take a look and tell me if you still want them.”

“Fine.” He glances at you, eyes searching your face. Bucky is a master at uncovering lies. “I’ll pay the price we agreed on if the parts are good.”

“My parts are always good,” you bite back with a grin.

“I bet they are,” he cockily replies, earning nothing but an eye roll. You know guys like him. Always flirty and cocky. In the end, they leave you with a broken heart. “Let’s see…”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a second, but he played it cool. He doesn’t want to pay more, only because he freaked out in front of you. There they are. Every missing part he needs for his bike.

“See, I did not lie. It’s everything you asked for, and more.”

“I’ll check on them first.” His eyes are glued to you when he reaches out for the first part. Bucky licks his lips when you sit on the only chair to watch him like a hawk. He may be a big and beefy guy, but you won’t let him get away with stealing from you. “Not too bad.”

“Do we have a deal or not?” You get back up to look at the parts he grabbed. “Sir?”

“If you raise me to a date, I’ll pay you some more.” He puts on his most charming smile, blue eyes looking at you as if you are the sun and the moon.

“Yeah, not going to happen.” You turn on your heels to march out of the backroom. “If you want the parts, we can find a good price. If you want to get laid, look for someone else.”

Bucky wrinkles his forehead. It’s the first time his good looks and blue eyes didn’t help him get a date. He cannot remember the last time he got turned down—if it ever happened before.

“I’ll take the parts and your favorite flowers,” he tries again, still with that fake smile on his lips.

“Only the parts then,” you eye the parts in his hands, thinking about a good price. Maybe he will come back for more or tell his friends about your little side business.

“Only the parts, for today,” he replies, smirking.

“Good. I don’t date customers or bikers.”

“We will get you there,” he tells you, gives you his name, and hands you more cash than you requested. “Keep the rest, and…” Bucky leans closer to whisper. “Doll, I’m not a biker…”

This wasn't a coincidence, right?

I mean, yeah you'd done karting a bit when you were younger with Lando but it isn't like you two were that close. You were kids and were just having fun.

At least, to you it was for fun.

For Lando it was life. He wanted to go pro. To be number one. And, yeah, he did that.

But you took a totally different approach. You were more calm and content with your lifestyle. You liked being out in nature and looking at all the different kinds of flowers.

Yeah. That's it. Flowers.

So you became a florist.

Your little shop in the heart of Monaco, ‘Flowers For The Soul,’ was well-known for making the streets smell absolutely wonderful.

After childhood, you decided that trying to go any further than karting wasn't really living, so, you quit. It was definitely a change, way different from your exciting childhood.

But, it wasn't all that bad. You liked it.

You never left Monaco though, your parents lived here so what was the point of leaving in your adult years?

You opened up your shop when you turned twenty, as a new start. Great beginning because of course, everyone loved it. Who doesn't love flowers? (Besides the people allergic, of course.)

Anyway, you'd heard.

Who didn't?

Not like you've been keeping tabs on him or anything...but—just a little. Maybe. Okay, yeah. You watched every race since he started Formula 1.

Lando Norris. From LN4, to now, LN1.

You cheered him on silently.

You could just ask your parents to ask his parents to catch up, but you weren't kids anymore.

But, oh, you wished. Just for a second to talk to that face you'd challenged so hard during karting.

Just to see how he's doing now.

You totally weren't gonna DM him on Instagram and see if he responded.

He wouldn't respond.

Not to someone he knew over a decade ago. Probably didn't even remember you.

So you waited.

Hours. Hours became days, days became weeks, weeks became months. And you hadn't dared to touch his icon to DM him again. You were so damn embarrassed.

Until fate just so happened to cross your path.

You were out organizing flowers that could last all year-round, when you heard a name call out from a couple of blocks down.

"Lando Norris! Lando, how are you feeling before season?"

The voice of a very obvious reporter said. Then, the sounds got louder.

Camera flashing, people shouting his name.

Surely he wasn't—right down the road was he...?

You whipped your head around, standing up from your kneeling position, a flower pot still in your head.

Holy shit. He was right there.

You turned your head back around, cheeks flushing.

Then, the sounds came closer, and closer, and closer.

Until eventually they were right behind you.

"Uhm, is this the shop that DMed me about catching up?"

The voice said.

But, there was just one thing that wasn't mentioned.

You were so scared out of your mind, you got drunk and texted Lando-fucking-Norris off of the account that promoted your shop instead of your personal one.

You turned, putting on your best smile.

"Oh, yeah...! Yeah, that was—must've been a hacker or something y'know?"

Damn. Lando looked really good.

You'd never seen him up close since you two had become adults. And he was definitely living up to the things said about him.

Totally understand the fans.

"Are you sure? I've heard about this place from some of my mates and they say an old friend owns this—"

Lando looked a little bit closer.

"Oh. It is you!" Lando said, sighing. "Could we—maybe go inside?" He said in an exasperated tone.

You immediately nodded, of course. No way in hell you were missing your chance at talking to him again.

Which leads you to now.

Lando sat in the back of your shop, your office, and the silence was so damn loud. You didn't know where to start, damn it.

"First off, sorry about the DM. To be honest? I've been wanting to try to get your attention for a while but...I've been scared out of my mind you'd think I was an obsessive creep or something."

It just gushed out, the words just couldn't stop coming. Idiot.

Lando nodded slowly. He was so understanding. Was he? Or was he finding himself feeling like he was in a hostage situation??

"A lot of my old childhood friends do this, it's fine. But I noticed you owned the shop and I was just a little intrigued, I can't lie."

Lando Norris??? Intrigued with who??? You?? No way.

"Really...? I uhm—I'm a bit glad, I guess. I've been a fan and... considering my career path we differ nowadays."

You nodded your head a bit, the embarrassment subsiding.

"Honestly? I think about you sometimes. You were one of the best karters I'd ever seen as a kid." Lando said, a smile forming on his face.

"Must be my wasted potential then, huh?" You tried to lighten the mood, but it came out sad.

"Huh? No way! You just...wanted to choose something different."

This guy was so understanding it almost killed you.

"I guess. Anyway, what about you? How're you?" You blurted out nervously.

Lando sensed it, immediately chuckling and doing that stupidly cute thing where he covered his mouth while laughing. "This is awkward, isn't it? I...we should not be awkward with each other or something. But since you want to know...okay!"

You didn’t say anything at first. Just gave a small smile and dusted off your palms on your apron, letting the silence stretch. Some people need space before they can breathe.

He looked at the counter, then at the flowers, then at the door.

"Hi," he said, voice low and rough around the edges. "Uh… I’m looking for flowers. For someone.”

You nodded, keeping your tone light. “You came to the right place.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a breath, still giving casual glares at the entrance like he wasn’t sure he belonged here.

You gestured to the rows of blooms behind you, bright against the soft wooden walls. “Want to tell me about them? The person, I mean. Makes it easier.”

He hesitated. “She’s… kind. Tough. Smarter than me.” A pause. “She is helping me a lot.”

That narrowed it down to roughly every type of flower you had.

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Color preference?”

“Not really,” he said, scratching behind his neck. His left hand stayed buried in the pocket of his jacket, but the right one tapped lightly against his thigh, and even when you caught the movement, you didn’t comment.

Instead, you started gathering: a little yarrow for courage, some soft peach roses for gratitude, a few sprigs of waxflower because they last longer than people expect them to. You built slowly, explaining each one, and he listened carefully, nodding once or twice like he was filing the information away like intel.

When you handed him the bouquet, his eyebrows lifted slightly. “You made that fast.”

“I make a lot of them,” you said with a shrug. “But this one’s fits.”

He studied it like he wasn’t sure how to hold it. “Are those good enough?”

“I’d bet my best clippers they are.”

That earned a real smile —small and crooked, but there.

“Thanks,” he said, and for the first time, he looked you directly in the eyes. “Really.”

You didn’t ask for a name. Didn’t ask who she was or why his shoulders were wound so tight. You just watched him leave, bouquet in hand, the bell jingling again behind him.

He came back the next week.

Same awkward shuffle through the door, same hesitant glance at the display, but this time, he didn’t hover by the entrance. He walked straight to the counter, nodded once, and said, “Need another one.”

So you made him a new bouquet —cooler tones this time, with a splash of lavender and white lilac. He listened, asked a few more questions, and thanked you again before leaving.

The third day, two weeks after your first meeting, he entered with a cup of coffee in his hand and didn’t glance at the door, not even once.

By the end of the month, it had become routine: same day of the week —Thursday—, different flowers and a quiet exchange wrapped in petals. You started learning the curve of his voice, the slight smirk that appeared when he found your jokes funnier than they were. He started saying your name when he came in. You learned his on the fourth visit —Bucky Barnes, spoken like it was nothing, though it lingered in your chest for hours afterward.

He stood straighter each time he entered, spoke with a little more warmth, and sometimes he asked how your day was. Other times, he lingered longer, pretending to browse while you tried not to stare.

But you couldn’t help wondering who the flowers were for. His girlfriend? He said she was kind, smart… You never asked, tough. But it sat there, quietly blooming in the back of your mind: how lucky his girlfriend must be.

The thought shouldn’t ache, sure, but it did. Because somewhere between building bouquets and stealing glances at his hands, you realized you might’ve fallen a little in love with him.

The visits continued into the second month. And then the third.

By now, you didn’t even pretend not to look at the clock on Thursdays. You knew the rhythm of his boots on the pavement, the exact sound the door made when he opened it. You knew already how he’d pause just inside —out of habit, not nerves— and scan the shop until his eyes found you.

Hell, you even started dressing a little differently on Thursdays. Not dramatic. Just a cleaner collar, cuter colors, a touch more of care in your hair, your smile, and in the way your apron tied neatly at the back. Just in case he noticed.

And maybe he did, because he smiled more now. Told stories. Asked about your favorite flowers. One week, he brought Alpine —white fur, blue eyes, a queen in a harness— and you fell in love with her instantly, only slightly more discreetly than you were falling for him.

And always, always, he bought flowers. Always for her.

Today, he walks in a little earlier than usual, but you’re already halfway through prepping a tray of dahlias. Your heart does its usual traitorous flutter when he grins at you.

“Hey, flower,” he says, tugging off his gloves. “Got time for another?”

“For you? Always.” The words slip out too easily, and his smirk lingers a moment too long.

You build the bouquet —wildflowers this time, bold colors, just like he asked. There’s something warm in his eyes when he watches your hands move, and when you hand it to him, he doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he clears his throat. “What time do you get off today?”

You blink.

“What?”

“Your shift,” he says, a little softer. “When does it end? I was thinking maybe we could… meet up? After?”

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

You feel your mouth open before your thoughts can catch up. “Oh— I mean— I would love to, really, but that’s not— it’s not appropriate, is it? You have someone. The one you always buy the flowers for— your girlfriend, right? It’d be weird, or— wrong— and I mean I totally understand why you wouldn’t say anything but I just, I didn’t think—”

You trail off, flustered, watching his face shift slowly from confusion to something like stunned amusement.

“Wait,” he says, brows raised. “Girlfriend?”

You nod, heat rushing to your face. “The one you bring flowers to. Every week. For three months.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Bucky laughs —not meanly or mockingly, but surprised and helpless. Almost warm.

He sets the bouquet down on the counter and shakes his head. “I’ve been bringing those to my therapist.”

You stare.

“She told me I needed a routine,” he continues, still chuckling. “Something calm. So I bring flowers. Every week. Same day, same hour. For her office.” He rubs the back of his neck, then adds, “Didn’t realize I was giving off ‘madly in love with my therapist’ vibes.”

You blink again. “Oh.”

“And I was hoping I could actually bring flowers to someone else this week,” he says, voice quieter now. “Someone who makes the arrangements and knows exactly what they mean.”