#im new

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The morning had one goal: to humble the hell out of you. And she was succeeding with ruthless, flowery precision and the kind of passive aggression usually reserved for reality TV confessions.

Sunlight blasted into the storage room of your flower shop like a spotlight from God Himself, harsh and unforgiving. It illuminated every speck of dust, every smudge you swore you wiped off yesterday, and every poorly labeled box that made you question your life decisions. The box labeled "WILDFLOWER SEED PACKETS (Do NOT eat, Lara)" sat beside a bag of dried lavender that smelled like a witch's unfinished spell and childhood regret.

You were knee-deep in stress and dirt, trying to reorganize after Lara had decided to alphabetize the bulbs by vibe instead of genus. The floor was a battlefield of garden shears, twine, and your patience.

"If I die surrounded by plants, tell Megan to bury me in a biodegradable pot and compost the rest," you muttered, arms full of marigolds that looked as emotionally unstable as you felt.

"I heard that!" Megan's voice called from the front, bubbly with caffeine and chaos. "I already have your biodegradable coffin picked out. It has sunflowers on the lid and a secret pocket for tea bags."

"You're unwell."

"You love me."

With a grunt, you tossed a bag of fertilizer aside and spotted the elusive cartwheel wedged behind a stack of clay pots. You yanked it out with a triumphant flourish, almost falling backward into a tray of prickly pear cacti.

Megan peeked around the doorframe, sipping an iced matcha the color of envy. Her space buns had glitter woven into them and a hibiscus perched on top like a crown.

"Was it in the same place I told you to check yesterday?"

You squinted at her. "No. Yes. Maybe. Shut up."

"Amazing," she said, not moving from her perch. "Now, go do your public-facing flower fairy duties. And bring me a croissant from Sophia's on the way back. If she flirts again, tell her I'm an Aquarius with a wounded inner child."

"You told her that last time."

"Yeah, and she winked and gave me extra jam. Don't ruin this for me."

With a dramatic sigh, you loaded peonies, tulips, and snapdragons into the cart and pushed it toward the door.

"If I don't come back, tell Yoonchae she can finally have my secret chai syrup stash."

"Noted. I'll also rename your favorite succulent after you."

The bell above the door jingled as you emerged into the morning sun. The neighborhood was alive with sound: a couple arguing over kombucha flavors, someone rehearsing Shakespeare across the street, and a skateboarder nearly taking out a sandwich board.

You parked the cart beside the shop's outer racks and got to work replacing the window boxes. There was peace in it—this ritual of fresh soil, petal placement, the soft brush of stems against your fingers. Something quiet that let you forget the world for a second.

Your mother had called this hour "flower o'clock." You could still remember her humming in the mornings, arranging tulips in coffee mugs, whispering secrets to daisies like they were children. The ache in your chest hadn't dulled, but this? This helped.

"Okay, you overdramatic daffodils," you muttered to the plants, "we're not doing the wilting thing today. That's my job."

And then it happened.

The CLUNK.

You looked down.

The cartwheel had wedged itself between two sidewalk tiles with the fury of a thousand misaligned horoscopes.

You tugged. Nothing.

You cursed. Tugged harder. Braced your foot. Yanked like your life depended on it—

CRACK.

WHOOSH.

Flowers exploded forward like a Broadway finale. Peonies hit the ground. A snapdragon soared through the air. A flamingo lily smacked someone square in the face.

"Oh my god," you gasped, already moving.

The woman staggered slightly, adjusting her hood. Petals clung to her hoodie like accessories. Her sweatpants were dotted with crushed flowers. Her expression? Completely unreadable.

And then she looked up.

Daniela Avanzini sat like she owned the entire damn sidewalk.

Even under the harsh daylight, even standing casually with one hand in her jacket pocket, she radiated the kind of low-simmering intensity that made your breath catch. Her curls spilled from her hood like sculpted vines. Her dark ink tattoos peeked out from her sleeves like whispers—loops of thorns, celestial lines, maybe a name you didn't dare ask about.

She blinked once, a lazy motion that said she was neither mad nor surprised.

"Guess I finally got my flowers," she said, deadpan. Like she'd been waiting for this punchline her whole life.

You froze. Still clutching a daisy like it might defend your honor.

"Who died?"

Her lips curved slightly. "Hopefully not my sinuses."

You exhaled a laugh, sharp and sudden. "Yeah, sorry. The cart's possessed. Possibly cursed. Definitely annoying."

She bent slowly, picked up a daisy, and reached for you.

Your breath stuttered as she tucked the flower behind your ear, fingers grazing your skin. She smelled like ink and cinnamon.

"That one's on the house," you whispered.

"Cool. Invoice me later."

She turned. Walked away. Crossed the street with unhurried ease. The sign above the door she disappeared into read: Studio Vespertine.

And you just stood there. Flustered. Pollen-covered. Deeply ruined.

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Megan appeared like a summoned demon, broom in hand. "So. How hot was she?"

You didn't look away from the tattoo studio door. "She was... devastating."

Megan let out a war cry and danced in place. "YES. Finally. We're back in business. I'm texting Sophia... And Yoonchae... And Lara."

"Don't you dare."

"Too late. I'm naming the ship."

As she ran back inside giggling, you glanced once more at Studio Vespertine. You could still feel Daniela's touch on your cheek.

Whatever this was? It was absolutely going to wreck you.

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Studio Vespertine.

Daniela stood in the backroom of the studio, glaring at her reflection in the mirror like it had personally offended her.

She plucked the last of the lily petals from her jacket and held it up between two fingers like it was laced with shame. "This was a mistake."

The errand. The morning shift. The entire idea of stepping foot in that flower shop.

She flicked the petal into the trash, only for another to fall from her hair and land on her shoe like nature had a grudge.

She muttered, low and dry, "Who gets assaulted by flowers before their first espresso?"

And yet, here she was. Still reeking. Still seeing your face—bewildered, biting, and just intrigued enough to haunt her.

The worst part? It was funny. Annoyingly funny. If it had happened to someone else, she'd be laughing already.

She pulled another petal off her sleeve and cursed under her breath.

From behind the divider, a familiar squeak echoed.

Manon's chair swiveled around like she was conducting an evil plan.

She leaned back, one leg hooked over the other, socked feet crossed like a smug cat. "You look like you just lost a turf war to a bouquet."

"I got ambushed," Daniela muttered.

Manon raised a brow. "By what? A rogue greenhouse?"

"No. A cart of flowers. And... a girl."

"A girl.. cart of flowers?"

Daniela shot her a glare. "She flung them. Sort of. It was more like they flung themselves. But the cart was stuck, so..."

Manon gasped, delighted. "Projectile flowers? At your face? Iconic."

Daniela groaned. "It was an accident."

Manon spun slowly in her chair, eyes narrowing. "Was she cute?"

Daniela paused.

Manon smiled like it was the best news she'd heard all week. "Oh, she's so your type."

"She insulted my tattoos."

"Even better. Definitely your soulmate, can't blame you she's gorgeous."

Daniela blinked. Then tilted her head. "Wait. How do you know what she looks like?"

Manon blinked back, all faux innocence.

Daniela stepped forward, suspicious. "Manon."

Manon reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a stem—one of your flowers.

Daniela stared at it like it had detonated.

"You went to the shop?"

"It's literally across the street," Manon said, casual. "You think I have that kind of self-control?"

"You bought it?"

"I took it."

Daniela looked offended on a spiritual level. "You stole a flower?"

"I left a ten. Under a cactus. It counts."

"That is not how capitalism works."

"It's exactly how capitalism works."

Daniela rubbed her temple. "You are exhausting."

Manon grinned and twirled the flower. "Honestly? I think this place has potential. You're already traumatizing the locals. That's how you know it's got flavor."

"I didn't traumatize anyone."

Manon tilted her head. "No? So when are you asking her out?"

Daniela threw the petal at her.

Manon ducked.

It hit the chair.

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In hindsight, you should've known. It was cosmically inevitable.

Out of all the emotionally unavailable, aesthetically intimidating, tattoo-laced women in the city—you'd managed to get tangled up with her. The very same her who had been on your mind ever since your flower cart declared war on gravity and launched a bouquet into her personal space. And now, by the will of the universe or some cruelly poetic god, you were tasked with delivering her a bouquet laced in heartbreak and petty vengeance.

You stood at the cooler, eyeing the bouquet with the kind of dread one might reserve for an ex's wedding invitation or an email with the subject line "per my last message."

The order slip sat heavy in your hand.

Delivery Location: Studio Vespertine. Recipient: Daniela Avanzini.

Of course.

The arrangement itself was a chaotic blend of emotional symbolism: bright red snapdragons for defiance, orange tulips for passion twisted into frustration, a handful of bitter herbs like rue and wormwood for the drama, and precisely three stalks of blue delphinium—specifically requested by the sender to represent emotional detachment. It wasn't just a bouquet. It was performance art.

Megan, naturally, was beside herself with glee.

"Tell me the sender cried while ordering this," she said, emerging from the back with a spray bottle and a grin that spelled trouble. She leaned over your shoulder and squinted at the note, which she promptly snatched and read aloud in her best slam poet cadence:

"To the girl who tattoos stars and breaks hearts—here's a floral fuck you. Stay thriving."

She looked up, eyes practically vibrating. "Tell me this isn't the one you threw peonies at."

You groaned, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. "I cannot show up there again. I already peony-bombed her into silent judgment. Now I'm delivering post-breakup rage foliage? That's a level of public humiliation even I'm not built for."

Megan hummed thoughtfully, like she was planning your emotional eulogy. "And yet, you're applying lip balm like this isn't your sapphic novella in progress."

"I'm being professional."

"You're blushing."

You pointed dramatically. "You're annoying."

"And you're doomed."

The walk to Studio Vespertine was only four blocks, but your nerves made each step feel like its own character arc. You passed Sophia's café and waved awkwardly through the glass as she gave you a thumbs-up and mouthed, Are you okay? You weren't. Not remotely. You considered texting Megan a last will and testament.

When you finally reached the studio, you paused on the sidewalk, trying to breathe. Through the tinted window, you could make out Daniela's figure: she was hunched over a sketchpad, headphones in, legs crossed beneath the chair, the sleeve of her hoodie pulled up just enough to expose one of her tattoos—a delicate, spiraling line of script.

You were staring too long. Which is when the door opened.

And there was Manon. All legs, oversized hoodie, and a smoothie the color of swamp water.

"You just gonna lurk, or is this a dramatic gesture I should applaud?"

You coughed. "Uh. Delivery. Anonymous. I'm not stalking, I swear."

Manon tilted her head. "Breakup bouquet?"

"Possibly."

She stepped back with a smirk. "Can't wait. She's in the back. Go break the ice—with flowers this time, not blunt force trauma."

The inside of Studio Vespertine smelled like eucalyptus and ink and soft leather. Lo-fi beats thudded low from the speakers. Everything looked curated to the point of aesthetic intimidation.

Daniela didn't notice you at first. Her attention was on her sketchpad, one leg bouncing lightly as she shaded something with careful strokes. Her expression was unreadable: focused, guarded, calm. Until she looked up.

Headphones off. Eye contact engaged.

You held the bouquet out like a peace offering. "I promise, I didn't write the note. I'm just the unfortunate messenger."

She took it without speaking, scanning the card. A beat of silence. Then:

"Wow," she said, dry as ever. "Subtle."

You tried to laugh. "The herbs are a bold choice. If nothing else, they'll keep your space spiritually clean."

She didn't smile, not fully. But something around her mouth twitched.

"Thanks for the effort," she said. "Even if you're now two for two on emotionally charged deliveries."

You lingered. "I don't suppose there's a punch card for that? Fifth dramatic bouquet is free?"

Daniela set the arrangement aside and turned slightly toward you, her hand still clutching the sketch pencil. "You're consistent, I'll give you that."

Before you could respond, Manon reappeared with predatory timing.

"So, flower girl. Hypothetically speaking, what's the sexiest place to get a tattoo?"

You choked. Daniela sighed.

"Ignore her," she said, voice deadpan. "She's not allowed to talk to clients unsupervised."

"You mean potential clients," Manon sing-songed. "She looks like she's got at least one wrist tattoo in her future. Or maybe something behind the ear?"

You looked toward the exit like it might save you.

"Anyway! I'll just—go. Thanks for not hurling this one at your face. You're welcome to burn it, obviously. Or turn it into potpourri."

You were halfway out the door when Daniela called after you.

"Wait."

You paused. Turned. "Yeah?"

She shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "You want to get coffee sometime? You owe me one. For the daisy. And the floral ambush."

Who the hell did she think she is.

"Sure. Yeah. Totally. No cart violence this time."

Behind you, Manon gasped dramatically.

"It's happening. I need to make a ship name."

Daniela ignored her. But she didn't look away from you, either.

And that quiet, unreadable smile? That lingered.

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At first, you attributed her repeated appearances to coincidence—an innocuous overlap of routine, a shared block of real estate. The kind of passive proximity that happens in a neighborhood with only three good cafés and one florist. Nothing intentional. Nothing personal.

The first time you saw her again, you were in the back of the shop, surrounded by the smell of rosemary and lavender, organizing the new shipment that had just arrived. The greenhouse was warm, light filtering through the dusty glass overhead, and as you adjusted the bundles, you caught a glimpse of her through a crack in the wooden paneling. Daniela—hood up, curls falling over her cheekbones, expression unreadable—slipping into Sophia's café like she did it every morning.

You stood there longer than you should've, lavender clutched in your hand, convinced you were mistaken. You weren't.

And then it kept happening.

Sometimes she stayed and drew. Other days she left quickly, takeaway cup in hand, head down. Once or twice she lingered just outside, resting her back against the café wall, sipping from a glass and watching the street like it was performing for her. Rain didn't bother her. Neither did wind. Daniela appeared at all hours like some kind of constant the city refused to explain.

The distance between the flower shop and Sophia's café became its own kind of stage—one where you watched her move, one where she probably noticed you, too. She never waved. But you'd catch her gaze, just briefly, and that was always enough to send your stomach spiraling.

Sophia was the first to say something. She caught you watching through the window and didn't let you off the hook.

"You and ink girl—what's the deal?" she asked, sliding a croissant into a bag for Megan.

"There's no deal," you said, way too fast.

Sophia wasn't buying it. "She draws flowers when she sits by the window. She stares at your sign. I've seen her smile. That's not nothing."

You swallowed. "She smiles?"

"Mmhm. And yesterday she had a daisy behind her ear. I didn't put it there, so unless Megan's moonlighting as a florist, that was all you."

Megan, ever supportive, let out a delighted gasp that made you seriously reconsider throwing your entire body into the flower cooler.

A few days later, Daniela came in.

You were trimming eucalyptus stems, elbows deep in clippings, when the shop bell rang. You looked up, and there she was: hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted just slightly. And somehow, you still weren't ready.

She greeted you with a soft, "Hey."

"Hi," you said, voice cracking like you were fourteen again.

"I was thinking of getting something for the studio. Nothing too dramatic."

You nodded, trying not to seem like you were sprinting through mental images of her studio—what it might look like, what it might smell like. "No delphinium this time?"

She cracked a smile. "Please."

You assembled something modest—eucalyptus, freesia, and a touch of lavender. Subtle, pleasant. When you passed it to her, your fingers brushed. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

She didn't leave right away. Instead, she walked to the bench in the corner and sat down, bouquet in her lap, eyes on the front window. You kept trimming.

"Waiting for someone?" you asked after a minute.

"No," she said. "Just like the light."

It was quiet after that. Not awkward—just soft. Still. Megan peeked out from the back, caught sight of Daniela, and practically moonwalked away with a grin you could feel in your bones.

"You're quiet," Daniela said eventually.

You laughed, awkward. "You make me nervous."

She looked at you then. Really looked. "Good."

And just like that, she was gone.

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Three days passed. You spent them fidgeting, rearranging shelves that didn't need rearranging. You pruned the same lavender pot three separate times.

"You're spiraling," Megan informed you. "Do something."

"She didn't leave her number," you said, defensive.

"Then manifest. Or I don't know, speak out loud. You people need a referee."

You chucked a dried thistle at her. She caught it without flinching.

On the fourth day, she returned.

You were alone this time, humming along to an old jazz record. She walked in like nothing had changed, wearing a denim jacket and carrying a camera.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey," you answered, doing your best to pretend your pulse wasn't trying to write poetry.

She lifted her camera slightly. "Mind if I take a few pictures? Just the flowers. I've got a new idea for a tattoo."

"Sure," you said, stepping back. "Whatever you need."

She wandered between the displays, kneeling to capture the way the sun caught the marigolds, how the light filtered through a vase of foxglove. She didn't say much. You didn't need her to.

After a while, she looked up. "Do you ever pose in here?"

You raised a brow. "Me? I usually look like I fought a garden and lost."

She smiled, soft. "You look like someone who belongs in a painting."

You forgot how to speak.

She adjusted the strap on her camera and stepped closer. "I'll show you the sketches when they're done."

You nodded.

And then she left.