“𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏” || 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍
melon noticing the little flower shop beside the tattoo parlor one afternoon, tucked between dull concrete and flickering signs, and thinking how absurd it looks there, like something soft trying to survive in a place built for rough edges.
only glancing at it at first, on his way to another appointment to cover the leopard spots on his body, telling himself he has no reason to care about some quaint little shop filled with petals and perfume.
he’d step out after the appointment, mask on, hands in his pockets, and catching the scent of fresh flowers drifting through the street.
hesitating for a moment because flower shops aren’t his kind of place. too delicate. too sentimental. too full of meanings people like to attach to pretty things.
him going in anyway, convincing himself it’s nothing more than curiosity.
immediately spotting you behind the counter, carefully tying ribbon around a bouquet while softly humming to yourself, completely absorbed in your work.
pausing in the doorway because the whole place feels almost unsettlingly gentle.
watching the way your hands move with patience and precision, how every stem is handled like it matters, and finding it strange how much care you give to things that will wilt and die in a matter of days.
approaching the counter with that easy, pleasant smile he wears for strangers, the one that makes him seem approachable, harmless, civilized.
asking about the flowers in that soft, polite voice of his, pretending he’s only making conversation when really he’s studying you.
finding it odd when you answer him without suspicion, just sweet and shy, explaining what flowers mean and which ones last longest, treating him like any ordinary customer.
being weirdly fascinated by how naturally kind you are, because kindness that unguarded usually means stupidity in his eyes.
he decided you’re naïve, but not in an irritating way.
leaving with a tiny bouquet he absolutely did not need, telling himself it was only to avoid making the interaction awkward.
staring at those flowers later in his apartment, wondering why he bought them at all.
coming back the next time he visits the tattoo parlor, telling himself it’s just because he was already in the area.
lingering longer this time, listening while you explain how certain plants need more shade, more water, more care than others.
quietly thinking how ridiculous it is that some plants survive only because someone chooses to nurture them.
he’d start asking questions, not because he cares about flowers, but because he likes the way your face brightens when you answer.
keeping that pleasant, polished persona in place every visit, smiling softly, speaking gently, playing the role of the harmless customer because it makes you comfortable.
him learning which flowers bloom in each season, which ones symbolize trust, which ones mean devotion, storing away every detail you tell him.
pretending it’s all useless information while remembering every word.
he started to stop by even on days he doesn’t have tattoo appointments, showing up with no excuse except “I was nearby.”
him realizing he’s begun looking for reasons to be nearby.
listening to you talk about flowers like every bloom has a purpose, every fragile thing has value, and feeling something in him resist that idea while another part leans closer to it.
he’d find your softness irritating in theory.
finding your softness irresistible in practice.
him beginning to let the cracks show in tiny ways, letting his smile become less rehearsed, letting silences sit naturally, letting his curiosity sound genuine instead of performative.
him making dry little remarks about the flowers, dark humor slipping through, watching to see if you flinch.
being caught off guard when you only smile and gently explain why flowers are worth caring for even if they don’t last.
staring at you for a second too long after that because your worldview feels so opposite to his, and yet he doesn’t hate hearing it.
never telling you much about himself, always redirecting conversations when they get personal, keeping every answer vague enough to reveal nothing real.
still wearing the mask, figuratively and literally because no matter how often he visits, vulnerability feels like a weakness he refuses to indulge.
telling himself he only enjoys the shop because it’s quiet.
knowing it’s because of you.
noticing how the flower shop starts to feel familiar in a way nowhere else does.
hating how much he begins to anticipate seeing you.
him bringing up the things you taught him in casual conversation, surprising even himself when he remembers the exact care instructions for certain flowers.
internally mocking himself for retaining information about plants as if it matters.
understanding, somewhere deep down, that it matters because it came from you.
sitting in the shop longer than necessary, pretending to watch you arrange flowers while actually memorizing every little habit, how you tuck hair behind your ear, how you smile to yourself when a bouquet turns out right, how your voice softens when you talk about things you love.
realizing you’ve become part of his routine before he ever meant for that to happen.
trying to convince himself it’s harmless.
knowing nothing about his attachment is harmless.
slowly dropping the exaggerated sweetness he uses with everyone else, becoming quieter around you, more honest in the little things, because keeping up the performance starts to feel exhausting.
still never showing the ugliest parts of himself, never letting the bitterness fully surface, never admitting how deeply warped his views really are.
letting you see only the edges of it, just enough to know there’s something sharp under the softness.
being fascinated that even when he lets that sharpness slip, you don’t pull away.
finding himself wanting to understand why you don’t pull away.
returning again and again, less because he wants flowers and more because your little shop has become the one place where the noise in his head goes quiet.
hating the thought that peace for him looks like standing beside buckets of roses while you smile at him from across the counter.
hating even more that he keeps coming back for it.
never admitting how important those visits have become.
simply pushing open the shop door every chance he gets, hearing the little bell ring overhead, and feeling that unfamiliar calm settle in his chest the moment he sees you.
telling himself that he’s only there for the flowers.
knowing damn well that he isn’t.
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