@themerbabe - Tumblr Blog

Jan 8

Language of flowers and tattoos

Synopsis: It only started as a simple crush on the shy, charming florist with the soft smile and amethyst eyes. One bouquet led to coffee, coffee led to kisses, and suddenly you were tangled in late-night texts, flour fights in his kitchen, and quiet walks in each other's presence. You couldn't help falling head over heels with him, and now he’s the one who makes your world feel like it’s always in full bloom.

Content warnings: Slowburn, crushes, mutual pining, slice of life, blushing fools in love, flirting, kissing, flowers as love language, teeth rotting fluff, cuddling, first time sex, explicit content, aftercare, very cute and soft confession, matching tattoos.

Pairings: Florist!Rafayel x Tattoo artist!Reader

Word count: 8.3k

A/n: I got this idea from one of my friends and also a friend of theirs who is a very talented artist and made some art of Florist!Rafayel and Tattoo artist!Reader which is absolutely divine. I had so much fun writing this, especially since I usually focus and write smut so this was not my expertise but writing fluff just had me giggling like a fool the whole time.

anywayyy, enjoy <3

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 1

The buzzing hum of your tattoo machine has long since become background noise, as steady and familiar as your own breathing. Ink stains the edges of your gloves, black smudges mixed with faint hints of blue and green. The studio smells faintly of antiseptic and warmed skin, with a whisper of sage incense burning in the corner—your quiet attempt at balance in a place where pain and beauty meet.

You’ve lost track of how many tattoos you’ve etched into strangers’ skin over the years, how many stories you’ve carried in the silence of the needle. Some people come in with heartbreak clutched tight in their chest, some with joy spilling from them like sunlight. But for you, the heartbeat of it all has always been flowers.

Every time you sketch petals curling open, or veins spreading across a leaf, something in you stirs. Roses, peonies, lilies, orchids—familiar and loved, but it’s the rare ones that make your pulse quicken. Ghost orchids, bleeding hearts, corpse lilies, strange little blooms that most people overlook. You collect them in your sketchbooks like secrets, obsessing over the way their shapes twist and unfold, how even the most delicate petal can be reborn in ink.

Sometimes your clients notice, pointing at a half-hidden page in your portfolio and asking, You really like flowers, don’t you? They never quite see the whole picture, though. Your obsession isn’t just aesthetic—it’s reverence, fascination, maybe even something closer to hunger.

The funny thing is, you don’t wear many of them yourself. Most of your tattoos are other things: sharp lines of geometry tucked along your ribs, a sweep of black ink that hints at wings on your back, a serpent curling just beneath your collarbone where only the brave ever catch a glimpse. A handful of small flowers bloom across your skin, yes—but you’ve always saved the bigger, bolder botanical pieces for others, as if your own body isn’t meant to hold the garden you pour into theirs.

Your latest sketch lies open on the desk beside you, lines still fresh, petals shaded with careful precision. You trace the outline with the tip of your pencil, smiling to yourself. Another rare flower, another little obsession—waiting for the right canvas to bloom on.

You’ve always believed that art is inherited—not in the sense of blood or bone, but in the way passion clings to the air you grow up breathing. Your father was an artist long before you ever learned how to hold a pencil, the kind who could lose himself for hours in paint and charcoal until the sun dipped and rose again. His canvas wasn’t skin, but stretched linen and heavy paper, and yet the devotion was the same: hands steady, eyes focused, heart open. As a child, you’d sit cross-legged at the edge of his studio floor, watching him chase beauty with brushstrokes, learning before you could name it that art was less about perfection and more about reverence.

Your mother was his muse. He used to tell you that he could paint the whole world a thousand times and still find no face more worthy of devotion than hers. You remember the softness of it—the way his gaze lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light the air as much as the paints themselves. Growing up, you carried that image like a warm ember in your chest: love and art, twined together, inseparable.

You haven’t found your own muse yet. Not in the way he did. But that doesn’t leave you restless, doesn’t feel like an absence. For now, you’re content with your work—content with the endless stream of strangers who sit in your chair and trust you with their stories, their scars, their dreams pressed into ink. You create beauty where once there was bare skin, and that alone feels enough.

Later, when the studio door locks behind you, the world softens into the small rituals you’ve made your own. A stroll through a quieter part of the city, where the air seems to breathe slower, the streets lined with pastel-painted storefronts and little balconies dripping with potted plants. The café at the corner waits like a familiar friend, its bell chiming when you step inside, the scent of coffee and warm pastries curling around you in a gentle embrace. You order your usual and cradle the cup between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers as you step back outside.

The neighborhood is calmer than most—no rush, no constant hum of engines and voices tangling into chaos. Just the occasional laugh drifting out of a shop, the hush of footsteps on old stone. Not far from the café, a park opens up like a hidden promise. A small lake glimmers at its center, ringed by willows and benches worn smooth by years of quiet visitors. It’s here you often settle, notebook balanced across your knees, coffee steaming beside you as your pencil drifts into sketches of flowers you can’t quite let go of. The rare ones always draw you in, their shapes strange and fragile, petals folding in on themselves like secrets.

And here, in this still pocket of the city, you allow yourself to daydream—half-lost between reality and the promise of what might one day bloom beneath your hands.

This neighborhood has always felt like a sanctuary, a corner of the city that seems immune to its constant rush. You’ve been coming here for years, drawn not by necessity but by the way the streets invite you to linger. Small shops line the cobblestone paths—bookstores with dusty window displays, bakeries spilling the scent of butter and sugar into the air, little boutiques with trinkets stacked in sunlit glass. The café you love sits at the bend of the street, its bell chiming with a soft, familiar welcome every time you step through its door. You’ve spent countless mornings and afternoons here, letting yourself slow down, savoring the warmth of coffee pressed into your hands and the delicate sweetness of pastries that flake apart on your tongue.

What you love most, though, is how the light shifts in this neighborhood. Somehow softer here, more golden, as though the sun itself has agreed to dim its edges for those willing to notice. In the park nearby, the lake catches it perfectly, the surface shimmering like spilled paint. You’ve sat by its banks more times than you can count, sketchbook balanced on your knees, coffee cooling at your side while your pencil finds its own rhythm.

Two years ago, one of the shops you often passed—an old stationery store with shelves that always smelled of paper and ink—closed its doors for good. In its place bloomed a flower shop, the kind that looked as if it belonged in a postcard, glass panes fogged from the warmth within, bursts of color spilling through its doorway. At first, it was run by a woman in her thirties, her smile bright and her hands always carrying something fragrant and alive. But over time, you noticed her less, and in her place came someone new.

A young man. Striking in ways that make you pause even now when you think about it. His hair is an impossible shade of purple, not garish but luminous, as though it carries its own light. His eyes, a clear amethyst, catch easily in your memory—cool yet compelling, the kind that seem to see and not look away.

You’ve never spoken to him, but you’ve caught glimpses. At the café once, a few tables over, when he sat with a book open in one hand and absentmindedly traced the rim of his cup with the other. In the park another time, his figure framed by willow branches as he leaned against the railing near the lake. And of course, most often in front of his shop, arranging flowers in the window or standing in conversation with a customer.

You don’t linger, not more than a heartbeat longer than necessary, but you do look. Artists always do. Beauty demands to be noticed, and he carries it so effortlessly. His skin, smooth and pale, almost delicate, sometimes makes you wonder—what ink would look like on him. A brush of color along his arm, fine lines etching over his collarbone, something bold curling down his side. Not because you need to mark him, not because you want to claim anything, but because your mind can’t help imagining art mapped across beautiful forms.

You do this often with strangers, letting your imagination trace designs across their bodies the way a painter might glance at a canvas and see its possibilities. Still, with him, you find yourself looking twice before moving on, as though your pencil might remember what your eyes refuse to linger on for too long.

————

The low buzz of your tattoo machine winds down at last, fading into silence as you lift the needle away from warm skin. Your client exhales in relief, shoulders loosening, and you lean back to study the finished piece. The petals curve just the way you sketched them, shading soft where it should whisper, sharp where it needs to bite. Another story left behind on someone else’s skin, another mark carried into the world. You clean up with practiced efficiency, offering the usual instructions—ointment, no scratching, avoid the sun for a while—and then you’re waving them out the door with a smile that feels as natural as breathing.

When the studio settles into stillness, you realize how heavy the day has been, how much you’ve been craving a little something sweet. Coffee, too—hot, bitter, smooth. The thought is enough to pull you out of your chair, bag slung over your shoulder as you lock up behind you. The afternoon stretches wide and bright ahead, and you already know where your feet are taking you.

That neighborhood again. The one you always return to when you want to exhale. Cobblestones warmed by the sun, shop windows glowing like they’ve trapped golden light, the steady hum of life here gentler than anywhere else in the city. And, of course, your café—your safe little haven tucked at the corner. You can almost taste their pastries already, sweet flakes on your tongue.

But before you reach it, you pass the flower shop. The air outside is alive with color, blooms spilling from baskets and buckets, the entrance dressed as if it, too, wants to welcome spring. There’s a small bustle of people there, arranging stems and fussing with ribbons, and at the center of it, you catch a glimpse of him. Purple hair catching the sun like ink, head bent low as he adjusts a display, his mouth set in a faint pout as though the flowers have betrayed him by refusing to sit just right. The sight lasts only a second before someone steps in your view, pressing a folded flyer into your hand with a cheerful smile.

You thank them, slipping it into your grasp as you glance once more toward the shop. He doesn’t look up, fingers busy weaving stems into place, but the scene tugs a small smile from you. The flyer is bright and charming, announcing a collaborative event between the shop and the café—something about a charity, raising funds through flowers and pastries, a celebration dressed in kindness. Cute, you think. The sort of idea that makes you want to show up, especially with flowers at the heart of it.

You keep walking, flyer tucked between your fingers, and soon enough the café bell rings above your head, familiar and warm. Inside, the barista greets you with her usual brightness, and you order your favorite pastry and coffee, letting the comfort of it seep into your bones. The air smells of sugar and roasted beans, the kind of scent that feels like an embrace.

When you finally settle at a table near the window, you place the flyer beside your cup, unfolding it with idle curiosity. The design is playful, clever, almost too polished to be improvised. You trace the lines with your eyes, wondering if the flower shop owner designed it himself or if someone else had a hand in it. Either way, it makes you smile—creative, charming, the sort of thing that feels like a small spark in an otherwise ordinary afternoon.

You sip your coffee, pastry soft between your fingers, and let yourself linger. Outside, the neighborhood hums on, and the flyer waits at your elbow like a quiet invitation.

————

The event is brighter than you expect, spilling out onto the street in a burst of color and warmth. Streamers of ivy curl around wooden stands, baskets of flowers hang from hooks like captured rainbows, and small tables offer pastries dusted in sugar, their sweetness carried in the air alongside the perfume of fresh blooms. You tug lightly at the cuff of your jacket as you step in, your usual dark clothes and inked skin standing in easy contrast to the pastel charm around you. Not that you mind. You’ve never been one to blend in.

Your gaze drifts, cataloguing each detail the way you always do. The creativity is obvious—every display arranged with care, every bouquet a little work of art in itself. You aren’t surprised. You’ve walked by the shop enough times to know this isn’t a coincidence. Whoever runs it—him, mostly, from what you’ve seen—must love it deeply. That thought warms you unexpectedly, a quiet little ember in your chest. There’s something softening in the idea of someone pouring themselves into their passion, surrendering wholly to what they love. You know that devotion, you breathe it every time you sit down with a machine in your hand, and it makes you happy to recognize it mirrored here.

You drift toward a table, drawn by a spill of delicate blossoms—soft lilacs and pale roses intertwined, something rarer tucked between them like a secret. You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of a petal, and lean in to breathe in its scent. The air is filled with quiet chatter, laughter, the sound of children tugging their parents toward trays of pastries. It feels… sweet. Gentle.

And then a voice, casual yet warm, cuts through the background. “Didn’t expect to see someone dressed so darkly at a spring fair.”

You blink, turning, caught off guard, and there he is. Close enough now that you can’t mistake the detail. Black trousers, a crisp white shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves, a brown apron dusted faintly with pollen and green. But it’s not the clothes that catch you—it’s the eyes. Striking amethyst, brighter up close, and softened by the curve of a smile that is somehow both teasing and kind.

For a beat, you just take him in, the sharp edges of your thoughts snagging on the fact that he’s even prettier than you’d imagined in passing. Then you gather yourself, quick to return the smile with one of your own, heat rising faintly at your cheeks.

“Guess I stand out a little,” you admit with a small laugh, glancing down at your dark sleeves before lifting your chin again.

“A little?” his grin tilts wider, amusement curling at the edges.

You shake your head, still laughing softly, and glance back at the flowers between you. “The decorations are really beautiful. Everything looks so… thoughtful. Cute, even.”

Something in his expression softens at that, pride barely concealed, and the easy hum of conversation folds around you both as if this moment has carved out its own quiet space in the middle of the crowd.

“Cute, huh?” he echoes, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet amusement, as if he’s trying it on for size. His gaze flicks from the flowers back to you, a spark of mischief glinting behind the violet. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even if you don’t exactly look like the type to go around calling things cute.”

You arch a brow, lips tugging upward despite yourself. “And what type do I look like, then?”

His mouth curves into a smile that feels deliberately slow, deliberate in a way that makes your chest tighten just slightly. “The kind who goes for bold. Darker lines, sharper edges. Not daisies and baby’s breath.” his eyes linger only for a second on the tattoos visible across your skin, before drifting back up to meet your gaze again.

You huff out a laugh, folding your arms loosely. “You’d be surprised. Flowers can be bolder than you think.”

“Mm, they are,” he hums, as though considering it, before leaning slightly over the display to pluck a stem loose from the bunch. A single bloom—deep violet petals with a strange, curling shape you recognize but can’t name offhand. He holds it out between two fingers, his expression smooth but playful. “Then tell me—bold enough for you?”

You glance at the flower, then back at him, and there’s that smile again tugging at your lips, softer this time. “Not bad,” you say, taking it gently. “Still cute, though.”

His laugh is low, genuine, and it lingers in the air longer than it has any right to. “I’ll take that,” he says, as if the idea of cute has grown on him after all.

The warmth of the crowd folds around you again—children darting past, people admiring bouquets, the faint scent of sugar drifting over from the pastry table—but for a fleeting moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just this small exchange. His hand dusted faintly with pollen, his eyes glinting like amethyst glass.

You take the bloom with a small chuckle, the corners of your mouth curving despite yourself. Heat stirs faintly at your cheeks, an involuntary flush you hope the crowd disguises, though the slight tilt of his gaze tells you he’s noticed. To your relief, he doesn’t pounce on it—no smirk, no teasing quip. Just a quiet patience, as if he’s content to let you collect yourself.

“I do actually love flowers,” you say at last, voice steadying, though your thumb fidgets over the petals resting against your palm. “You’d be surprised. I could probably win against you when it comes to knowing them.”

That earns you something new—a wider smile, the kind that folds softly at the edges of his mouth, that makes his amethyst eyes catch the light. He glances from your face to the flower twisting idly between your fingers, then back again. “Is that so?” his tone is curious, almost indulgent, the way someone might encourage a secret.

Your own grin tugs a little sharper, emboldened by the warmth in his voice. “Is that doubt I’m hearing?”

“Not doubt,” he says lightly, tilting his head toward the surrounding displays. “Just… amusement. Especially since, for someone who claims to be a fan, you don’t seem to be wearing any.” his eyes flick meaningfully—respectfully—across your visible tattoos, the lines and shapes curling over your arms and collarbone, before returning to your face. “No flowers, unless I’ve missed them.”

You shrug, a sheepish smile catching at your lips. “I do have some. Just not where you can see them right away.”

“Ah.” his reply hums low, quiet but teasing, like he’s both accepting your answer and gently prying at the mystery you’ve offered. His gaze lingers for only a moment longer before someone calls his name from across the display, breaking the rhythm between you.

He straightens, slipping back into the role of florist with practiced ease, but before he turns away he meets your eyes once more. “Enjoy the event,” he says, voice softer now, touched with something almost thoughtful. A beat passes, then the faintest curve of his mouth, “I think the flowers suit you.”

And then he’s gone, weaving back into the warm bustle of color and chatter, leaving you with the bloom still turning slowly in your fingers and a quiet flutter in your chest.

The event drifts around you in a pleasant blur, voices weaving through the air like threads of color. You let yourself wander from stall to stall, chatting lightly with a few people who lean in to admire the same bouquets, laughter shared over petals that look too delicate to belong to the real world. At one point, you find yourself tucked into a quieter corner with a small plate of pastries, their sweetness melting on your tongue, light and soft as the hum of the music drifting faintly from somewhere nearby.

The bloom he handed you remains in your grasp, not clutched tightly, but held with the casualness of someone who doesn’t want to set it down. Every so often, your gaze drops to it—violet curling petals brushing against your skin—and a small, involuntary smile stirs at your lips. He had appeared softer than you expected, more charismatic, his teasing so easy and unforced it hadn’t even struck you as out of place. You hadn’t minded at all. If anything, you’d found yourself leaning into it, surprised at how comfortable you’d felt with a stranger you’d barely shared a handful of words with.

Up close, he was prettier, too. That’s the thought you keep circling back to, no matter how many times you try to dismiss it. Prettier in the way his eyes caught light, in the curve of his smile, in the way the calm of the shop and the event seemed to match something intrinsic about him. It’s not that you linger on him—at least, you don’t let yourself—but the impression refuses to fade as easily as it should.

You catch sight of him now and then, moving easily through the crowd, straightening arrangements, laughing softly with customers, his apron faintly dusted with petals and pollen. You don’t stare. You don’t make it a big deal. Instead, you let the moment with him fold back into the day, carrying it like a small surprise tucked into your pocket. A pleasant one, the kind you didn’t expect but don’t want to shake off too quickly.

Before leaving, you make sure to buy a small bouquet, tucking it carefully into your arm alongside a few other little things the event is raising funds for. It feels right—supporting something thoughtful, something warm—and you carry it with you as you step back into the gentler rhythm of the street outside, the violet bloom still twirling idly between your fingers.

————

Life folds back into its rhythm easily enough. The hum of your machine, the muted conversations with clients, the quiet triumph that comes at the end of each session when fresh ink blooms across someone’s skin. Your days are stitched together by this routine, familiar and grounding, and yet you still find space for the little rituals that soften the edges—your visits to the café, the pastries and coffee that anchor your mornings or evenings, depending on when the workday allows.

Passing by the flower shop is inevitable, but you never rush yourself past it. More often than not, your eyes stray toward its windows, catching glimpses of him inside. Sometimes he’s leaning over a counter, his smile soft as he listens to a customer. Other times he’s bent over an arrangement, fingers coaxing stubborn stems into something symmetrical. You don’t linger for long—just a glance, a small smile tugging at your lips before you carry on. But the warmth lingers, tucked neatly into the background of your day like a secret you don’t mind keeping.

One afternoon, spring edging its way into the air, you find yourself at the café again. Today, for once, you don’t reach straight for your usual order. The menu catches your eye, bright with seasonal specials, pastel illustrations promising flavors light and sweet. You’re leaning slightly over the counter, teasing the barista about which pastry pairs better with the new drinks, when a low, familiar voice threads through the air behind you.

“Going adventurous today?” he says, soft enough that it almost blends with the café’s hum. Or maybe it’s not a question at all, but a gentle suggestion—his gaze flicking to the board above you. “That one’s worth a try.”

You turn, caught off guard, and there he is. Close again, closer than the flower shop’s windows ever allow. His apron is gone, but the ease remains, his amethyst eyes holding yours without effort. You muster a small smile, trying not to let it betray the sudden stir in your chest. “Have you actually tried it,” you ask lightly, arching a brow, “or are you just throwing me to the wolves?”

The soft laugh he gives in return is almost unfair—low and warm, like the kind of sound you could easily grow addicted to. You’re glad your back is turned as you glance back at the menu, because something in that laugh unsettles you in the gentlest way, stirring heat just beneath your skin.

You order it anyway, half to test him and half to test yourself. When the drink arrives—soft pink, frothy at the top with slices of strawberry—it feels almost too pretty in your hands. You turn slightly toward him, lifting the cup just enough to tease, “We’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”

He only watches you, amused, his smile softened at the edges. “One of my favorites,” he admits, voice steady and calm, “especially when it’s a good day.” There’s something quietly genuine in the way he says it, like a secret slipped into casual conversation.

You step aside, giving him space to place his order, offering him a polite goodbye paired with a smile before slipping toward the door. Outside, you pause just past the window, curiosity winning as you hold the cup up, its pastel hue catching the light.

A moment later, the door opens behind you, and he steps out, his presence quiet but impossible not to notice. His gaze flicks to the cup in your hands, and his mouth curves with that same amused warmth. “Go on,” he says gently, as though you hadn’t already planned to.

You take a sip, the taste bright and sweet against your tongue, strawberries softened by cream, refreshing in a way you hadn’t expected. Your eyes widen despite yourself, and when they lift to his, the corner of his mouth tips into a laugh—quiet but rich, as if he finds your reaction more telling than words.

Caught, you straighten a little, trying to smooth over the surprise. “Not bad,” you murmur, though the understatement does little to hide your enjoyment.

He’s still smiling, the sound of his laugh lingering between you like the warmth of the drink itself, and for the second time in as many meetings, you find yourself grateful for the way the moment feels both fleeting and quietly unforgettable.

You try to mask the way your reaction lingers on your face, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his smile holds steady, warm without being too much, as he tilts his head slightly toward the drink still poised in your hands.

“Enjoy it,” he says, his voice carrying that same softness as before, threaded with a subtle ease that makes it hard not to believe him. “And… have a good day.”

The words are simple, but they settle warmly in your chest. You nod, offering a small smile of your own before shifting the cup in your grip. “You too.”

For a beat, neither of you rush to move. The air between you feels light, like the faint sweetness clinging to your tongue, like the first signs of spring tucked into the corners of the street. Then he steps past, walking the opposite way, back toward his flower shop.

You watch him go only for a moment before turning away, lifting the straw to your lips again as you head down the street. The drink is sweeter this time, or maybe it’s just the memory of his quiet laugh echoing behind you. Either way, the taste lingers, bright and soft, long after you’ve rounded the corner and the flower shop slips out of sight.

————

In between those familiar notes of everyday life, something new threads its way into your routine. You notice how your steps seem to lighten whenever one of those fleeting moments happens. Passing by the flower shop and catching a glimpse of him through the glass, apron dusted with pollen and ribbons trailing from his fingers. Crossing paths at the café, his voice finding you with a soft tease, his laugh lingering long after you’ve left.

They’re small things, barely enough to hold onto, but they’ve taken root all the same. You catch yourself looking forward to them—those little encounters that always come unannounced, that feel like tiny sparks stitched into the fabric of your days. Maybe it’s admiration, you reason. Admiration for how deeply he loves what he does, for the way his hands move like he was born to arrange petals into something that feels alive. Or maybe it’s something simpler, something closer to the truth. The way his smile is soft but steady, the way his laughter stays with you, the way he looks at you with eyes that seem to gleam even brighter up close. Whatever the reason, you can’t quite shake the warmth he leaves behind.

When your mother’s birthday approaches, you seize the excuse before you can overthink it. A bouquet of flowers—something beautiful, thoughtful, alive. The thought of going to his shop makes your chest stir with a quiet giddiness, a thrill you pretend is only about the gift and not about him. You haven’t stepped inside since that event, and a part of you is curious. You know the arrangements must have changed; he seems like the type who never leaves things the same for long.

The day is warm, sunlight spilling across the street as you make your way down the familiar road. The bell above the flower shop door chimes when you step inside, and the air instantly shifts—cooler, fragrant, threaded with the scent of lilies and roses and something rarer you can’t name. You pause, drawing in a small, steadying breath.

From the back comes his voice, light but carrying easily through the shop. “I’ll be right with you!” You can hear the shuffle of movement, something clinking faintly against glass, and then he appears—hair a little disheveled, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint flush on his cheeks as though he’s been wrestling with stubborn blooms.

The sight almost pulls a laugh from you. He stops short when he sees you, blinking once before his mouth curves into a smile.

“Well,” he says, tilting his head with a quiet sort of amusement. “Didn’t expect you here. To what do I owe the honor?” his tone is teasing, but there’s curiosity threaded beneath it, soft and genuine.

You shrug, trying to play off the warmth that rises at being caught in his gaze. “What can I do for you?” he continues, stepping closer as though he can’t help it.

“I need a bouquet,” you say, glancing at the rows of flowers, their colors painting the shop in every shade imaginable. “It’s my mom’s birthday.”

Something flickers in his eyes at that—pleasure, maybe, or pride at being chosen for something so meaningful. Then his smile turns sly. “And here I thought you only came to challenge me again. Didn’t you once claim you could beat me in a flowers quiz?”

The heat in your cheeks rises before you can stop it. You chuckle, shaking your head as if to deflect. “Did I? I think you need to jog my memory for that.”

“Mm,” he hums, clearly unconvinced, his gaze lingering on your face like he’s enjoying the way you’re caught off guard. His eyes gleam, soft and teasing all at once.

You huff lightly and turn your attention back to the arrangements, tracing the edges of a display with your eyes. “Fine. Then tell me, mister expert—what would you recommend? Something worthy of a birthday gift. Something that says more than just flowers in a vase.”

His lips part into a smile that feels both thoughtful and delighted, and he takes a slow step toward the nearest display, humming softly as he considers the blooms. His hands hover, not yet touching, eyes shining with the kind of ease that only comes from someone who has surrendered themselves completely to what they love.

He takes his time, humming thoughtfully under his breath as his fingers hover over stems and petals, like a pianist deciding which keys to press. At last, he plucks a single bloom free—a pale pink rose, soft and luminous under the shop’s warm light.

“Roses,” he says, his voice calm, thoughtful. “Classic, yes, but pink ones carry grace. Gratitude. Affection. For a mother’s birthday, I’d say that’s a good start.”

He tucks it carefully aside before reaching for something bolder—a sprig of orchids, ivory and delicate. “These,” he continues, almost reverently, “symbolize refinement, strength, beauty. They last longer, too. A little reminder that elegance doesn’t have to fade quickly.”

You watch as he moves with purpose, each flower chosen with the same care you imagine goes into your own sketches, into the ink etched on skin. He isn’t just picking at random—there’s meaning behind each decision, and he carries it in the steady calm of his voice.

“And maybe…” his gaze drifts, settling on a cluster of chrysanthemums, golden and sun-bright. He smiles faintly as he lifts them. “For longevity. Good fortune. A wish that her year ahead will be bright.”

The bouquet begins to take shape in his hands, each stem layered with precision, ribbons of green and white filling the spaces between. He doesn’t rush; he never seems to. Instead, he works like the flowers themselves are speaking to him, and all he has to do is listen closely enough.

You find yourself quiet, caught somewhere between fascination and warmth. It’s in the way his hands move—gentle, deliberate, never careless. In the way his voice carries small truths about colors and meanings, as though flowers aren’t just decoration but something deeper, something alive. You realize you’re watching him too closely, the admiration etched in your gaze before you can hide it.

He looks up at you then, eyes glinting, catching you mid-thought. The corner of his mouth lifts, subtle but knowing. “What do you think?” he asks softly, holding the bouquet at an angle, petals fanned like a painting come to life.

You blink, heat flickering faintly in your chest. “It’s beautiful,” you admit, your voice steadier than you feel. “She’ll love it.”

His smile deepens, quieter this time, but no less warm. “Good,” he murmurs, returning his focus to the flowers as though they alone deserve the weight of his attention. Yet his words linger, threaded with something softer, something you feel as much as hear.

You linger as he works, your eyes tracing the way his hands move with such care, each stem adjusted, each ribbon tied as though it were part of something sacred. He hums faintly under his breath while he arranges, the sound soft and absentminded, and it curls into the quiet air of the shop like another layer of comfort. The sight alone is enough to send a faint pink across your cheeks, subtle but undeniable, a tender contrast to the black of your clothes.

At last, he finishes, holding the bouquet out toward you with a smile that feels warmer than the sunlight spilling through the windows. His eyes catch the light, glinting like gems as he waits for you to take it. You accept it slowly, fingers brushing over the smooth paper wrapping before lifting it closer. The scent is rich and sweet, roses mingling with orchids, chrysanthemums like sunlight woven between them. It’s beautiful—so much more beautiful than you imagined—and when your gaze flicks up, you find his eyes already on you, quiet and watchful.

You’re thankful the bouquet hides half your face, because you’re certain the faint blush creeping higher would betray you. Still, you lower it gently, placing it against the counter so you can rummage in your purse for your wallet. Before you can pull it free, though, his hand moves across the counter—gentle, steady—and brushes faintly against your arm, stilling you.

The touch is light, barely there, but it roots you in place. Your gaze lifts, startled, locking with his.

“It’s on me,” he says softly, his voice carrying a careful steadiness, though you don’t miss the faint flush dusting his cheeks. “You don’t need to pay. Just… tell her happy birthday from me. I hope it makes her day a little brighter.”

Your heart stirs at the words, quickening against your ribs. It’s such a small thing, such a simple gesture, but it sinks into you with the weight of something more. His hand retracts a moment later, leaving behind the ghost of warmth on your arm, and you swallow against the sudden ache of wanting to say something more than just thank you.

But before you can, you realize—you don’t know his name. And he doesn’t know yours. The thought leaves you hesitating, words half-formed on your tongue, until he catches the silence in your expression. A quiet laugh escapes him, low and warm, his head tilting in that thoughtful way of his.

“Rafayel,” he offers, voice touched with amusement. “That’s my name. And you?”

You smile, sly but softened at the edges, slipping your hand out in a gesture that feels both playful and deliberate as you softly tell him your name. His eyes flicker from your face to your hand, lingering there before he reaches out, taking it gently in his. His grip is warm, careful, yet steady, and when his smile matches yours, something quiet stirs in your chest—something that feels like the beginning of a secret you’re not ready to name.

You leave a moment later, bouquet cradled against your arm, but the ghost of his touch lingers as much as the fragrance of the flowers themselves.

It takes you nearly two weeks to find the courage to step back through the flower shop’s door. Not that you’ve avoided it—on the contrary, you’ve passed by more than once, catching glimpses of him bent over arrangements, hair loose around his face, or smiling faintly as he spoke with a customer. But now, knowing his name, it feels different. Rafayel. You’ve turned the name over in your mind more than you’d admit, the syllables smooth and fitting, as though it had always belonged to him. It lingers in your thoughts like the faint perfume of the bouquet he made for your mother, a quiet sweetness that refuses to fade.

This time, though, you don’t come empty-handed. Your sketchbook rests against your palm, pencil tucked neatly inside its spine. Already, your mind hums with half-formed designs—the petals you want to capture, the way stems could curl across a shoulder blade, the delicate shading that might mimic veins in a leaf. His flowers, his arrangements, have settled into your imagination as new fuel, and you can’t ignore the pull to sit among them, to sketch with their scent surrounding you.

The bell chimes when you push the door open, and the familiar cool fragrance washes over you: roses, lilies, something rarer underneath. Rafayel looks up from the counter, where his hands are busy coaxing stems into order, and for a heartbeat, surprise flickers across his face before giving way to a warm smile.

“Well, well.” he says lightly, setting the stems aside as his eyes meet yours. “Back again? Should I be preparing another gift?” his tone is teasing, soft as ever, but it carries a note of genuine curiosity beneath it.

You shake your head, smiling warmly as you lift the sketchbook in your hand. “Not this time.”

His gaze drops to the notebook, and something brightens in his expression—intrigue, amusement, maybe both. “What’s this?” he asks, mouth curving faintly.

“Some inspiration,” you answer, voice steady though your cheeks warm at how intently he’s watching you. “Your flowers are beautiful, and I thought…” you trail off with a small shrug, suddenly self-conscious, but the sincerity remains. “They’d make good designs.”

For the first time since you’ve known him, he falters. His lips part slightly, and you catch the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. It’s subtle, but enough to make your heart skip. Still, he gathers himself quickly, smiling again—softer this time, as though the compliment has truly reached him. “You’re welcome here anytime,” he says, voice quiet, almost timid in a way you hadn’t expected. “Stay as long as you like.”

Did you just fluster him? The thought flickers, incredulous and giddy, and you find yourself admiring how pretty he looks with that pink at his cheeks.

He gestures to a small nook near the window, a spot removed from the flow of customers but still bathed in light. You settle there, sketchbook open, pencil gliding as your eyes trace lines into shapes, blossoms unfurling across the page. The silence between you is companionable—his movements at the counter, the soft snip of scissors and rustle of stems, mingling with the scratch of graphite against paper.

At some point, you glance up. You can’t help it. But instead of catching him bent over his work, you find him already watching you. His expression is curious, softened at the edges, his hands stilled for the first time since you arrived.

“Going to let me see,” he asks lightly, voice threading through the quiet, “or are these meant to stay secret?”

The laugh escapes you before you can stop it, bright and genuine, your pencil poised mid-line. Tilting your head, you meet his gaze with a playful spark. “If you’re that curious,” you tease, a sly smile tugging at your lips, “you’ll just have to come closer and take a look.”

His chuckle is soft, low enough to slip into the quiet of the shop without disturbing it. He sets aside the stems in his hands with an unhurried grace, brushing his palms against his apron before moving toward you. Instinctively, you shift your sketchbook closer to the edge of the table, making space as though inviting him in. When he reaches your side, you gently turn the notebook so it faces him, revealing the latest sketch—the one inspired by the elaborate arrangement in the far corner of the shop, where tall lilies stretch upward between sprays of orchids and clusters of tiny blossoms.

His eyes catch immediately, brightening as they fall over the page. “This is…” he trails softly, fingertips brushing lightly over the paper, careful not to smudge the graphite. The simple touch makes your pulse skip, the gentleness of it stirring something you can’t quite name. Maybe it’s the proximity—how he leans closer, his shoulder brushing faintly near yours—or maybe it’s the way his voice carries genuine awe, unguarded.

“Why this one?” he asks after a beat, tilting his head, curiosity threading his words. “Why that design and not another?”

You swallow softly, your gaze flicking between the sketch and the arrangement across the shop. The answer comes easily, passion slipping into your tone before you can temper it. “Because it has layers. It’s bold, but delicate at the same time. You notice the tall flowers first—the lilies, how striking they are—but then you realize the smaller ones tucked around them are what make the whole thing complete. It’s balance, really. Without one, the other wouldn’t be as beautiful.”

He turns then, and the sun slants through the window just enough to catch his face. The light frames the soft curl of his purple hair, glinting faintly where it falls across his forehead, and his eyes—warm amethyst, gleaming as if he carries the very colors you’ve tried to capture in ink—lock with yours. You force yourself to glance casually back at the page, pretending you aren’t caught by how close he is, by how pretty he looks in this light.

He hums softly at your words, thoughtful, before glancing back down. “Are you an artist of some sort?” he asks, his tone gentle, as though he already suspects the answer but wants to hear it from you.

You smile faintly, lifting one arm just enough to gesture at the ink visible along your skin. “Tattoo artist,” you admit with quiet pride, the word settling easily.

Something in his expression softens, as though the revelation slots something into place for him. “That makes sense,” he says, eyes flicking briefly over the visible tattoos with a glimmer of interest. “Did you do them yourself?”

You shrug, humming lightly. “Some. A few. The rest were done by other artists I trust.”

His curiosity lingers, sparking in the slight tilt of his head. “Which ones are yours?”

Your lips curve into a teasing smile before you can stop yourself, emboldened by the warmth of his attention. “Maybe I’ll show you another time.”

The words hang between you, bolder than you intended, and heat creeps up your neck the second you hear yourself. Yet he doesn’t seem unsettled. If anything, a faint flush colors his cheeks, his gaze dipping for just a breath before returning to yours with quiet composure. He doesn’t push, doesn’t tease back—instead, he lets the moment soften, redirecting his gaze back to your sketch as though the drawing deserves every ounce of his focus. Still, your heart beats faster, thudding in your chest as though the memory of your words refuses to let go.

You sense the boldness of your earlier words still hanging between you, so you clear your throat gently, trying to ease the air before it thickens too much. “The ones I did on myself,” you explain, your voice softer now, “were a long time ago. They’re flawed. A little hidden.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze dips to the sketchbook, his fingers resting on the edge of the page. He glances at you, silent question lingering in his eyes, and you nod with a small smile. Carefully, he turns the sheet, then another, the graphite lines unfolding before him like quiet confessions.

He takes his time. His fingers brush lightly along the borders of certain sketches—flowers curling into intricate shapes, geometric patterns woven with delicate shading, even a serpent caught mid-coil. Every so often, he hums under his breath, a soft sound of thought, of appreciation. There’s no rush in him, no careless flip of the page. He looks at them the way someone looks at art hung in a gallery, intent and unfeigned.

“They’re beautiful,” he murmurs at last, his voice steady but low, like he isn’t sure if he means to say it aloud. His gaze lingers on the lines of a flower sketch as his fingers trace just shy of the graphite. “I’m sure the ones on your skin are too.”

The words catch you off guard, slipping under your ribs before you can guard against them. Heat creeps up your neck, curling at the edges of your ears. You manage a small shrug, clearing your throat again as if that could steady the flutter in your chest. “They are, in their own way. Sure.”

But his fascination doesn’t waver. If anything, it grows, his eyes bright as he studies the designs, quiet awe etched in his expression. You find yourself wondering—not for the first time—what ink would look like across his pale skin, how easily he could wear something bold or delicate. The question hovers on your tongue, but before you can voice it, his own interrupts.

“Red camellias,” he says suddenly, and when you glance up, his head is tilted, eyes warm and curious as they meet yours. “Are they your favorite?”

Your breath catches, heat rising at being caught so easily. Of course he’d notice—you’ve filled page after page with them, their petals layered and lush, their presence undeniable among the rest. You nod, faintly at first, the admission almost shy.

He smiles, faint but genuine. “Why?” he asks simply, though you suspect he already knows the meaning. Still, his tone isn’t testing—it’s open, almost coaxing.

Your chest tightens, your heartbeat stumbling as you look away, unable to hold the weight of his gaze for long. “Because of their meaning,” you say softly, steadying yourself as best you can. “They’re devotion. Deep, passionate love. The kind that lasts. I crave something like that.”

The words fall more honest than you intended, and the admission draws heat to your cheeks again. You glance down quickly, then add, quieter still, “They remind me of my parents, too. My father painted them often. They were his way of loving my mother without words.”

It’s only when the words leave you that you realize how much you’ve revealed, how personal the truth is, and self-consciousness prickles sharp at your skin. You press your lips together, wishing you hadn’t let so much slip.

The moment stretches in silence, your words still hanging between you, and self-consciousness prickles hot against your skin. You lower your gaze, embarrassed at how much you’ve said aloud, but before the weight can settle too heavy, a soft chuckle drifts across the space.

When you look up, he’s still blushing, faint color rising over his cheekbones, but his eyes hold yours without hesitation. “I don’t mind,” Rafayel murmurs, and though the words are simple, there’s sincerity threaded through them, quiet and certain.

Your breath stalls, gaze caught in his. Two pairs of cheeks tinged pink, two heartbeats skipping in tandem, the silence between you less awkward than charged, as though something waits to be spoken if either of you dares.

But before the moment can deepen, the door chimes, and laughter spills in with the arrival of customers. Rafayel blinks, his smile curving softer as he gently closes your sketchbook and places it back into your hands. “Later,” he says quietly, though you’re not sure what he means—later for your sketches, or later for this suspended conversation. Then he rises, shoulders settling into ease as he greets the newcomers, leaving you with the echo of his words and the sound of your own heartbeat rushing in your ears.

You bend back over the page, pencil poised but your focus scattered, the warmth of his blush and the softness of his voice replaying in your thoughts long after.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

#love and deepspace

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs