Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nick hadn’t meant to turn it into a tradition, but the kids noticed when the flowers in the worn vase on his desk changed weekly. It became a little thing that school students and teachers alike knew Mr Nelson for. 

But the grocery store bouquets were starting to feel… lifeless. There was a limited selection, and they were too perfect, too plastic. Not to mention how their price felt wrong for what he was being sold. And it may or may not have been his fault, but they always died fast.

In a late night fit of inspiration, he had bookmarked a florist on his phone a week ago, but he finally decided to tap the map and follow the directions. It was very local– not even a twenty-minute stroll from his little South London flat. 

After walking around like a tourist, somewhere between a laundromat and a textiles store, he found himself staring up at a little, handpainted wooden sign that read: Spring Blooms . The place was quiet, but not abandoned. The shopfront was aged brick, with a faded green trim, front flower boxes overgrown and a little wild. He found himself smiling at a little chalkboard easel with a hand-drawn flower and a little quote. It read “Lavender - peace and devotion”.

Shrugging himself off and tucking his phone into a pocket of his trousers, he walked into the store. The bell above the door gave a soft, chiming ring– like wind in glass bottles. The smell hit him first - fresh cut stems, soft dirt, lavender and warm tea. It didn't look like much from the outside, but inside, it was like stepping into a storybook. Flowers filled every corner, hanging plants swayed gently from the beams, a black cat blinking lazily from a sun patch on the worn brick windowsill.

A vinyl player spun a soft jazz tune in the background. Nearby, a grey cat settled into a basket of brown wrapping paper. There was a boy behind the counter, curled over a notebook twirling a pen in a slender, calloused hand. He looked up when the bell rang—soft blue eyes, a sharp jaw, and a quiet kind of stillness.

Nick blinked. The boy didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod. The kind that said hello without making a sound. He was… cute, in a ragged kind of way. His curly hair was messy, with small flecks of dirt in it, and there was dirt etched under a few fingernails. An old apron hung over an earthy green oversized jumper, rolled up to the elbows, bits hanging out of several pockets. His arms were inked with delicate lines - one looked like a flower, another a small set of leaves. Nick caught the edge of a small semicolon near his wrist, partially hidden by beaded bracelets.

Nick wandered closer to the premade arrangements, letting his fingers hover over a bundle of wildflowers and baby’s breath. The boy stepped out from behind the counter, moving quietly. He didn’t speak– just approached Nick and  gestured to a bouquet that seemed right. Nick pointed to it. 

“This one?” he asked,and the boy nodded once, a small smile ghosting his lips. Nick tenderly picked it up, about to say something, but the boy had already returned to the little counter, taking a sip from a cozy mug and scratching the neck of the silvery-grey long haired cat, who was now sitting on the small pegboard table instead of the paper basket. 

After some time absorbing the atmosphere, Nick walked up to the boy at the counter, passing him the bouquet that he had chosen. He managed to read a little nametag, pinned beside a few others: a “Trans Rights” badge, a gay flag, and a small cat pin. It read: Charlie.

As he wrapped it, Charlie reached for a little tag and scrawled something in neat, tiny, swirly letters: “Gratitude • New Beginnings” He tucked it into the string with practiced fingers then handed the bouquet to Nick like it was something sacred, and rang it up on the old register, Nick passing a few crumpled bills to him.

He smiled at Nick warmly, pressing the change into nicks outstretched hand, calloused fingers lingering for just a moment over his, before turning silently approaching an older woman who greeted him sweetly and warmly. 

Nick hesitated at the door, looking back once. Charlie was already helping the woman wrap the bouquet, focused and slightly bent over the counter. He turned the tag over in his hand as he stepped into the sun, rereading the words like a secret message. 

There was something mystical about the place. About the boy. Quiet, maybe. But unique. He couldn’t help but press the bouquet to his chest and breathe in the soft, organic scent. He wasn’t planning on coming back next week. Not exactly. But he also wasn’t not planning it. 

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It wasn’t like Nick meant to be distracted, but after-school staff meetings were always a bore. The speaking teacher was halfway through a slide about “co-curricular enrichment” when he realised he’d drawn a bellflower in the margin of his notes– one just like the delicate tattoo inked into the forearm of a particularly intriguing individual he’d met recently. 

His gaze drifted from the doodle to the tired, wilting bouquet in the middle of the staff table. He caught himself wondering if it needed replacing... or if he just needed a distraction. Maybe he was overtired. Or maybe he needed a hobby that wasn’t “wondering what flower arrangements say about him emotionally.”

As the meeting dragged on, he decided to fill out his calendar, jotting into his to-do list: “buy biscuits for Friday”, and for reasons unknown, added “Spring Blooms?” just beneath it.

By the time the meeting ended and someone asked for his opinion, he had realised his mind had strayed, wondering if “baby’s breath” meant anything other than “quiet desperation.”

Later that night, Nick curled up on the sofa, tea in one hand, phone in the other, while the low hum of the city seeped through the slightly open window. He’d already taken the bouquet to class that morning; the children had cooed over it, their sweet voices still echoing in his head.

Only the string, the tag, and a few crumpled leaves remained on the dining table—evidence of something he couldn’t quite let go of.

He hadn’t meant to open his Instagram. In fact, he’d told himself he was trying to cut back. But somewhere between checking the weather and texting his coworker, his fingers had wandered, and before he knew it, he was tapping the little magnifying glass and typing “Spring Blooms South London”.

The account wasn’t easy to find—no ad campaigns, no flashy branding. Just tagged posts from satisfied customers. His finger hovered over the icon for a full minute, heart beating with the kind of hesitation he usually reserved for actual confessions. The page wasn’t flashy, but was sweet, in a way. Just flower shots, snapshots of sunlight and old bricks, blurry cat photos, the occasional hand tying a ribbon.

Some selfies in mirrors that were more plant than person. And then one, buried halfway down: The boy, Charlie, with a dandelion tucked behind his ear, eyes half-lidded like he’d just woken up from a nap in the sun. Nick double-tapped it without thinking, then immediately panicked and unliked it. What was he doing, liking some old selfie?

He set his phone down for a second, pressing palms into eyes, then picked it up again, liking the photo once more.He was grinning. And he hated how much it showed. With a dramatic sigh, he surrendered to the spiral.

Photos of bouquets with tiny handwritten tags, like secrets tucked into petals. He found himself wondering if Charlie wrote all of them. If he made them up on the spot. If he chose them carefully, imagining who might need to hear them. 

The memory of calloused fingers brushing his hand sparked through him like static. Focus , he told himself. You didn’t even talk to him properly. Nick scolded himself for getting too twisted into contemplating what it all meant. His students talked about a flower-boyfriend… he was single, and this boy…

“He’s just a florist” Nick muttered to no one in particular, “and you're just a guy who buys flowers sometimes. THis isn't anything. Chill.”

Throwing his phone onto the couch with a huff, he stood, walking over to the dining table and picking up the tag, still attached to the bit of string Charlie had knotted so carefully. “Gratitude • New Beginnings,” it still read, in that same neat handwriting. Nick found himself reading it over and over again, as if the words would change.

He didn't know what kind of person saved flower tags.. But he didn’t throw it away either. Holding it gingerly, he brought it up to his nose, and breathing it in, he swore he could feel a faint odour of earth and sandalwood. 

Instead, he crossed the kitchen and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a bee, next to a photo of his class that year and a badly spelled thank you note from one of his students. “Not going back,” he told the fridge. “Definitely not. Not for a week. At least. ” 

He knew that if the fridge could talk, it’d tell him he was lying.

 It was just.. This boy– so mysterious, and intriguing. And when he crawled into bed that night, he saw calloused hands and lavender stems every time he closed his eyes.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

It's not that he meant to pass by. Nick had absolutely zero reason to walk the extra three blocks out of his way. He wasn’t running errands. He didn’t need groceries. No, he was just… conveniently heading in the same direction as Spring Blooms. Three days after his last visit. With nothing particular on his schedule. And sure, he may have taken a slight detour from the tube. For a walk. For his health.

And if he’d checked the shop’s Instagram to see if they were open, that didn’t count.

Just a guy buying flowers.

For the staffroom.

Because the old bouquet had finally wilted fully. And maybe he’d kind of liked the way Charlie had chosen them– so deliberate and off-centre and alive. Nothing like the sterile supermarket bundles that came pre-packed and suffocated in plastic. This wasn’t a crush. It was aesthetic admiration. Emotional floristry. Normal things.

Still, his feet seemed to take him there without much prompting, and he kept his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn coat, trying to play it cool with himself. Just casual. A casual walk home on a slightly chilly afternoon. Just casually buying some new flowers for the staff room. The ones there were basically compost. It was a civic duty, really.

Just.. casually interested in who was working.

The shop came into view around the corner like it always had, tucked between the laundromat and the seamstress’s storefront. The sign hadn’t changed. The chalkboard easel was still out front, today’s flower of the day scrawled in soft purple chalk: Peony– bashfulness and compassion. Nick couldn’t help but smile. It felt like the shop gave him a message every time he passed.

He hesitated only a second before pushing open the door.

The bell above the entrance chimed that soft, familiar song– like wind in glass bottles. The warmth of the shop welcomed him instantly, all lavender and damp earth and something gently herbal in the air. The jazz record was spinning again– different track, but same mellow rhythm that made him feel like time moved differently inside this place.

Charlie was at the counter again.

This time, he was trimming stems at a low table behind the register, long fingers careful and precise. A bundle of tulips, pale pink and orange, sat to one side, a thin trail of discarded leaves and clipped ends fanned out like a soft green explosion.

He didn’t speak– Nick hadn’t expected him to. But he looked up at the bell, then at Nick, and gave a nod. A different kind of smile today. Slightly wider. Enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the softest, faintest dimples appear in his cheeks. Nick didn’t know why it wrecked him, but it did.

Charlie’s curls were more chaotic today, soft brown with golden strands catching the afternoon light, like the sun had brushed through them. His jumper was the same earthy green as before, the same old apron with mysterious flecks of soil and little things sticking out of the pockets– twine, scissors, a spoon? His sleeves were rolled to his elbows again, exposing pale forearms and the subtle lattice of old scars. Most were faint, scattered like a history no one ever asked about– but one or two stood out, thin and white and clearly not that old.

Nick’s heart made a strange movement in his chest. He looked away– quick, like he’d intruded on something private– but the image had already pressed itself into the soft part of his brain. He didn’t know why it made him feel protective. Or tender. Or so, so aware of the small weight in his throat.

Charlie looked up at the bell, then at Nick. No surprise in his face. Just recognition. That same small smile from before, only this time it bloomed– wider, more relaxed. It crinkled at the corners of his eyes and pulled soft dimples into his cheeks, and Nick–

Nick short-circuited.

His thoughts scrambled like eggs in a too-hot pan.

He swallowed, hard. Why was it hotter in here? Why did his pulse feel like a bass drum? He jammed his hands into his pockets, tried to play it cool.

“Hey,” he said, voice squeaking just slightly. “I, uh, figured the staffroom needed a refresh.”

Charlie didn’t say anything– he never did. But he nodded with a softness Nick had started to read like a full sentence. A knowing nod. A you’re back nod. A maybe-I’m-glad nod.

Charlie raised a brow, clearly amused, and made a soft gesture with his head toward the pre-made arrangements. No words, but it was warm– welcoming, even.

As Nick wandered toward them, another customer entered– a flustered young woman in a denim jacket, breathing slightly fast, gripping her phone like it was keeping her tethered. Charlie glanced over, spotted her, and gave a soft wave. She immediately relaxed, exhaling with visible relief.

He approached her, expression changing.

There was a gentleness to him when he moved. Not hesitant, but softened. Like he was careful not to disturb the quiet magic of the shop. He held out his hand, and she passed him her phone, which had a photo of a bouquet on it.

Nick watched, pretending to examine a bunch of anemones, but really just... observing.

Charlie studied the photo, then nodded once. He turned, grabbed a little notepad from behind the register, and scribbled something. The girl nodded back, smiled brightly now, and visibly relaxed again. Charlie handed her a bouquet wrapped in pale yellow paper, tied with a pink silk ribbon. It wasn’t the same as the photo– but it was better. Warmer. Realer.

She beamed at him, whispered, “Thank you,” like he was a miracle worker, and left with a bounce in her step.

Nick felt his chest tighten. There was something about watching him– this quiet, steady rhythm of kindness and care– that made his heart feel like it was trying to crawl higher in his chest.

Charlie turned back to him with a questioning tilt of the head.

Nick blinked, realising he was still hovering awkwardly, and quickly gestured to one of the bouquets– a bright, loosely gathered arrangement of snapdragons, daisies, and cornflowers.

Charlie gave him a nod, then stepped over to the counter. Nick followed, bouquet in hand, suddenly self-conscious about how ridiculous this might seem. Coming back already. Watching the boy talk with flowers.

He passed the bouquet across, and Charlie took it with that same gentle reverence, like every arrangement was something sacred. As he wrapped it in soft brown paper, he reached for a little tag. Nick caught the calligraphy this time as Charlie wrote it:

“Strength • Patience • Warmth”

Charlie tucked it into the twine with care and slid the bouquet toward Nick like a gift.

Nick offered cash again, this time smoother, and Charlie pressed the change into his hand– warm skin brushing his for just a second too long. Just enough to short-circuit Nick’s brain. Again.

Charlie tilted his head, a little question in his eyes.

“I, um,” Nick cleared his throat, “the bouquet’s for the staff table. They’re gonna love it.”

Charlie smiled again. That dimpled, crinkled smile. Nick’s knees almost buckled. He took a half-step back toward the door. “Thanks. Again. See you– probably next week. Maybe.” Charlie gave a soft nod. A wave. That same warm silence.

Nick stepped outside into the breeze, heart full of petals and calluses and quiet. Nick cradled the bouquet like it might fall apart if he breathed too hard. His heart was ridiculous. His thoughts were melting into petals. He walked the long way home, because it felt right.

And when he got there, he tucked the new tag beside the last one on the fridge.  And when he got home, the staff bouquet tucked safely in his bag, he set the tag on the counter again. Read it twice. Then carefully, reverently, stuck it to the fridge beneath the first. A quiet little shrine of softness.

He knew this was stupid. But that didn’t stop him from smiling like an idiot as he stared at it.

He hadn’t heard Charlie speak. Not a word. Not a laugh.

But Nick was already a little bit ruined.

Chapter Text

Nick didn’t think it was a routine. But here he was again– sun just rising, the street rich with damp earth and some elusive floral trace, like it knew where he was headed. Nick told himself this was just about his weekly flowers– for the kids, for the classroom, for the vibe. He did the same thing with the grocery store flowers, so how could this be any different?

With swift steps, he passed into the small street, a familiar flutter working its way into his chest as the faded green storefront came into view. Despite it not even being nine, the cute chalkboard sign was out, and the warm lamps cast a comfortable glow onto the wet and shiny pavement.

He wasn’t expecting anything, really. Just… holding out a quiet sort of anticipation. He was here for some flowers, after all, not a particular person. As he pushed open the heavy door, the chime rang above him like a memory. It smelled the same– herbs, wet earth and some vague florals that he couldn't quite distinguish yet.

A cat strolled along the floor, another walking on the counter. The boy behind the counter didn't even look up at first, but Nick noticed the soft slope of his shoulders, as he worked on something in front of him. The record player was playing a softer album today, though not the jazz or folk that Nick was acclimatised to.

Nick's fingers tightened around the strap of his school tote bag as he stepped inside, suddenly more nervous than he meant to be. Once he set foot inside, Charlie’s head lifted, and he nodded with a look of recognition.

“Hi,” Nick offered, voice light. “I thought I’d introduce myself, coming here.. The third time. I’m Nick.” The boy didn't speak, but his expression shifted a little, a small smile. It took a few minutes for Nick to figure out what he was actually going to do, continually getting distracted by Charlie as he moved, gentle and precise, plucking loose blooms from little baskets with some kind of purpose like he was selecting brushstrokes for a painting.

There was a strange calm in the silence between them– not awkward, not cold. Just… quiet. As much as Nick thought he would be unsettled or confused, this boy didn’t even seem to need the verbal communication, and Nick didn't feel that a huge chunk of interaction was missing.

Charlie approached him some moments later, him still standing by the door. He expected a nod, maybe words. Instead, he got a tug on the sleeve, Charlie's hands full with a bouquet. The flowers came together fast: soft yellows, dusty pinks, and a singular, snow white tulip in the middle. He gingerly wrapped it in paper, writing something on the tag– quick, neat, and unmistakable personal.

Nick couldn't help but feel a tingle as Charlie held out the bouquet like a small offering, giving a small half smile, silent and soft. He took it slowly, trying to ignore the static that danced up his skin when their fingers brushed. He held it careful, like it might dissolve in his hands.

“Thanks,” he said, voice feeling softer than what he was used to “I’m sure my students will love this week’s one.” Charlie offered another small smile and shrug, the tiniest glimpse of a dimple appearing, making Nick almost melt.

“He’s a good one,” came a voice just behind Nick, all warmth and laugh lines. He turned to face an older woman, one who he recognised. She had introduced herself as Ms. Henley last time they had a run in. Ms Henley smelled like lavender and old paper, arms filled with flowers she seemed to know by name.

Nick was silent for a second, waiting for her to continue.

“He picked yours? That’s rare. Usually he lets people fumble through and helps in the end.” Nick felt his face flush a little pink in disbelief. What was that supposed to mean?

She continued. “If you want to become a regular, there’s a few things you should know. Don’t ask about the greenhouse. And those flowers in the window– storm blooms, we call them. They say he only sells them after it rains. Noone knows where they come from, but they seem to sell out faster than they appear. Her voice was soft and almost conspiratorial, as if she was sharing folklore.

“And you see the white tulip in your bouquet? It’s a little thing that we locals think Charlie does on purpose, but its said that opening up while holding the flower helps you release any emotions. If you confess something while holding it, it's protected. He might be onto something, young man.”

Nick stared at the tulip in silence for a few minutes, trying to understand what Charlie was trying to tell him through his flower language. To him, it was clear that Charlie’s communication transcended the verbal level– that he shared emotions and messages through neatly scrawled notes and the faintest gestures and expressions. He looked back at Ms Henley, who had turned back to look at Charlie.

“Doesn't say much, that one. Even old me with all my years here has only heard his voice a few times. But he’s all heart, I assure you. Once you get to know him…” She patted his arm with a knowing grin. “You’ll be back. They always come back.”

Nick couldn't help but glance between the two of them and his white tulip placed carefully in the centre of the bouquet. He left like a kid being told a bedtime story, all magic and stories woven in some abstract truths, but the conversation left him with more questions than answers– and an inexplicable warmth in his chest.

He approached Charlie, holding the bought flowers close to his chest. “Charlie..?” His voice was gentle and cautious. Charlie turned his back, releasing a hand off of the black cat who he had been scratching. He cocked his head slightly, showing his engagement.

“The tulip… Ms Henley told me they were for opening up and confessions?” Charlie said nothing, as expected, but gave him a knowing smile, simply retucking the little tag on the string snugly back, before turning back to the cat. Nick stood for a few seconds, still trying to process, eventually thanking him out loud and turning on his heel, heading off to the tube and to school, holding the bouquet like it held something more than flowers.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick dropped his bag in the hallway and made straight for the kitchen, the tag still clutched tightly between his fingers– creased and slightly damp from being turned over in his palm again and again on the way home. He could still smell the faint trace of roses and something citrusy on it. He set it gently on the kitchen bench, next to the bowl of oranges and half a loaf of bread.

He stood there for a minute, staring at the tag like it might say more if he looked hard enough. Then he pulled out his phone, hesitated, and tapped his mum’s contact.

It rang. Once. Twice.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Sarah answered, her voice light and familiar. “Everything alright?”

Nick opened his mouth. Closed it. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice coming out a bit hoarse. “Yeah, I just… wanted to talk to you.”

A pause. She softened instantly. “Okay. I’m here, Nicky. What’s going on?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to even begin. “There’s this boy,” he said after a beat. “Charlie.”

“Oh,” Sarah said, something fond blooming in her voice. “Alright. Tell me about him.”

Nick let out a breath, then walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, one leg tucked under the other. “We’ve only met a few times. Like– three. But I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s different.”

“Different how?”

Nick thought about the cafe table. The flowers. The exact way Charlie had arranged them– sunflowers and freesia, some wild sprigs of something purply-pink, and a note that said simply thank you for being kind . He remembered the way Charlie had looked at him, not shy exactly, but cautious. Intent.

“He doesn’t talk,” Nick said eventually. “Not out loud. I’m not even sure if he can. I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t want to– I just… I don’t know.”

Sarah’s end of the line was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “How does he communicate?”

Nick smiled faintly. “He signs sometimes. And he writes. And– he just has this way of being. Like I always know what he’s trying to say, even when he doesn’t say it.”

“That’s a rare connection, love.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, staring up at the ceiling. “It feels… kind of amazing. I’ve never had that with someone before. It’s like he sees straight through me. And he doesn’t expect anything.”

Sarah hummed softly. “That sounds like someone who’s spent a long time not being understood.”

Nick’s heart twinged at that. “Yeah. I think he has.”

Another pause. Then Sarah’s voice, soft and curious, “What’s he like?”

“He’s a florist,” Nick said, smiling more now. “He made me this bouquet the other day. Real flowers. Said it was to thank me. I didn’t even think I’d done anything worth thanking.”

“You probably did more than you realize.”

Nick exhaled slowly. “He makes things beautiful. Even the way he ties ribbon or arranges petals– it’s like watching someone put the world back together.”

He paused, then added quietly, “He has scars. On his forearms. I didn’t want to stare or make him uncomfortable, but I noticed. I think he saw me see them, and… he kind of smiled. Not like he was proud. More like… relieved. Or seen. And he went a bit pink.”

Sarah was quiet again, and then: “That’s trust, Nicky. That’s someone letting you in.”

Nick nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to make it about that. But I keep thinking about how carefully he held the flowers. How gentle he is with them. Like he’s scared to bruise anything delicate.”

“Maybe he’s learning he doesn’t have to handle himself so delicately anymore,” Sarah said softly. “Maybe you’re helping with that.”

Nick felt something warm lodge itself behind his ribs.

“I just… I wanted to tell you about him. I wasn’t sure when the right time was.”

“Well,” Sarah said, gently teasing, “if he’s got you on the phone with your mum talking about flowers and feelings, I’d say now’s a pretty good time.”

Nick laughed, relieved. “You’re not weirded out? By the not-talking thing?”

“Oh, love. Of course not.” Her voice turned even softer. “If anything, I think it makes me want to know him more.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Mutism– selective or otherwise– can be complicated. People aren’t quiet because they have nothing to say. Usually, it’s the opposite. They’ve got too much to say, but not enough safety to say it out loud.”

Nick stared at the little card again. The careful lettering. The blush in Charlie’s cheeks when Nick read it and smiled back.

“I guess I just don’t know how to be there for him yet,” he said, quieter now. “Like, I want to. I want him to know I care. But I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sarah said. “You are . You already are. You’ve seen him. You’ve listened in the way he needs to be listened to. And you’re not trying to change him or make him fit into some easier version of himself. That’s more than most people do.”

Nick let his head tip back on the couch. “I just keep hoping he knows I’m not expecting him to be any different.”

“I think he knows. You don’t have to talk to understand someone, Nicky. You just have to show up for them. And from everything you’ve said… I think he’s showing up for you, too.”

He thought of the flowers again, still in a mason jar on his windowsill. He watered them every day. He hadn’t even told Charlie that, but it felt like something sacred. Quiet and his.

“I don’t know where it’s going,” he admitted. “It’s all kind of new. And I don’t want to scare him off by rushing.”

“You won’t,” she said. “Go slow. Let him lead if he needs to. And remember– connection doesn’t always start with words. It can be as small as sitting next to someone and not needing to fill the silence.”

He thought of Charlie’s hand brushing his on the table. Of the moment he looked up, smiling at something Nick had done, without saying a word.

“Yeah,” Nick murmured. “I think he’d agree with that.”

There was another gentle beat of quiet.

Sarah added, “I’d love to meet him one day. No pressure. Just… if and when he’s ready.”

Nick smiled. “I think he’d like you. You’d like him too. He’s… he’s not what I expected, but he’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

“I’m happy for you,” Sarah said, voice thick with warmth. “Really. And I’m proud of you.”

Nick blinked at the sudden sting behind his eyes.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Get some rest, sweetheart. And tell Charlie he has excellent taste in flowers.”

Nick laughed, the sound soft and surprised. “I will.”

“Night, Nicky.”

“Night, Mum.”

He hung up and set the phone down beside him, still holding the tag. Then, slowly, he turned toward the window where the last of the sunlight caught the petals Charlie had so carefully chosen.

He tenderly set down the tag, before going off to bed, only to dream of a future with this mystery boy in it.

Chapter Text

The bell above the florist door chimed like it always did, soft and almost sleepy. Nick stepped inside, scarf unwound and hair still ruffled from the wind, the chill outside dissolving into the soft warmth of blooms and damp earth.

He took a breath in. It smelled like lilacs today. And eucalyptus, maybe.

Ms Henley was by the shelves near the window, carefully inspecting a pot of hyacinths with the reverence of someone choosing a name for a newborn. She looked up as the door closed behind him.

“Nick,” she greeted with a smile. “You’re right on time.”

“Hey, Ms Henley.” He gave a little wave, adjusting his backpack. “You know me. Creature of habit.”

She made a small, knowing noise. “Charles’ in the back. Been working on something all morning, I think it’s for you.”

Nick blinked. “Really?”

She just smiled, like that explained everything.

Before Nick could ask more, he heard the soft rustle of foliage, and Charlie appeared from the workroom behind the counter. His apron was creased and faintly dusted with pollen, and he had a small bit of ribbon caught in his sleeve. He looked up, saw Nick– and smiled.

It was small, but bright. The kind of smile that made Nick’s chest flutter unexpectedly.

Charlie crossed the shop floor and held out a bouquet, wrapped loosely in recycled brown paper, with his usual earthy-chaotic charm– yellows and purples and soft wildflowers peeking out in all directions. He handed it to Nick, then offered a small notepad.

Nick took both carefully. The note read:

“Thought of your students when I made this. Hope they like it.”

Nick blinked, then looked up again, smiling a little too wide. “You made this for them?”

Charlie gave a small nod, a slight dimple appearing on one side. He tapped the edge of the bouquet lightly, as if to say yes, this one’s special .

“They’re going to freak out. In a good way.” Nick held it up slightly, admiring it. “I’ve got one kid who insists yellow is a ‘silly colour’ but I think this’ll convert him.”

Charlie let out a breathy, soundless laugh, shoulders shaking a little, then gestured a playful who knows? shrug.

“You’re making me look too cool, you know,” Nick added. “They already think I’m a wizard for knowing how to tie my shoes with one hand.”

Charlie tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, like really? , then made a mock-clapping gesture, amused.

Nick was still laughing when he remembered he hadn’t paid yet. He started fishing out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

Charlie quickly shook his head and waved a hand as if batting the question away.

Nick frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Charlie nodded once, firmly. Then, after a pause, he scribbled on the notepad again.

“Thanks for coming every week.”

That hit Nick square in the chest.

He looked down at the words, then up again. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he said, voice softer now. “But I’ll say– you’re kind of the highlight of my week.”

Charlie ducked his head, face going a little pink, and turned to rearrange a bucket of daffodils that didn’t need rearranging. Nick stood there a moment longer, heart annoyingly loud in his ears.

“Alright. I’ll see you next week, yeah?” he said.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder and nodded once, his expression unreadable but not cold. Nick lingered a second too long, then finally turned and left, bouquet in hand, cheeks warm.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick found a seat on the train and settled in, carefully resting the bouquet on his lap like it was something fragile and sacred. The petals swayed gently with the movement of the carriage, and he watched the sunlight catch on the curve of a daisy’s stem. It was so stupidly pretty. Like, unfairly pretty. Like Charlie pretty.

He pulled out his phone, snapped a quick photo from above– soft yellows, pale lilacs, bursts of wildflower– and sent it to his mum with a quick caption:

Nick:
Look what Charlie made for my class this week.

The typing dots appeared almost instantly. She never ignored flower pictures.

Mum:
Oh Nick, it’s beautiful! He’s got such a good eye. Did he make it just for you??

He paused, then typed carefully.

Nick:
Yeah. Said he thought of my students when he made it.

Mum:
That’s so sweet. How are you going with his quietness? Is it hard to talk with him still?

Nick leaned his head against the window, watching trees blur past.

Nick:
Honestly? I kind of forget he doesn’t talk.

He hesitated, thumb hovering, then kept going.

Nick:
It’s like… he listens with his whole body. Not just when you speak, but even when you’re thinking. Like he already knows what you meant. He’ll nod or tilt his head or smile like he’s speaking back, just not with words.

Nick:
And sometimes I swear he talks with his eyes. Or his hands. Or his eyebrows.

He grinned to himself.

Nick:
Also his dimples scramble my brain, so that might be a factor.

There was a beat of silence. Then– 

Mum:
Oh Nicholas. I think you like him.

He laughed quietly under his breath, locking his phone and staring down at the flowers again.

Yeah. Maybe he did.

Nick unlocked his classroom with a quiet yawn, the soft weight of the bouquet still nestled in his arm. He set his bag down, walked over to the little vase on his desk, and gently removed last week's flowers– now a little wilted, edges browned but still smelling faintly of green and sweetness.

He laid them aside to sort– some of the sturdier ones he'd press between wax paper with his class later, and the others he'd carry out to the compost bin by the veggie patch. But first– 

The new bunch. Today’s gift from Charlie.

Nick placed them carefully into the vase, adjusting the angle just slightly so the softer lavender stems tucked around the daisies, the way Charlie had shown him once. He caught himself smiling like a fool and cleared his throat, glancing toward the classroom door– like maybe someone had seen him being so annoyingly gentle with a bunch of flowers.

He was halfway through rearranging some of the display boards when he heard the door creak open early. A pair of bright shoes and messy hair appeared in the gap.

“Mister Nelsonnnnn!” came the dramatic call, followed by a very enthusiastic year two named Ellie.

“Hey, Ellie,” Nick said, turning with a grin. “You’re early.”

“I ran,” she said proudly, and climbed straight into the chair by his desk, folding her knees under her like she lived there. Her eyes went wide when she spotted the flowers.

“ Whoa. ”

Nick couldn’t help the laugh. “What d’you think?”

She leaned forward and sniffed deeply. “It smells like a princess picnic.”

“A what?”

“A princess picnic, ” she repeated, like it was obvious. “Like if princesses had tea outside but the tea was actually lemonade, and they had, like… raspberry pie and butterflies flying all around. That’s what this smells like.”

Nick leaned on the desk beside her. “That’s a pretty good review.”

Her little fingers hovered just above the petals, not touching them, just sort of admiring with awe. “Did you make it? Or did your mum? Or a flower wizard?”

Nick bit his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “A friend made it.”

“Is your friend a flower wizard?”

“Maybe. He’s pretty magic.”

Ellie turned in the chair, her feet swinging as she looked up at him, expression very serious. “Do you think he’d teach me flower magic too?”

Nick looked at the blooms, then back at her. “Y’know what? I bet he’d like that idea.”

“Good,” she said, nodding once. “’Cause I wanna grow a rainbow garden and make bees come live in it and not be mean.”

Nick blinked at her. “That’s probably the nicest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Ellie beamed, content, and turned back to the flowers, mumbling something about how “even the stems look happy.”

By the time the bell rang properly, Nick barely had time to finish pinning the "What Kindness Looks Like" poster to the wall before the classroom was flooded with noise.

Backpacks hit the cubbies in a frenzy. Shoes squeaked. A chorus of greetings rang out, overlapping and half-shouted:
“Hi Mr Nelson!”
“Mr Nelson, guess what!”
“Mr Nelson I lost my tooth but then I swallowed it– do you think that still counts?”
“Mr Nelson look I made a bug hotel out of egg cartons and glue and grass!”

Nick raised his hands like a traffic conductor. “Alright, alright! Deep breath, everyone– like we practiced. In through your nose…”

A few kids followed along, but one boy kept making loud, fake sniffing noises until another told him he was going to suck up his own brain. Nick arched an eyebrow but bit back a smile.

“Let’s all settle down so we don’t lose any brains today, yeah?”

Once the class had mostly sat, some wiggling in their seats, others still mid-story, Nick crouched next to one of the quieter kids– Amara– who had started to draw her weekend on the back of her worksheet.

“You went to the aquarium?” he asked, pointing at a wobbly blue shark.

She nodded solemnly. “The stingray tried to kiss the glass.”

“Rude of him.”

“I told him I was six.”

Nick grinned. “Good boundary setting.”

Across the room, a crash of blocks fell over. Two boys immediately shouted, “ It was an accident! ” before either of them had even stood up.

Nick gave them a look over his shoulder. “Let’s try using our whisper voices when confessing to minor disasters.”

Ten minutes later, one kid was crying because someone had stepped on her drawing, two others were trying to form a band with the tambourine and a ukulele from the music corner, and someone had snuck a worm in from the garden and named it “Professor Slimy.”

Nick, kneeling by the reading nook, looked up at the chaos with the kind of calm that came from deep, earned resignation. “Alright, class meeting on the rug in five– no, four minutes. Everyone bring your best sitting bottom and not your wildest worm.”

“But Professor Slimy– ”

“Is excused from the meeting.”

“Aw, man.”

He got them sitting eventually, legs crossed, hands mostly to themselves. He pulled out the storybook of the week– The Tiger Who Came to Tea – and let them lean into the routine of listening. One kid was gently braiding the hair of the person in front of her. Another was sneakily trying to sign the alphabet to herself (Nick had no idea where she'd learned that, but he made a mental note to ask).

As he read, voices softened. Wiggles calmed. And by the time he got to the final page, several heads had tilted onto their arms, the noise of the morning faded into a soft buzz of safety.

Nick closed the book, smiling to himself as he looked around. “Alright, who’s ready to write about what they’d do if a tiger came to school?”

One hand shot up. “I’d teach him math.”

Another: “I’d show him Professor Slimy!”

A third, already scribbling: “I’d ride him into battle.”

Nick blinked. “…okay, maybe let’s start with a drawing first.”

Nick was halfway through helping a student glue googly eyes onto a cardboard castle when the door creaked open and another teacher leaned against the frame.

“Nice bouquet today,” said Mr. Owens from Year 5, giving an exaggerated sniff and raising his brows. “Is that eucalyptus and…peonies?”

Nick glanced up, hands still sticky with PVA glue. “Yeah, I think so. And maybe waxflower?”

Mr. Owens let out a mock gasp. “My god. Mr. Nelson. You’re learning names.”

Nick rolled his eyes but grinned. “I live in a classroom full of encyclopedic seven-year-olds. They told me if I didn’t know what billy buttons were, I wasn’t allowed to teach anymore.”

Owens chuckled, stepping further in and tilting his head toward the vase on Nick’s desk. The new arrangement sat proud and neat, wrapped in paper, clearly fresh. “It’s always something different. Must have one hell of a florist.”

Nick turned slightly pink. “Just a local shop.”

“Oh, sure.” Owens smirked. “And I suppose the florist just happens to make a custom bouquet every week, right on time for your Monday morning?”

Nick shrugged, feigning casualness while trying to scrape dried glue off his fingers. “It’s a small shop. Friendly.”

Owens squinted at him. “Friendly. Got it. Mysterious flower boy remains a mystery.”

“ He’s not– ” Nick cut himself off, flustered now. “He’s just quiet. I mean, he’s…nice.”

“Nice,” Owens repeated, clearly enjoying himself. “That explains the dimples you try not to look at.”

Nick gave him a helpless glare as he stacked the art trays to distract himself. “We’re not doing this.”

“We already are.”

Nick huffed, but his smile tugged anyway. He leaned against the desk, watching as a stray glitter trail shimmered in the carpet.

Owens sobered slightly, voice lowering. “Seriously though. They’re always beautiful. I noticed the one last week had little daisies tucked in– kids loved it.”

Nick nodded, the teasing easing into something warm in his chest. “He said it was ‘kid safe.’ No pollen bombs.”

“And the handwriting on that last tag? That’s definitely not yours.”

Nick’s cheeks warmed again. “He sometimes writes little notes. Just…like, about the arrangement. Or a joke. One time he drew a tiny bat and called it a ‘vampire tulip.’ The kids lost their minds.”

Owens snorted. “You’ve got a fan.”

Nick smiled, almost shy now, turning back toward the vase. The petals were open just enough to give the room colour. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Maybe I do.”

The staffroom was buzzing with the usual Monday noise: spoons clinking against mugs, someone reheating soup in the microwave, and the low hum of a dozen tired teachers trying to decompress before the afternoon bell.

Nick sat at the end of the big table with his lunch– a mismatched container of pasta and a squashed banana– when Allan Owens plopped into the seat across from him, biting into a sausage roll like he hadn’t eaten all day.

“So,” Allan said between chews, “any new flowers today, or does your mysterious florist wait for Tuesdays to sweep you off your feet?”

Nick, already mid-sip of his tea, nearly choked.

“Jesus, Allan,” he muttered, lowering his mug. “Not this again.”

“Can’t help it,” Owens grinned. “You’re blushing before I even say anything.”

“He does,” chimed in Miss Rachel, the art teacher, sliding onto the bench with a salad and an amused glint in her eye. “Every Monday. It’s clockwork. We should start a betting pool on what kind of arrangement Nick gets next.”

“No gambling in schools,” said Mark, the PE teacher, deadpan as he opened his protein bar. “But if we were taking bets, my money’s on ranunculus next week.”

Nick let out a loud, drawn-out groan and dropped his head onto the table with a dramatic thunk.

Miss Rachel laughed. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not like that,” Nick mumbled into the table, voice muffled. “He’s just– he’s quiet. And nice. And I like the flowers, alright?”

“Quiet and nice,” Allan repeated, mock-swooning. “Truly the two most romantic adjectives.”

Someone else– Jules, from admin– poked their head in. “Are we talking about Nick’s florist again?”

Nick groaned louder.

Miss Rachel leaned over to pat his back. “You’re glowing. It’s sweet.”

“I’m glowing because I’m dying of shame, ” Nick said, lifting his head and scowling good-naturedly. “You lot are vultures.”

“We’re educators, ” Allan corrected. “We see a love story blooming in our midst and we nurture it.”

“I’m going to throw my banana at you.”

Allan raised his sausage roll in a peace offering. “I’ll back off– for now. But when you’re inviting us all to the wedding, I’m expecting centrepieces.”

Nick just laughed helplessly, cheeks still pink as he dug his spoon into the pasta, muttering something about changing staffrooms.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

By the time the final bell rang, Nick’s voice was hoarse and his shirt sleeves were smudged with whiteboard ink and glitter. He watched as the last of his students were collected, waving tiredly to a few parents and gently herding the stragglers toward the yard. The classroom finally fell still, save for the distant sounds of basketballs thudding on concrete and a recorder being massacred in the music room.

He moved to his desk and glanced at the little bouquet still sitting in the vase– bright, cheerful, the petals just starting to open more fully now that the sun had shifted. He carefully picked one flower out– a small coral carnation– and wrapped the stem in damp paper towel and foil to protect it.

“To take home,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “You’re too pretty for the compost.”

The rest of the bunch, still full of life but already starting to wilt at the edges, he carried to the school’s garden compost bin. A few still-bright ones were gently placed between tissue paper in his flower press, set to join the ever-growing collection of dried pieces in his living room.

As he boarded the train home, the city humming past the window in late afternoon haze, Nick tugged his coat tighter around his chest and pressed play on his phone. The podcast started up with soft chimes and a warm, enthusiastic voice:

"Today, we’re exploring the symbolism of chrysanthemums across cultures..."

Nick leaned back, letting the words wash over him, the flower in his lap wrapped like a secret. His thoughts drifted easily to Charlie– his soft smile, the way he tilted his head when listening, the slight scrunch of his nose when he was thinking. Nick thought about the bouquet made just for him, the simple note.

He didn’t even need the words. He could still hear the message in Charlie’s silence.

He smiled to himself, and closed his eyes.

Nick was so thoroughly absorbed in the discussion of flower symbolism– how camellias meant longing, or how Victorians used forget-me-nots in secret messages– that the rumble of the train and the voice in his ears blurred everything else into soft white noise.

"The Victorians believed in entire conversations made through bouquets..." the podcast host said, almost dreamily. “A red tulip might mean declaration of love, while ivy symbolized fidelity– ”

Nick’s heart made a quiet noise in his chest. He pictured Charlie holding out a tulip. (Would he? Would he ever?) He shook himself a little and looked down at the flower in his lap again. Coral carnation. Admiration.

“Too on the nose,” he muttered to himself, grinning.

He barely noticed the announcement chime. Or the doors sliding open. Or the faint rush of air.

It wasn’t until the next station name flashed across the screen above the door that he blinked, straightened, and realized– 

“Oh no. Oh no. ”

He scrambled upright, looking wildly around, as if the train might suddenly reverse itself if he panicked hard enough. He jammed his hand against the stop request like it was a detonator.

“I missed it– I missed my stop, oh my god– ” he muttered to no one. His flower nearly fell out of his lap, saved only by a last-minute dive. He fumbled to hold it upright, like cradling something sacred.

The woman across from him watched in mild concern as he started whispering a crisis-level plan under his breath.

“Okay, okay, it's fine. I just get off here, turn around, two stops back, easy. No big deal. No one needs to know. ”

He got off at the next station and immediately started fast-walking like a man with a purpose– except the purpose was to go in the exact opposite direction he intended thirty seconds ago. He was definitely muttering now.

“I knew I should’ve downloaded that episode at home. Emotional sabotage by flower podcast. God. Betrayal.”

By the time he was back on the correct train heading the correct way, he was flushed and slightly sweaty, holding the flower like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. The podcast played on, blissfully unaware of the chaos it had caused.

"In Eastern cultures, chrysanthemums can symbolize death... though some interpret them as a celebration of life..."

Nick exhaled in relief as his actual stop finally approached.

He swore he could feel the flower judging him.

Nick finally stumbled through his front door, slightly windblown and still a little ruffled from the great train disaster of the afternoon. He kicked his shoes off with unnecessary drama, set his lone flower gently on the counter like it might bruise, and dropped his bag with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul.

Tea. Tea would fix this.

He flicked on the kettle and opened the tin of floral tea he’d bought last week on impulse. The label said something poetic like "Evening Bloom: A calming blend of chamomile, rose, and lavender."

He stared at it.

Rose. Love. Romance. Sometimes secrecy.

Lavender. Devotion. Calm. Also used in mourning, wasn’t it?

Chamomile. Patience. Healing.

Nick groaned.

“This is so much pressure for one mug of tea.”

Still, he scooped the blend into the teapot like he wasn’t now mildly stressed by the implications of his drink. He poured the hot water over the herbs and watched the petals bloom, floating like sleepy little ghosts. The scent hit him like a lullaby. He closed his eyes.

And then his brain, traitorous thing, offered up a picture of Charlie with his sleeves rolled up and a few smudges of soil on his wrist, gently tying a little bouquet together.

Nick blinked, warm to his ears.

He poured the tea. Sat with it, curled in his reading chair with a blanket. Sipped.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what every flower Charlie might have touched meant . Whether the meanings were intentional. Whether Charlie knew.

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“I am losing my mind over petals,” he whispered to the empty room.

And then, like some kind of emotional masochist, he pulled up a tab on his phone and started researching flower meanings all over again.

The tea cooled beside him as the late afternoon light slanted through his living room window, golden and drowsy. Nick took one more sip before setting the mug down with a soft clink and hauling his laptop onto his lap. Time to be productive, unfortunately.

Lesson planning.

He opened his calendar, rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “Okay, Monday is weather patterns. Tuesday’s the poetry thing.”

His fingers moved through tabs, pulling up worksheets, mind mapping activities, and sketching out what his Year 2s could handle. It was a lot of prep, a lot of repetition– and he loved it.

Well, most days.

Today, he kept getting distracted.

A little burst of pink and white from the bouquet on his side table caught his eye again. He hadn’t even meant to take a flower home, but somehow it felt rude to leave it behind, like it had been chosen for him.

He stared at the half-written question on his screen: "Can you describe the clouds today using five senses?"

Nick snorted. He could describe Charlie’s bouquets with five senses. Sight: soft. Touch: delicate. Smell: warm and clean. Taste: not tested, but probably sweet. Sound: silence, the kind that still says everything.

God. He needed a nap. Or a date. Or a brain transplant.

He dragged himself back into planning. Typed up a new sorting activity for natural vs. man-made objects. Created a slide on similes about spring. Added a note to press the remaining classroom flowers with his students on Friday– there’d be something poetic about letting the class immortalise them.

But even as he worked, the image of Charlie’s slight smile and messy curls, the dirt under his fingernails, and the paper note folded into his palm that morning– all of it clung to him like pollen.

He didn't mind.

Nick’s head thunked gently back against the couch cushion as he stared at his open messages with his mum. His lesson planning was mostly done. The tea was drained. The sky outside had slipped into that purply-blue kind of quiet, and he was, quite frankly, spiralling.

He opened their text thread.

Nick: kjdfghkjdfsgjkdghghghggh

Mum:  ...Is that your keyboard melting
Or am I to assume this has something to do with your mysterious flower boy again?

Nick:
I am FINE actually
Totally normal and fine and not having any feelings
Yearning is STUPID
And I am stupid
We’ve only seen each other five times, Mum.
He’s literally never spoken to me.
Or laughed.
Or like– made any obvious moves.
And yet.
The DIMPLES.

Mum:
Oh no. Not the dimples.
Is this a helpless bisexual crush?

Nick:
It’s a respectful queer spiral, thank you very much.
I don’t even know if he likes me like that?? I don’t know anything.
He handed me a bouquet today like he’d been waiting for me, Mum.
He WROTE me a note.

Mum:
Sounds like romance to me.
You’ll name your first dog after him. Or your child. Or your compost bin.

Nick:
I hate it here.
He looked at me with his entire soul.
He listens with his *whole body.* I didn’t even know that was a thing.
And the way he tilts his head when I talk, like he’s storing every word.

Mum:
Have you considered talking to him like a normal person?

Nick:
Have *you* considered the dimples.

Mum:
Fair point.
God help you, Nicholas.

Nick dropped his phone on his chest and groaned into a throw pillow.

He was, in fact, Not Fine.

Chapter Text

Nick stirred a little too much sugar into his coffee, the amber swirl overtaking the milky foam like a storm in a teacup. His focus wasn’t exactly sharp– half on the half-marked stack of Year 2 reading comprehension sheets, half on the low chatter that filled the warm, sunlit café. It was Saturday, his self-declared “not a teacher for a few hours” day, even though the worksheets in front of him argued otherwise.

He’d just red-penned a particularly adorable but baffling answer (“frogs like books because they are squishy”) when the bell above the door jingled and his gaze lifted by reflex.

Charlie.

Nick blinked. A beat passed. He took in the sight of him like it had been weeks instead of… what, six days?

Charlie wasn’t wearing the familiar florist’s apron today. No smudges of greenery on his arms, no earthy bouquet in hand. Just a slightly oversized sweater– beige and terracotta stripes, the collar a little askew like it had been tugged at or slept in. There was a faint smudge of what might’ve been dirt or ash on one sleeve, the sort of quiet detail that made Nick's brain short-circuit for reasons he didn’t quite want to examine.

And someone was with him.

A girl– older, dark-haired, confident. She walked in ahead, bee-lining toward a corner booth without checking to see if Charlie followed. She must’ve known he would. Charlie did, trailing close behind her with his hands stuffed into the sleeves of his jumper, a ghost of a smile already on his lips.

Nick watched them settle in. The girl– he’d catch her name a moment later when the barista called out “Tori” for an oat latte– was clearly comfortable with the space and with Charlie. She tossed her hair over one shoulder, slid a tote bag off her arm, and leaned into the backrest like she owned the place.

Charlie sat beside her, not across. Close, the way people do when it’s habit, not thought. His posture was small, not hunched but contained, one knee drawn up on the booth seat, one elbow perched beside it. He looked… soft. Softer than he ever did at the florist counter. And in motion.

Nick frowned as he noticed it– Charlie’s hands were moving. Not in vague gestures or half-fidgets like when they’d interacted. This was different. Intentional. Fluid. He was signing.

Not the clumsy, unsure kind Nick had seen classmates use in high school for group presentations. Charlie’s hands moved like they were dancing. A rhythm, a pace, a comfort. His fingers flicked, shaped, paused. It wasn’t all signs either– Nick didn’t know enough to name anything– but there were clear patterns mixed with shorthand motions, abbreviated twitches of the wrist or brows. Not random. Specific. Precise.

Tori didn’t sign as much. She mostly spoke, Nick could tell from the shape of her mouth, the subtle movement of her jaw. But she mirrored a few signs, sometimes used both speech and gesture at once. They were talking. Fully, completely. Seamlessly. And Charlie? He was lighting up.

Nick realized, abruptly, that he’d never seen him like this.
 Not even once.

Charlie’s face moved constantly as they spoke– eyebrows rising, a crooked half-smile, an exaggerated eye-roll. He grinned at something she said and then– there it was. The dimple. Right side, deeper than the left. Nick had seen it before in half-smiles and fleeting expressions, but this was fuller. Happier. Charlie’s whole body had softened, shoulders relaxed, hands moving again as if they could barely keep up with his thoughts.

Nick felt something turn over in his chest.

Charlie signed something fast, then paused– only for a second– then signed again, adjusting the motion, more clear this time. Tori laughed softly. Nick couldn’t hear the sound over the café hum, but he saw it in her shoulders, in the way her hand flicked at Charlie’s arm like she was swatting a fly. Charlie ducked his head, biting his lip, and grinned into the back of his hand. Dimples again.

Nick’s coffee was stone cold by now, but he hadn’t touched it since the moment Charlie walked in.

He watched for a while longer, telling himself it wasn’t weird, that it wasn’t creepy– he was just curious. Observing. That’s what teachers did, right? Observed.

Still, something tugged at him. The way Charlie hadn’t spoken. Not a word. And yet he’d said so much.

Nick felt a twinge of guilt rise in him.
 Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Charlie might sign? That he might not speak, not because he couldn’t, but because… maybe he just didn’t?

He hadn't known what to make of Charlie's silence when they’d first met. Had assumed it was shyness. Or nerves. Or just… not wanting to talk. But this– this wasn’t the absence of communication. It was a whole other language, spoken with hands and shoulders and eyebrows and fingertips.

Charlie said a lot. Just not out loud.

And with Tori– his sister, almost definitely his sister– he looked so alive. Not animated, exactly, but expressive in a way that was all the more magnetic for being quiet. Subtle. Intimate.

Nick didn’t realize he’d smiled to himself until he glanced down at the worksheet he was supposed to be marking and saw a faint damp ring where his coffee cup had been pressed too long. Oops.

He looked back up.

Charlie was still smiling, eyes crinkling slightly as he signed something slow and deliberate. Tori gave a little nod, mirroring the sign, and reached over to poke at his cheek, probably teasing him for being sappy. Charlie rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t falter. He leaned into her side for a second, just a blink of closeness, before pulling back and signing something that looked like sarcasm, complete with a dramatic eye roll.

Nick felt a little breathless watching them. And maybe a little jealous. Not in the sharp, petty way– but in the soft ache of wanting to be known like that. To know Charlie like that.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. Long enough to forget about marking. Long enough that his own coffee went cold. Long enough to realize that he wanted to learn.

Not just about flowers.

Not just about Charlie’s dimples.

But about Charlie.

And the way he spoke without saying a word.

Nick tried to look away. Really, he did.

He even turned one of the test sheets toward him as if he meant to keep marking– pen in hand, eyes on the page– but his focus had long since scattered. The words danced across the paper, fuzzy and dull compared to the light that flickered just a few tables away.

Something shifted in his peripheral. He glanced back up, just for a second. Just to check.

Charlie had leaned in closer to Tori now, shoulder brushing hers. His posture curved inward like a secret was being handed over– not signed this time, but spoken.

Spoken.

Nick froze. He didn’t hear it, couldn’t catch even the shape of the words on Charlie’s lips, but he saw the quiet breath of it. A lean-in. A whisper. Close enough that his mouth nearly brushed her ear. Tori gave a small, amused huff of laughter in reply– just a puff of sound, barely a chuckle– and her hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling around Charlie’s, squeezing once before releasing.

It was so soft it almost didn’t register. But Nick caught it.

And something in him stuttered.

They had to have noticed him by now. Had to. He’d been looking too long, too often, trying to play it off like he was lost in thought, like he wasn’t clumsily eavesdropping on a conversation he couldn’t even understand.

His face flushed hot. He ducked his head over the worksheets with a kind of frantic suddenness, pen darting across the page like it might distract him from the awkward, prickly awareness that he was probably being perceived.

God, pull it together, he scolded himself. You’re twenty seven. You teach small children. You’re not some lovestruck teenager in a John Hughes film.

Still, his heart tapped a little too fast. The air felt warmer. The table too small. He marked a tick in a completely nonsensical spot and had to scribble it out with a groan.

He didn’t look back up again for several minutes.

But even as he stared at the spelling of “rainbow” (written “ranebo” with enthusiastic confidence), he could still see the image in his mind. Charlie’s hand in Tori’s. The smile curling at the edge of his mouth. The way his whole body seemed to lean toward hers like gravity itself had a hand in it.

And Nick, sitting alone in a too-warm café, couldn’t help but think how badly he wanted someone to lean toward him like that. Even more than that– how badly he wanted Charlie to.

But for now, he kept his eyes on the paper.
Pretended he wasn’t noticing every single thing.
And tried, with very little success, not to smile like an idiot.

Nick took a breath. Set his pen down. Rubbed at his temple like it might calm the buzzing under his skin.

Then, with a slow exhale, he stood.

The café chair gave a faint scrape against the tiles as he pushed it back. He tucked the worksheet stack into his folder– slightly askew, but close enough– and slotted it into his backpack, zipping it halfway with one hand as he picked up his empty mug with the other.

His legs felt a bit awkward under him. Like they were still tangled in the quiet weight of his thoughts.

At the counter, he placed the mug down gently and offered a grateful smile to the barista before glancing at the chalkboard menu, pretending like he didn’t already know what he was going to order.

“Can I get another flat white?” he asked, then paused. “Um. Half strength. To go this time.”

The barista nodded, already scribbling it down on the little notepad. “Sure thing.”

He paid. Waited near the pickup area, his bag hanging off one shoulder and his fingers restlessly tapping against the side of his leg.

When the cup was placed on the counter, he reached for it with a quiet “thanks” and wrapped his hands around the warmth. A comfort. A grounding point. A distraction.

Then, instinctively, he looked up.

And froze.

Across the room, Charlie was looking straight at him. Not staring– just… watching. With soft eyes and a slight tilt to his head, like he’d just been caught smiling at a thought and hadn’t meant to be noticed.

And then he smiled. That unmistakable dimpled smile.

Not big or flashy. Just enough to crease the corners of his mouth and warm the space around him. He lifted one hand in a small wave, casual but sincere.

Nick’s breath hitched.

He tried not to grin too hard, but it bloomed up his face anyway. He gave a clumsy wave back, fingers jittery around his coffee cup, his own smile bright and full of startled nerves.

Charlie didn’t stop smiling.

And Nick– 

Nick had to get out of there before his face combusted.

He ducked his head, muttered a “bye” under his breath that no one could hear, and turned for the door like it was some kind of escape hatch. The bell above it jingled as he slipped out into the late afternoon air, still holding the cup close to his chest like a shield.

He didn’t look back.

But he swore he could feel the warmth of that dimpled smile lingering on his skin, even as the wind caught the edge of his jacket and the coolness of the outside world rushed up to meet him.

God, he thought, cheeks burning as he kept walking. He waved at me. He smiled and waved at me.

And suddenly, his half-strength coffee felt far too strong for how fast his heart was going.

Nick walked with his coffee pressed close to his chest, warmth bleeding into his fingertips. The sky was soft and overcast, painted in greys and pinks, and the footpath shimmered faintly from an earlier drizzle.

His head was still buzzing.

He fished his phone from his coat pocket as he waited at the crossing light, thumb hesitating over the screen for just a second before he started typing. It came out fast. One long burst of a message, full of messy punctuation and excitement too loud for real life.

Nick:
 okay okay mum don’t laugh at me but i saw flower boy again (YES the dimple one) and he wasn’t even wearing the apron this time he was in this like, kinda grubby terracotta and beige jumper, but it was a good look trust me, and he was with this girl who i *think* is his sister?? she doesnt have the dimples tho. the barista said “Tori” when calling their order and they just looked like siblings y’know?? but also she was talking and signing and he– mum– he SIGNS?? he hasn’t said a word to me yet but he was signing like so fast and smooth and expressive and it was like watching a language i didn’t know but wanted to, his hands are like poetry and– he SMILED AT ME AGAIN and the DIMPLES. like *properly* smiled. waved. i waved back and then panic-ran out like an idiot. i hate me. anyway i need to learn sign language immediately okay love u bye

He hit send before he could regret it.

The phone buzzed in his hand with the confirmation, but no immediate reply followed.

Which was fine. Obviously. She was probably working or cooking or doing literally anything else.

Still, he stared at the screen for a second too long before sighing and slipping it back into his pocket.

The coffee was half-gone now, but still warm. His heart was still full– maybe a little too full, honestly, sloshing around like tea in a mug carried too fast.

He crossed the street when the light changed, walking the familiar road home, his feet moving on autopilot.

He signs, Nick thought again, unable to stop turning the scene over in his mind.

The way Charlie’s fingers danced, how his face lit up when Tori teased him– how whole sentences seemed to live in a gesture or glance. It was fluid, natural. Beautiful.

Nick had always paid attention to language– spoken, written, body. It was part of being a teacher. But Charlie… Charlie made silence feel like its own kind of volume. Like a conversation waiting in the spaces between.

Nick sipped his coffee and smiled to himself, cheeks still a little warm.

He didn’t know much about flowers. He didn’t know much about signing.

But he knew he wanted to learn.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and toed off his shoes, backpack sliding to the floor with a quiet thump. The flat was still, cozy, and just dim enough to make him want to nap– but his brain was too wired.

He set the now-empty takeaway cup down on the kitchen counter and immediately grabbed his laptop.

He didn’t even sit down first.

Just flipped it open, the screen glowing to life as he typed:

“BSL”

And from there– he fell in.

At first it was just curiosity. Definitions. Basics. Hand shapes, facial expressions, grammar structure.

But then he found a video titled “BSL: How to Recognise 25 Common Signs (with subtitles!)” and clicked before he could overthink it.

He sat on the floor with his back against the kitchen cupboards, watching the screen as hands moved, slow and deliberate. Friendly subtitles appeared underneath.

“YES” – A single nodding motion with the fist.
 “NO” – Index and middle finger held together, tapped against the thumb.
 “STOP” – One hand chopping down firmly into the other.
 “HELLO” – A salute-like wave.
 “GOODBYE” – A wave with a bit more bounce.
 “PLEASE” – A flat hand brushed in a small circle over the chest.
 “THANK YOU” – Fingers from the chin, pushed forward like blowing a kiss.
 “ME” – Pointing at the chest.
 “YOU” – Pointing at the other person.
 “GOOD” – Like “thank you”, but with more emphasis.
 “BAD” – A downward hand flick, slightly harsher.
 “DO” – Fingers flicked forward from both hands.
 “DON’T” – Same movement as “do” but with a head shake.
 “LIKE” – Middle finger and thumb come together near the chest, then move away slightly.
 “HATE” – Both hands flick away from the chest, with a grimace.

He replayed several of them, watching the difference between similar signs. Taking note of facial expressions. The way each sign seemed to carry tone through the eyes, the mouth, even the shoulders.

Charlie doesn’t talk much, he thought. But he says so much.

It wasn’t just about making the signs– it was about reading them. Understanding. Interpreting the world Charlie moved in.

Nick scribbled a few notes in the margins of a notepad:

• Expressions matter more than tone.
• Signs aren't just hand movements– they live in the face too.
• "Charlie" = fingerspelling for now??

He looked that up next– fingerspelling. The BSL alphabet.

He learned each letter slowly, mouthing them under his breath as his fingers mimicked the movements:
 C. H. A. R. L. I. E.

Charlie.

There were other things, too. Mentions of name signs, personal shorthand people develop, regional variations. A whole culture. A whole language. A whole way of being that he was only beginning to glimpse.

And he wanted to know more. Because Charlie was quiet, yes– but he was also brilliant with his hands. With his face. With his body language. With the tiny twitch of a smile that Nick could still see if he closed his eyes.

He didn’t try to learn everything that night. He couldn’t. But he memorized the shape of hello, thank you, and Charlie– just in case.

Because maybe, just maybe, he’d be brave enough to use them one day.

Nick was halfway through rewatching the “25 Common Signs” video– again– when his phone buzzed against the floor beside him. He glanced at it, expecting some random notification, but his heart did a small skip when he saw the name.

Mum:
 Oh sweetheart, I just got off shift– sorry I didn’t reply earlier! I was reading your entire essay of a message during my tea break and had to physically stop myself from giggling like a teenager. You are SO smitten it’s embarrassing and adorable. You realise you typed “dimples” three separate times? Also, “his hands are like poetry”– NICHOLAS.

I’m glad you got to see him outside of the shop though. And he signs?? That’s beautiful. You always did love a puzzle, even when it’s a human one.

Anyway, I’m proud of you for wanting to learn. I know that’s not just because he’s cute (though, clearly, that’s not hurting).

I’ll give you a call in the morning, okay? I want to hear the non-text-version of this saga. Love you. Stop swooning and go to sleep, it’s late.

– Mum xx

Nick groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face as he shut his laptop, the screen casting a bluish afterglow across the room. “You’re twenty-seven,” he muttered to himself, standing up and stretching with a creak of joints and spine. “Not fifteen. Pull it together.”

He flicked off the living room light and padded toward the bathroom, brushing his teeth a little too aggressively, like he could scrub away the swirl of thoughts instead of plaque. His reflection stared back, flushed and a bit rumpled, hair stubbornly curling at his temple where it always refused to lie flat. Charlie hadn’t even spoken. Not once. And still, Nick’s brain was doing cartwheels like it had just discovered crushes for the first time.

He rinsed, spat, and gave himself a flat look in the mirror. “He just smiled at you. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

Still, by the time he was in bed– an oversized hoodie swapped for pyjamas, duvet pulled up to his chest and phone face-down on the pillow– his brain was nowhere near shutting down. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw hands moving. Quick, graceful, a flick of fingers here, a curl of the palm there. It was like the memory of Charlie signing had embedded itself behind his eyelids. It felt alive. Like language made out of music.

He rolled onto his side, sighing into the pillow.

He could picture it again now– Charlie in that weird striped jumper, a little stained, looking soft and lived-in. The way he’d leaned into his sister, whispered something against her cheek. The warmth in Tori’s smile when she squeezed his hand back. That was what got him, really. The comfort. The quiet love that radiated off Charlie like heat from sunlight on stone.

Nick opened his eyes again, blinking into the darkness.

Tomorrow was Monday. School. The kids. The flowers. And maybe– if he timed it just right– Charlie.

He reached over to the notebook by his bed and scribbled “hello (sign)” and “thank you (sign)” on the corner of the page. The words were shaky in the dim light, but it helped.

Eventually, his eyes grew heavy, hands tucked under his cheek, brain still visualising the motions: palm flat, hand over chest, fingers to chin.

Maybe he’d get to use one of them tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Nick checked the time again. 4:27 PM. School had run late, of course. Some older kid had a breakdown during afterschool revision, and he’d spent his free time coaxing them back to earth with lukewarm tea and jokes about Shakespeare’s inability to shut up.

It wasn’t the morning visit he usually managed– his precious little ritual before the bell rang– but he was determined not to let a Monday go by without flowers. Not after last week’s gift. Not after him .

The door of the florist was in sight now. The building was low and square and lovely, half-tucked behind a thicket of lavender in cement planters and a wildly overgrown vine trying to climb the rusting sign. It smelled faintly of green things and wet petals, and Nick was already anticipating the cool rush of the air conditioning and the quiet rattle of stems in buckets.

But then he slowed. Just a few steps from the door.

Charlie was there– at the loading area out front, crouched beside a few overturned crates. His back was to Nick, thin shoulders hunched, sleeves pushed up, curls disheveled in a way that made Nick’s heart stutter. He wasn’t wearing the usual gardening apron today– just a worn, slightly dirty sweater in uneven stripes of terracotta and beige. It looked soft. It looked his .

And Charlie hadn’t seen him yet.

Nick instinctively started to smile. But then he registered the tension in Charlie’s frame. The way his movements weren’t fluid like before. They were jerky, guarded.

There was a man in a high-vis vest standing across from him. Middle-aged, arms crossed, face red with frustration.

Nick’s stomach sank.

“– not my job to figure out whatever weird system you’ve got,” the man was saying. “I’m here to drop flowers , not play charades.”

Nick stopped dead in his tracks, still hidden behind one of the lavender planters. His smile faded.

Charlie stood his ground. He pointed to a clipboard in his hand, then signed something– slowly , clearly , but still with the sort of precision that made it obvious this wasn’t new to him. Then he scribbled something quickly on a notepad and held it out.

The man didn’t even look. Just scoffed.

“Can’t you just say it? It’s not that hard.”

Charlie flinched– barely– but his hand holding the note didn’t waver.

“Christ,” the man muttered. “These bloody kids with their issues. You deaf or just stubborn?”

Nick’s fists clenched before he even knew what he was doing.

The man threw a dismissive hand toward the shop door. “Get someone else who speaks English to sign off.”

And then he turned, muttering to himself, and stomped back toward the delivery van.

Charlie stayed exactly where he was. Still. Small.

The van door slammed. The engine roared to life. And then it pulled away, trailing exhaust and silence.

Nick’s heart was in his throat.

Charlie stood in the middle of the mess, one flower crate on its side, some stems scattered at his feet. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then he slowly knelt down, gathered the flowers with trembling fingers. One of them– a pale pink carnation– was bent near the top. Charlie held it up, inspecting the damaged stem, then exhaled softly and set it aside.

Nick could see his hands clench briefly in the folds of his sweater. Then Charlie turned, briskly, heading around the corner of the building and out of sight.

Nick stood frozen, the echo of the man’s words still sharp in his ears.

He hadn’t come here to intervene . He’d come for flowers. He hadn’t even said hello yet.

But now he was moving, almost without thought. Past the door, past the lavender, following the direction Charlie had gone. His bag shifted against his shoulder, and he steadied it without stopping.

He didn’t know exactly what he was walking into.

He just knew he couldn’t walk away.

The alley behind the shop was narrow, shaded by the florist’s outer wall and a row of crooked trees on the other side of the fence. Old milk crates were stacked neatly near the door, along with a faded chalkboard sign that had once read Sunflowers 3 for £5 , now just dust and memory.

Charlie was sitting on the ground beside the crates, knees up, back pressed to the brick. His hands moved in bursts– fluid one moment, then stuttering the next. Signing. Not for anyone. Just… to the air.

Nick kept his steps quiet. He didn’t want to spook him. But he also didn’t want to not be seen.

Charlie didn’t look up.

His right hand paused mid-motion, fingers still curved from a recent sign, then he let it fall against his leg. He was whispering something now– barely audible. Nick couldn’t make it all out.

“Not a big deal, not a big deal, not a big deal…”

His voice was hushed. Repetitive. Like the rhythm itself was what kept him from crumbling.

“…can’t control people… not your fault… not your fault…”

Nick’s chest tightened.

He crouched carefully, just outside Charlie’s line of sight. Not too close. Careful not to block the sun.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Charlie?”

Charlie startled– not violently, but enough that Nick immediately lifted both palms in a slow, non-threatening gesture.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Charlie blinked, breath hitching once before evening out. He gave a small shake of his head. Not upset with Nick– just rattled.

Nick took a breath, hands fidgeting slightly at his sides.

“I, uh– ” he rubbed the back of his neck–  “I was coming by to pick up the weekly bouquet. But I… saw what happened.”

Charlie looked away at that, jaw tight, fingers worrying at the hem of his sweater. His hands twitched in a motion Nick almost recognized– maybe “frustrated”? It looked like a scratchy spiral.

Nick crouched a little lower, closer to eye level.

“That guy was a dick.”

Charlie huffed through his nose– almost a laugh. He met Nick’s gaze then, cautiously. There was a flicker of that dimpled smile, but faint, like a ghost of itself.

“Do you want me to, like… stay?” Nick asked. “I don’t need to talk. I’m good at just… existing nearby.”

Charlie tilted his head. Then gave a small nod.

Nick smiled. Okay. That was something.

They sat in a quiet moment– Nick still crouched, Charlie sitting against the bricks, the only sounds the distant hum of traffic and a pigeon warbling somewhere above them.

Nick wasn’t sure why his heart was beating so fast. Maybe because Charlie was right there . Maybe because the quiet felt realer than anything had in weeks.

Nick stood slowly, brushing his hands on his trousers and extending one toward Charlie with a soft, “Can I?”

Charlie looked at it for a moment, then up at him– gauging, cautious. Then he nodded and let Nick help him to his feet. He was light, wiry under the sweater, and a little shaky as he rose. But he didn’t pull away too fast. His fingers lingered just a moment longer than needed.

Nick didn’t comment.

Instead, as they stepped back through the door into the quiet of the empty shop, he said lightly, “You missed absolute chaos today– two of my year twos tried to convince me that grasshoppers are just ‘angry leaves that jump.’ And honestly? I think they were halfway right.”

Charlie gave a silent huff of laughter, one corner of his mouth twitching. He didn’t make a sound, but the dimple on his left cheek carved in soft and deep.

Nick smiled like it was his own little win.

He wandered to the central table, letting the comfortable silence settle. Charlie peeled away to the far side of the shop, weaving through a few loose nooks tucked with old crates and jars of single stems, selecting flowers with gentle precision. He moved slower than usual, but not unhappily. Still a little frayed at the edges, maybe. But calmer.

Nick watched with quiet interest, arms crossed loosely over his chest, gaze soft.

Charlie pulled a few things into the crook of his arm– bright and golden-orange strawflowers, soft pink statice, sprigs of waxflower, and a single branch of yellow acacia. He added something green and frilly Nick didn’t recognize, but everything looked warm. Alive. Like sunlight in early autumn.

Nick blinked.

He recognized a few now, and their meanings– gratitude, gentle warmth, joy in small things, resilience , and– he swore it– appreciation .

His chest ached in that fluttery, stupid way again.

When Charlie turned back around, arms full, Nick ducked his head to hide the color rising in his cheeks.

“You’ve got a whole bouquet of nice things to say, huh?” he said quietly.

Charlie gave him a look– one that said, maybe – and then gestured for Nick to hand over the twine from the drawer.

Nick moved to help without thinking, passing it over and standing nearby as Charlie began arranging the bouquet with practiced movements. His hands were still steady, still careful. As if none of what happened earlier had made him forget how to make something beautiful.

And Nick, standing just beside him, tried very hard not to fall in love with the way silence didn’t feel empty anymore.

Nick waited as Charlie tied the last loop of twine and tucked the stems neatly together. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t want to break the moment. Charlie handed the bouquet over gently, eyes lifting to meet Nick’s with that quiet openness again– tentative but genuine. Like he wanted to offer something more than just flowers.

Nick took the bouquet with both hands, fingers brushing against Charlie’s. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice a little too tender.

Charlie tilted his head.

Nick hesitated, then let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Okay,” he said under his breath. “This might be awful, but– hang on– ”

He awkwardly shifted the bouquet to one arm, freeing a hand. His fingers trembled a little, but he steadied them, heart thudding. Slowly, with focus, he signed: hello – and then tried to fingerspell Charlie.

It came out a bit scrambled. He got the "C" right, but lost confidence halfway through and fumbled the "L." His cheeks flamed before he could even finish.

“I– I’ve been practicing,” he added, nervously. “Sorry, I– um– I thought maybe…”

Charlie blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise. His eyes softened, then lit.

And then– just like that– he laughed.

It was small, breathy, barely more than a huff through his nose and a little puff of air past his lips, but it was a real sound. Fragile and bright and real.

Nick thought his heart might detonate on the spot.

Charlie shook his head fondly and reached forward, tapping Nick’s hand. With gentle guidance, he took Nick’s fingers and slowly, carefully, walked him through the correct motions– one letter at a time.

C-H-A-R-L-I-E.

His hands were warm.

Nick watched the shapes, the flow of it, but mostly he just watched Charlie’s face– his concentration, the tiny smile curling up on one side, that dimple again.

When Charlie looked up, their eyes locked, and Nick felt himself flushing to the tips of his ears.

But then– maybe– it wasn’t just him.

He swore he saw Charlie’s cheeks tinged pink too.

Or maybe that was just the soft golden light from the window. Or maybe Nick was reading into things again.

Still– Charlie’s fingers lingered for a moment before letting go. And Nick stood there holding flowers in one hand, then passing them along, the weight of something else entirely blooming in his chest.

Charlie walked behind the counter, bouquet gently resting on tissue paper as he began wrapping it up with careful, practiced motions. Nick followed, standing near the register, reaching for his wallet. He wasn’t going to leave without paying, even if every instinct told him that Charlie would try to let him.

Sure enough, as Charlie set the bouquet down on the counter and looked at Nick, he tilted his head, raised his brows– and cheekily signed: no.

The grin that followed was unmistakable. Mischievous. Testing him.

Nick blinked. Then lit up like someone had flicked on a light inside his chest. “I know that one!” he blurted, voice almost boyish with pride.

Charlie’s brows went higher, his expression delighted.

Nick mimicked the sign back– no– a little slow, a little clumsy, but clear enough. “It means no,” he said, as if Charlie didn’t already know. “That’s ‘no.’ I got it.”

Charlie let out another breath-laugh, quick and soft, his grin splitting just a little wider as he gave an approving nod. That dimple showed up again like a reward.

But then, still holding Nick’s gaze, Charlie signed it again. No. This time slower. Pointed. Challenging.

Nick narrowed his eyes, putting his card down on the counter. “You’re not getting out of this,” he said, smiling. “You made the bouquet. I’m paying. That’s the deal.”

Charlie snorted– actually snorted– and threw his hands up in mock surrender.

But he was still smiling when Nick tapped the card to the reader.

Nick reached for the bouquet, but before he could say goodbye, there was a sudden, soft thump on the counter beside him. A sleek black cat had leapt up from somewhere unseen, landing gracefully next to the flowers like a shadow come to life.

“Oh,” Nick blinked. “Hey there.”

The cat stared up at him with wide yellow eyes and gave a single, almost imperious mewl , like he was announcing himself. Then– shockingly– he stepped forward and butted his head gently into Nick’s hand.

Nick laughed, surprised but not about to waste the opportunity. “Well, aren’t you something,” he murmured, scratching just behind the cat’s ears as the feline arched into the touch, purring loud and immediate.

There was a soft shuffle behind the counter.

Nick looked up to see Charlie standing still, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth parted slightly in what might have been awe.

He grabbed a notebook from under the counter and scribbled quickly, flipping it around for Nick to read:

That’s Nyx. He hates being touched by anyone who isn’t me.

Nick blinked down at the purring mass in his arms. “Well. I guess I’m charming,” he joked, but his voice came out softer than expected.

Charlie was still watching, slowly approaching, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile too wide.

“I must smell like flowers,” Nick added with a half-smile.

Charlie shrugged, amused, but a little pink in the ears.

Nick looked back at Nyx. “Guess I’m part of the coven now, huh?”

Charlie snorted, then shook his head fondly, flipping to a new page on the notebook:

You passed the final test.

Nick grinned. “What, you’re the first boss and Nyx is the final one?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow and nodded solemnly.

Nyx, clearly content with the attention, flopped down next to the bouquet and yawned.

Nick turned his head as Charlie gently tapped his arm, then pointed toward the front window. Curled in a narrow sunbeam, a grey tabby dozed on the ledge, one ear perfectly intact and the other only half-there– tattered like a paper corner torn off and lost. He looked like an old soul. One paw twitched, a dream flickering under soft fur.

Charlie scribbled in the notebook again and held it up:

That’s Hypnos.

Nick chuckled under his breath, “Of course it is.”

He leaned on the counter, eyes flicking between the sun-dappled tabby and the boy beside him. “Let me guess,” he said, grinning, “Nyx and Hypnos. You’ve got a whole pantheon hiding in here somewhere, don’t you?”

Charlie gave him an exaggerated shrug, lips pulling up in a smirk like he’d just been caught red-handed but didn’t mind one bit.

Another note appeared, scribbled quickly with a kind of flourish:

Locals say I named them that for protection.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Charlie tilted his head, lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh, and after a beat, he simply underlined the word:

Say.

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Mysterious flower boy with magical cats. I’ll play along.”

Charlie grinned at that– dimples and all– but quickly ducked his head, like he didn’t want to let the moment last too long.

Nick leaned against the counter, one hand absentmindedly scratching behind Nyx’s ears as the cat melted into his palm. Across from him, Charlie was scribbling something else in the corner of a small notebook, the one he always seemed to keep near the register. He passed the page over.

"I think Nyx likes you."

Nick huffed a quiet laugh. He was overthinking this. “Tell him thanks,” he muttered, then glanced up at Charlie, who smiled– just a little– and reached to lightly tug the notebook back, tucking it beside the till again.

There was a lull. Warm light spilled through the windows, catching on Hypnos’ fur in the display window. Outside, the street felt paused, distant. Inside, it was just them.

Nick hesitated, then said, “Hey… can I ask something dumb?”

Charlie tilted his head, curious.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “So… earlier I read something about, um, name signs. Like– like how some people get a specific sign instead of always finger-spelling their name?” He bit his lip. “Do you… have one?”

Charlie blinked, then nodded, a bit shyly.

He raised one hand, fingers gently brushing the side of his cheek in a small, looping gesture– a movement that felt soft and practiced, like the petals of something unfolding. Nick watched it closely.

“It’s a flower, isn’t it?” he asked.

Charlie smiled, and nodded again. Then he picked up the notebook once more and wrote:
“A specific kind. Sweet pea. Tori picked it. She said it meant ‘delicate strength.’”

Nick felt that one like a hit straight to the chest.

He murmured, “That’s... perfect,” and meant it.

Then, after a second: “Can I– do you mind if I learn it? Yours, I mean.”

Charlie didn’t write anything this time. He just took Nick’s hand again– like before when he corrected his fingerspelling– and guided him through the motion. Slow, careful, patient. A loop of quiet meaning. Charlie.

Nick adjusted the bouquet in his arms, the stems rustling softly against the paper as he looked back at Charlie. “Okay,” he said, then stopped himself– corrected. He raised his hands, slow and a little stiff, and tried again.
Thank you.

Charlie watched the motion with a tilt of his head, eyes bright. He raised one eyebrow in amusement, then gave the tiniest of nods.

A small, breathy laugh escaped him– barely a sound, really, more of an exhale, but it made Nick’s heart flip over all the same.

He smiled, warm and helpless. “See you next Monday,” he said, half under his breath, and turned toward the door.

The bouquet smelled like early spring and emotions– appreciation, caring, and something golden he couldn’t quite place.

Nick stepped out into the fading light, the shop bell giving a soft chime behind him, and started the walk home. He didn’t look back, but he could still feel that laugh in his chest.

Chapter Text

Next Monday, Nick arrived as soon as he could after the final school bell, the afternoon sun cutting through the shop window in long, golden stripes. He hesitated at the door for a moment, adjusting his satchel strap and smoothing down his hair, before stepping inside.

Charlie looked up from behind the counter, already mid-smile. Not his polite one either– his real smile. The one with dimples and the soft pull at the corner of his mouth that made Nick feel like he’d just stepped into the middle of something beautiful.

Before Nick could get a word out, Charlie was moving around the counter and gently tugging him by the sleeve– not urgently, just enough to steer him through the open doorway behind the register. The door creaked slightly, but Charlie left it open.

The back room wasn’t big, but it was cozy in a way that made Nick feel like he had to speak in a whisper. A round table sat low to the floor, surrounded by mismatched cushions and bathed in a warm, amber glow from a vintage lamp in the corner. And on the table– two steaming mugs of tea.

Nick blinked.

“You made tea?” he asked softly, half laughing. “Like– just now?”

Charlie nodded once and motioned for Nick to sit, settling down himself with fluid, quiet ease. Nick folded onto one of the cushions, eyeing the mug in front of him. Steam curled from it in delicate spirals. It smelled floral, light, and faintly sweet.

He took a careful sip. “Wait– is this… is this a custom blend?”

Charlie tilted his head, the kind of nod that said obviously , and reached for the notebook that lived on the edge of the table.

Leftover petals from last week. Calming. A bit of rose, chamomile, and some lavender from the little box upstairs. Thought it’d suit today.

Nick stared at the message for a long moment, then looked back up at him.

“You made this just for today?”

Charlie looked sideways, mock-casual, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Nick smiled down into the mug, his heart doing that traitorous little flutter thing again.
He didn’t say it aloud, but it felt a lot like being chosen.

They drank in comfortable silence for a while, the quiet only broken by the clink of ceramic or the occasional creak of a cushion as one of them shifted. The tea was warm and grounding, floral in a way that made Nick feel like the moment might bloom if he breathed too hard.

“I, uh,” he began, then cleared his throat. “Had a weird day.”

Charlie looked up, head tilted, eyes open in that patient, curious way of his.

Nick smiled a little nervously. “Nothing dramatic. Just one of those classes where no one listens, and then one kid drew a… frankly haunting picture of me on the whiteboard during lunch duty. I think I aged five years.”

Charlie’s eyes crinkled. He didn’t laugh, not aloud, but there was a fondness there that made Nick’s shoulders settle.

Encouraged, Nick kept going. “And then I got home and nearly forgot to come here. Which would’ve been a tragedy. My flat smells like detergent and regret– I need your flowers.”

Charlie rolled his eyes fondly and took another sip of his tea, nodding like he was letting Nick ramble on purpose.

“You’re letting me talk too much,” Nick said, smiling into his mug. “It’s not fair. You’ve got that whole mysterious silent florist vibe going for you and I’m just out here trauma-dumping like I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Charlie didn’t reply, but he gave Nick a look– a very specific one. Amused, but with that little glint that made Nick feel like maybe Charlie liked that he talked too much.

So he kept going, voice softer now. “I’ve been trying to learn more sign. I’m still terrible, but… I’m trying.”

Charlie nodded slowly, then lifted a hand in a loose, gentle gesture– fingers pinched together, thumb brushing the chin, then moving outward. Thank you.

Nick blinked, momentarily stunned. “Was that– was that ‘thank you’?”

Charlie nodded again, sipping his tea like it was nothing.

Nick felt like he might short-circuit. “God. That was– cool. Really cool. I– um– thank you for the tea. Really. It’s like… calming. You’re like calming.”

He was rambling again.

Charlie raised an eyebrow, smirking just slightly. He didn’t write anything this time. Just nudged Nick’s mug toward him, like he was saying keep drinking, you’re getting worse.

Nick grinned and obeyed.

Their shared quiet was broken suddenly by the jangle of the front bell and two sharp, familiar voices calling in unison:

“ Charliiiiie! ”

Nick startled slightly, but Charlie didn’t– he just blinked once, set down his mug, and stood with the same gentle grace he always seemed to move with. He didn’t rush, but there was something about the way he moved toward the front that said he already knew who it was.

Nick heard the thud of little feet before the twins appeared at the back room threshold, breathless and beaming. Maya had her jacket halfway off her shoulders and Eli had chalk dust on his jumper.

“There you are!” Maya said, exasperated like they’d been searching for hours instead of minutes.

Charlie crouched to meet them as they barreled in. He didn’t speak, but the smile that bloomed across his face was luminous. From his back pocket, he carefully pulled out two small, translucent envelopes– each one holding a different pressed flower. He offered them to the twins without a word.

Eli gasped. “ Again!? ”

Charlie nodded.

Maya clutched hers like it was treasure. “I’m putting this one in my diary. It’s going next to my glitter sticker page.”

Eli, already peeling open the flap of his envelope, asked, “What’s mine called again?”

Charlie stood and stepped to the chalkboard propped just beside the table. He scrawled quickly in tidy, curling handwriting: Cornflower. It means hope.

Eli read it aloud, then grinned. “Cool.”

Charlie handed him a piece of chalk and tapped the wide space beneath the flower-of-the-week scribble. Both twins lit up.

“We can draw?” Maya asked.

Charlie mimed an exaggerated “yes” nod, and before Nick could even process it, the two were off like shot rockets, bickering over colors and space on the board.

Charlie returned to the table, his eyes still bright from the visit. He sat again beside Nick, tugging his tea toward him.

Nick leaned a little closer, his voice low, conspiratorial. “They’re obsessed with you.”

Charlie smirked, taking a sip.

Nick watched as he glanced toward the chalkboard with unmistakable fondness. The hum hadn’t happened yet, but something had shifted– something soft, like the air after rain.

And Nick couldn’t help the way his heart tilted toward it.

After a little while, the twins returned, chalk-stained and satisfied, Maya with streaks of blue across her knuckles and Eli holding up his sleeve to show off a crooked sun he’d somehow managed to draw onto it. They returned the chalk pieces to Charlie with enthusiastic thanks and a promise to come back tomorrow – even though Charlie hadn’t agreed to that.

Charlie just gave them a thumbs-up and a little wave, crouching to ruffle Eli’s curls before gently taking the chalk and returning it to the wooden tray beside the board. The moment they darted out again, a breeze of laughter and trailing chaos, the shop settled like a held breath exhaled.

Charlie came back to the pillow and sat beside Nick, legs folding easily beneath him. He picked up his tea again– still warm. And then it happened.

A soft hum.

Low, drawn out and quiet, like the sound had been resting in his throat and slipped free by accident. It wasn’t a song or anything recognizable– just a stretched, gentle note, the kind someone might make without thinking when they were content.

Nick froze.

He blinked, heart catching. The sound hadn’t been loud, but to him it rang out like something sacred.

Charlie didn’t seem to notice at first, or maybe he just didn’t think it was a big deal– he sipped his tea again, glancing at the chalkboard like he was admiring the chaotic art left behind.

Nick finally managed to speak, voice soft and caught somewhere behind his smile. “You hummed.”

Charlie turned to him, eyes flickering with mischief, a quirk of the brow that was unmistakably teasing.

He grabbed the notebook and scribbled something quickly before flipping it to show Nick:

You liked it. You’re so pink right now.

Nick flushed deeper, covering his face with one hand. “I am not. ”

Charlie underlined “ pink ” three times and added a very smug little doodle of a blushing stick figure.

Nick laughed, bashful and overwhelmed and so very, very full of feeling. “Okay, maybe. But I’m not letting you win this.”

Charlie was already writing again. This time he held the notebook protectively close until he was done, then turned it with a flourish:

It’s okay. I think you’re cute when you’re flustered.

Nick groaned, flopping dramatically to the side. “You’re evil.”

Charlie sipped his tea with a satisfied little grin.

And Nick, pink and still buzzing from the hum, thought to himself:
He could stay like this forever.

Nick sat back up, warmth still blooming across his cheeks. But now it wasn’t just from embarrassment– it was from that hum. That small, low sound. It had slipped out so naturally, like breath, but it stayed with him like a melody, looping in his mind on repeat. And Charlie’s handwriting, too. That quiet confidence in calling him cute. Nick could feel his heart stammer every time he replayed it.

You’re cute when you’re flustered.

The words circled again.

And again.

Until he caught himself smiling stupidly into his mug and decided, maybe just a little payback was in order.

He looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Wait. Hold on. You think I’m cute?”

Charlie’s pen faltered slightly as he was doodling a second little blushy stick figure. His eyes snapped up to Nick’s, just for a second too long.

Pink.
Pink bloomed across Charlie’s cheekbones like watercolor bleeding into paper.

He ducked his head almost immediately, his hair falling forward as he covered his mouth with one hand. And that, somehow, made Nick feel even more triumphant.

“I knew it,” Nick said, grinning. “That was very smooth, by the way. Casual. Subtle. Except, you know, not.”

Charlie shoved at his shoulder lightly, but he was smiling behind his fingers.

Nick nudged him back, their knees brushing slightly beneath the table. “I’m not saying I’m not flustered still, because I absolutely am. But just for the record… you’re kind of devastatingly adorable too.”

Charlie gave him a look , reaching for the notebook again with mock urgency, like he needed to reclaim the upper hand– though his hands were still slightly shaky with laughter.

Charlie stood first, his movements graceful and assured as he gathered their empty mugs. He slipped away to a small, tucked-away sink embedded in the back wall– barely noticeable if you didn’t already know it was there. The sound of running water was soft, muted by the cozy hum of the world outside. Nick just watched for a second, still half-sunk in his thoughts, still echoing with the hum, still glowing from Charlie’s rare but direct affection.

Then, Charlie turned. With a small, barely-there tug on Nick’s sleeve– his usual invitation– he caught Nick’s attention and nodded toward the main room. As Nick got to his feet, Charlie rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, exposing the thin silvery lines that trailed up his forearms like faded constellations.

Nick saw them.

He always saw them.

He didn’t stare. Didn’t react. Just nodded quietly, like his attention had only flicked there for a second– and maybe it had. But the image settled somewhere deep. A seed. A faint connection between things he didn’t fully understand yet: the silence, the flowers, the scars, the softness.

Charlie led them back toward a scattered collection of loose stems and petals waiting to be arranged. The table stood bathed in warm light from the front window, the golden hour softening every edge. As Charlie began to sort through the pieces, fingers deft and patient, Nick watched him for a second too long.

That was when Hypnos, ever the silent sentinel, twitched awake in the windowsill. He batted lazily at the dangling leaves of a fern, stretching his front paws before curling back into himself.

Nick grinned, stepping away from Charlie’s side just long enough to crouch near the window and scratch behind the cat’s half-torn ear.

“You again,” he murmured. “Thought you were napping on the job.”

Hypnos meowed once in a deep, unimpressed tone.

Nick chuckled and looked back toward Charlie– just a glance.

Charlie hadn’t noticed him watching.

He was turned slightly away, carefully positioning a soft white rose among dusty sprigs of lavender and other exotic looking flowers. His sleeves were still pushed up, skin brushed with sunlight. But it was his face that caught Nick still– quiet, relaxed, a subtle rosiness painting his cheeks.

And he was smiling. Not at Nick. Not at anything, really. Just smiling to himself, like he’d discovered a secret and was keeping it safe. Like the afternoon had gone just right.

Nick’s heart folded in on itself.

There was something there. Something starting.

And it wasn’t just the bouquet.

For a while, Nick didn’t move.

He just stayed crouched beside the windowsill, hand still tangled in Hypnos’ fur, gaze drifting back to the boy a few feet away. The air in the shop smelled faintly of tea and mint and something sweeter– maybe the roses Charlie had just chosen, maybe something else entirely. Light filtered through the leaves and dust motes, turning everything golden and calm. Even the usual churn of Nick’s thoughts slowed, lulled into something soft and wide-eyed.

It hit him all at once, like walking into warmth.

He wanted this.

Not just this exact moment– though God, it was beautiful– but the kind of life that could grow out of it. One where Charlie existed in the quiet periphery of his world and also right at the center. One where they shared tea and gestures and the kind of smiles that bloomed slowly. Where Nick would learn how to listen in new ways. Where Charlie would look at him like that, cheek flushed and lips curved, and maybe– maybe– let Nick stay.

He didn’t even notice he’d zoned out until something jabbed– sharp and fast– into his upper arm.

He blinked.

Charlie stood there, bouquet in hand, smirking like he’d caught Nick doing something embarrassing.

He jabbed him again with a playful poke of a lavender stem.

Nick startled, then laughed under his breath, sheepish.

“Alright, alright– I'm moving,” he muttered, rising to his feet.

Charlie grinned wider, tilting his head toward the small wrapping station and beckoning Nick with the flowers like a quiet conductor guiding an orchestra.

Still slightly dazed, Nick followed.

Nick leaned against the counter, watching as Charlie wrapped the bouquet with a kind of delicate precision that felt more like care than craft. Each motion was slow, practiced– wrapping the stems in soft brown paper, tying it off with twine that had a pressed violet tucked under the knot. Nick found himself grinning.

“That’s insane,” he said, voice low and full of awe. “You literally made that from scratch. Like– how is this real?”

Charlie’s head ducked a little, but his ears betrayed him, turning a soft, rose-pink. He pressed his lips together, fighting the smile threatening to curve at the edges.

Nick saw it anyway.

Charlie didn’t answer, just turned to grab a little paper tag, writing something quickly– neat, looping handwriting– and attaching it to the twine. Then he walked it over to the front counter, placing it down gently.

Nick pulled out his wallet automatically.

Charlie gave him a look .

“I’m paying,” Nick said, grinning stubbornly.

This time, Charlie didn’t argue. He just tapped the till open with one hand and typed something in– less than usual.

Nick squinted. “That’s a discount. What– why? What did I do?”

Charlie, without missing a beat, reached for the pad on the side of the register. He scribbled something quickly, then ripped the page out and held it up like a sign.

friends and family discount.

Nick huffed a laugh. “Seriously?”

Charlie nodded once, utterly serious– but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

And then, to make it worse– or better– he grabbed a strip of tape and strolled over to the massive blackboard behind him. With practiced ease, he slapped the note on the upper corner and smoothed it down, as if it had always been there, right beside a drawing one of the twins had done last week.

Then he turned back around, one eyebrow raised.

Nick stared for a moment, then broke into a wide, helpless smile. “You’re impossible.”

Charlie just shrugged, fingers flicking in a silent maybe , grin deepening.

Nick lingered by the door, bouquet in one hand, heart in the other.

“Thank you,” he said, soft and a little breathless– because it wasn’t just for the flowers, not really. It was for the tea, and the way Charlie smiled with his whole body, and the hum that still echoed in Nick’s head like it had carved itself into the walls of his mind. “Really.”

Charlie dipped his head in reply, a small flicker of amusement crossing his expression, fingers twitching in a casual wave. Nick gave one back, fumbling with the handle, casting one last look over his shoulder before stepping into the cool late afternoon.

He walked home like he wasn’t quite touching the ground, the scent of the bouquet rising up with every movement– floral, citrusy, fresh. Charlie in flower-form.

By the time he reached his apartment, he knew he should tuck them into the vase he kept on his desk at school, like always. But instead, he filled one at home, a wide-bottomed glass thing he only ever used when his mum visited, and gently nestled the bouquet in, adjusting the stems until they sat just right.

Just for now, he told himself, watching the petals shift in the water’s reflection. Just so they’d stay fresh.

Chapter Text

The train’s motion was a low, rumbling lull, and Nick found himself watching the way the rooftops blurred past the window, one hand loosely curled around the strap of his backpack, the other thumbing through his phone.

The group chat had been going off for the last ten minutes. He hadn't dared open it until he was firmly seated and away from rush hour shoulder-crush. Now, watching the little speech bubbles multiply, he could already tell who was responsible.

Group Chat: PowerCouple (+ 1 honorary)

Darcy:
WHERE IS HE
WHERE IS OUR SON
IS HE DEAD
IS HE A GHOST NOW
TARA DID YOU MURDER HIM FOR BEING TOO HANDSOME

Nick snorted under his breath.

He hadn't realized how much he missed this kind of ridiculousness until it hit him full in the face at 9:17 a.m., disguised as Darcy's entire personality.

Tara:
Darcy. It’s 9am.
Be normal.

Darcy:
i haven’t seen nicky in seven lifetimes
the world is crumbling
i’m having a CROISSANT RELATED EMERGENCY
tell him to TEXT ME BACK BEFORE I EAT A SIXTH ONE

Nick:
i’m literally on the train
please stop threatening pastries

Darcy:
AHA!!
THE DEAD SPEAK!!!

Tara:
Don’t listen to them. They had three coffees and haven’t sat down yet.

Darcy:
what is sitting
who needs it
i’m a being of pure sugar now

Nick leaned back in his seat, phone resting against his knee for a second. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. It felt so easy with them. No pressure to be entertaining or deep or...anything. Just him , filtered through sarcasm and memes and years of shared jokes.

He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this until now.

Darcy:
we’re at the bakery by the fountain
i have pre-warmed the sun for you
tara told me not to yell when you arrive but i WILL
i will holler like a victorian ghost wife
i will shriek like a victorian ghost wife WHO HAS BEEN SLIGHTED

Tara:
Please ignore them. We’ll wait outside. Don’t get off at the wrong stop again.

Nick:
that was ONCE
and it was DARK and MISTY and i had a COLD

Darcy:
and he called me crying because the pigeons were scary

Nick:
i was not crying
i was gently panicking

Darcy:
with tears

Tara:
He was sniffly. You were inconsolable.

Darcy:
nick's "i’m so brave" arc is falling apart before our eyes

Nick laughed, head tipping back against the cool train window. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the comfort wash in. This was the kind of stuff he didn’t even know he missed– being relentlessly roasted in real time by the two people who knew him far too well.

And today, they’d probably keep doing that. Over lunch. In public. Loudly.

But they’d also ask about his life. About the kids at school. About the bouquet still sitting on his desk.

About Charlie.

Nick’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He thought of the floral tea and the soft hum. The gentle tug on his sleeve, the notepad scrawled with teasing, sharp wit. Charlie’s eyes when he smiled, dark and warm and a little too easy to get lost in.

He was going to have to tell them. Or maybe he wanted to. And that was scarier somehow.

Nick:
5 stops away. try not to scare the elderly while you wait.

Darcy:
no promises
also if you’re not here in 10 minutes i’m adopting a stray pigeon and naming it Nicky II

Tara:
That’s exactly what he needs: a bird-shaped representation of your abandonment issues

Darcy:
bold of you to assume i’m not already nurturing several

Nick:
...what kind of croissants do they have tho

Darcy:
CHOCOLATE.
ALMOND.
CUSTARD.
AND.
MYSTERY.

Nick:
mystery is always a trap

Darcy:
that’s what makes it sexy

Nick shook his head, grinning as the train slowed to a stop and a chime dinged above him. Four more stops.

He pocketed his phone, leaning his head back again. There was something soft building behind his ribs– anticipation and fondness all tangled together. A little hope, too.

He wasn’t sure what today would bring. But he was going to tell them about Charlie.

Maybe even let them convince him to do something about it.

The moment Nick stepped off the train, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket like it was trying to launch itself into orbit.

He winced, yanking it out and squinting at the blinding burst of notifications.

Group Chat: PowerCouple (+ 1 honorary)

Darcy:
WHERE IS HE
THE SUN IS DIMMER WITHOUT YOU
I’VE LOST MY CROISSANT
THIS IS A HOSTAGE SITUATION

Tara:
They dropped it in a storm drain trying to spin it on their finger like a basketball. Please hurry.

Nick dodged a stroller, then a pigeon, then someone who appeared to be doing yoga mid-crosswalk. The streets were always like this on Saturdays– bustling, his mum would call it. A nightmare , Nick muttered under his breath.

His phone vibrated again.

Darcy:
i can FEEL him
he’s NEAR
i’m going to climb a bin to get a better view

Tara:
Please don’t. People are watching. I’m pretending I don’t know you.

Nick:
just passed the flower cart
if you shout my name in public i will walk the other way

Darcy:
NICK NELSON MY BELOVED
DARLING OF MY HEART
LIGHT OF THE THAMES

Nick:
I’m turning around.

Tara:
He’s here. I’m holding Darcy back.

Darcy:
I’M SQUAWKING

Nick slipped his phone back into his jacket, biting down a grin. He spotted them at the end of the street– Tara perched calmly on the bench, legs crossed, sipping an iced coffee like nothing in the world could shake her. Beside her, Darcy was halfway to standing on said bench, flailing one arm dramatically in the air like they were signaling to incoming aircraft.

“Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered, but he was laughing as he reached them.

“There he is!” Tara smiled, standing to greet him. “Long time no see, stranger.”

“Nick!” Darcy leapt off the bench and immediately wrapped him in a full-body koala hug, legs slightly swinging. “My actual soulmate!”

“You saw me three months ago,” Nick wheezed, patting Darcy’s back and steadying them both.

“That was THREE MONTHS AGO,” Darcy gasped, eyes wide. “Do you know how many croissants I’ve emotionally processed in that time?”

“Too many,” Tara said flatly. “Way too many.”

Nick pulled back, finally catching his breath. “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” Darcy said, squinting suspiciously. “Except your hair looks even more like you’ve been nervously running your hands through it all day.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean... fair.”

“Right,” Tara clapped her hands. “We’ve found a cafe through the park. Let’s get food before Darcy eats a plant.”

“I would do it,” Darcy said solemnly. “For the drama.”

They strolled together through the park, the morning light filtering soft through scattered clouds and trees lining the street. Nick let himself exhale properly for the first time all week– Tara and Darcy’s presence already easing something knotted in his chest.

“So,” Nick said, glancing sideways at them both, “how’ve you two been? It’s been ages.”

Tara’s expression shifted slightly– still smiling, but a touch pink at the edges.

Darcy, on the other hand, let out an exaggerated gasp and practically slammed to a stop in the middle of the path. “Oh, you wanna know how we’ve been?” they said, raising their eyebrows dramatically. “Well, Nelson, I thought you’d never ask.”

With a flourish, they reached into their coat pocket and pulled out their hand like it was a magic trick– fingers spread to show off a simple gold band glinting on their ring finger.

Nick blinked, stunned. “Wait, what– ?”

“They proposed,” Tara muttered beside him, eyes cast to the ground, but her cheeks were blooming red.

“I DID,” Darcy beamed, pointing to the ring with the theatrical energy of someone unveiling an Oscar statue. “Last month. After Tara cried because a baby goat sat in her lap. I had the ring in my sock. It felt right.”

Nick gawked, genuinely speechless. “You’re joking.”

Tara groaned softly. “They’re not.”

“ You’re engaged? ” Nick finally burst, the biggest grin spreading across his face. “Holy shit! That’s amazing!”

“It is amazing,” Darcy confirmed, wrapping an arm around Tara’s waist and leaning into her like a victorious penguin. “Even though she said yes and immediately called me a dumbass.”

Tara rolled her eyes, still visibly flustered but glowing. “Because you had the ring in your sock , Darcy.”

“Warmth! Surprise!” Darcy countered. “Romance!”

Nick laughed, a real laugh that came from his stomach. “I’m so happy for you guys. Seriously. That’s... that’s huge.”

Darcy preened under the praise, and Tara– quieter, but just as proud– gave Nick a small, grateful nod.

They kept walking, the buzz of the city softening behind them as they continued through the park, gravel crunching underfoot. Nick let them take the lead, listening as they shared the story in pieces– goats and socks and a garden centre that inexplicably became the backdrop for their proposal. He didn’t mind not being the one talking for once. Between work, school stuff, and navigating whatever he was feeling about Charlie... he’d been carrying too many conversations. It felt good to just listen. To watch people he loved be happy.

They found the tucked-away cafe just off the main road, the kind with mismatched chairs and plants hanging in the windows, smelling like baked bread and cardamom and something roasting low and slow. The three of them squeezed into a corner booth, Darcy immediately stealing the window seat with a triumphant noise.

Nick scanned the menu while Tara took off her coat, Darcy already leaning halfway across the table to sniff someone else’s food.

“Okay, but tell me why that smells like someone’s Italian grandmother put her soul into it,” Darcy said, wide-eyed. “I want that. Whatever that is.”

“You literally always say that,” Tara said, brows raised fondly.

“Because nonnas do put their souls into food. I want that level of love. Feed me emotion.”

Nick chuckled, choosing a sandwich mostly at random because he was too content watching them banter. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this– lazy days, stupid jokes, the natural rhythm they all fell into.

“So, Chef Darcy,” he said as the waiter left with their orders. “Still changing the world one meal at a time?”

“You know it,” they grinned. “We just started this new Friday thing– free family dinner night. No IDs, no questions, just food. It’s wild, though. I cooked for ninety-two people last week.”

Tara nodded. “And they nearly cried because the béchamel curdled.”

“I did cry , actually,” Darcy corrected. “But only into the bread pudding. Adds flavour.”

Nick snorted. “You’re the most chaotic culinary genius I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you. I’ll put that on my resume.”

“And you?” Nick turned to Tara. “Still dancing circles around everyone?”

She smiled softly. “I started teaching more classes. I have this one group of six-year-olds who are so loud I think they could cause structural damage.”

“They’d get along great with Darcy,” Nick said.

“Rude,” Darcy muttered, sipping their coffee with a smirk.

The food arrived, interrupting the teasing, and for a few minutes, conversation gave way to the quiet joy of eating something warm and well-made. Nick hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he bit into his sandwich, and even then, the moment wasn’t just about the food. It was the kind of lunch where time slowed down. Where he didn’t feel like he had to prove anything or be hyper-aware of himself. Just… three old friends, sharing space.

He sat back a little, letting the sounds around him fade to background noise. Tara and Darcy leaning into each other as they shared bites and snuck sips from each other’s drinks. The clink of cutlery. Sunlight catching dust motes in the air. Darcy pretending to scold Tara for stealing too many of their chips and Tara rolling her eyes like it happened daily.

It was safe here. Soft.

It almost made the weight in his chest feel manageable.

Which, of course, meant Darcy had to ruin it.

“So,” they said, swallowing their last bite, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Tell us everything about your love life.”

Tara’s eyebrows lifted in perfect sync, and Nick nearly choked on his drink.

Nick wiped his mouth with a napkin and tried to play it cool, resting his elbow on the table. “He’s… um. He’s really nice. A florist.”

Darcy immediately leaned in like a fox scenting blood. “ He ?! Oh, we’re going with he ?! This is already my favorite story.”

Tara gave Darcy a pointed look before turning back to Nick, her smile softer. “What’s his name?”

Nick scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the grain of the wooden table. “Charlie.”

“ Charlie ,” Darcy repeated, like they were testing the name on their tongue. “Mmm. Gay florist named Charlie. Love that for you.”

“I didn’t say anything’s happening,” Nick said quickly, but his ears betrayed him– bright pink and glowing with the kind of heat that meant something was happening. At least emotionally.

Darcy gasped, scandalized. “You’re so red . Oh my god, look at him– Tara, look at him !”

“I am looking,” Tara said with a smug little grin, resting her chin on her hand. “He’s blushing like someone just proposed to him in public.”

“I am not – ” Nick buried his face in his hands with a groan. “I hate you both.”

“No, you love us,” Darcy said smugly. “And you also love Charlie the Flower Prince, don’t you?”

Nick peeked up through his fingers, flustered beyond repair. “He’s just… He’s really kind. And smart. And creative. He makes these bouquets by hand, even has this little chalkboard system for prices, and he never speaks, but it’s never awkward? I don’t know. It just feels good when I’m around him.”

That shut them both up for a beat.

Tara’s expression softened, head tilting slightly. “Wait, he doesn’t talk?”

Nick nodded. “He’s nonverbal, or selectively mute– I’m not sure of the details, but he has this whole setup. Notebooks, flower tags. And it’s… it’s honestly kind of beautiful. The way he communicates, like he chooses every word. And he smiles at me sometimes and it just– ” He paused, unsure how to explain the way it lit him up from the inside. “I don’t know. It’s like being let in on a secret.”

Darcy actually clutched their chest. “Nick. That’s literally the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard and I once fake-proposed to Tara in the middle of a Pride parade with a gummy ring.”

Tara rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree.

Nick exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table. “It’s not like that, though. We’re just… friends. He makes me tea. Sometimes lets me help with the flowers. It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” Tara said dryly. “That’s why you’ve gone cherry red from the neck up and sound like you’re describing a sunrise.”

“I hate this lunch,” Nick muttered, but he was smiling.

Darcy leaned across the table, eyes gleaming. “Okay. Describe him. Fully. I want a character sheet, Nick. Stats, quirks, vibe, everything.”

Nick hesitated– briefly. Then sighed, defeated, because clearly there was no escaping this. “Fine.”

He took a breath, fingers fidgeting at the rim of his water glass. “Um… He has really curly handwriting. Like, sort of slanted but neat, kind of a hybrid between cursive and print? It’s really nice. And he’s quiet, obviously, but he– he kind of speaks with everything else, you know? His expressions, the way he moves his hands. He signs, too. I’ve been practicing so I can understand more.”

Darcy mock-fanned themselves. “Already learning his love language, this is excellent content.”

Nick gave them a look, but didn’t stop. “He’s got freckles. Not super dark ones, but they’re there if you’re close enough.”

Tara arched a brow. “And how often are you close enough to see them?”

Nick paused. “...Shut up.”

That only made Darcy giggle harder. “Continue, please. This is delicious.”

Nick tried to focus, eyes slightly distant now, painting the image like he was remembering it in motion. “His hair’s medium length, all messy curls– dark brown, almost black. Kind of fluffy on humid days. And he’s got these eyes– like, stupidly blue. The kind of blue that shouldn’t be real, like they were color-graded in post. You look at him and just kind of forget to blink.”

“Oh my god ,” Tara whispered, hand over her mouth.

Nick wasn’t done. “He has this habit of biting his lip when he’s concentrating. And, okay– yes, I’ve looked at his lips. A bit.”

Darcy was openly cackling now, smacking the table. “You are so gone.”

“And he always wears these cozy oversized jumpers,” Nick continued, like he didn’t hear, “Like properly soft-looking ones, like he could live inside them. And he owns two cats– Nyx and Hypnos. One’s a sleepy menace, the other’s just a menace.”

“You’re falling in love with a fairytale boy,” Tara said matter-of-factly. “A florist with cats in jumpers? Is this a romcom or your actual life ?”

Nick kept going. “He knows all the meanings of flowers. Like, everything. If I bring up a bouquet he’ll just… gesture or point and suddenly it makes emotional sense. And his fingers–”

Darcy raised both brows, waiting.

“–are really slender. Like, artist’s hands. Calloused from the shears and dirt under the nails sometimes but they’re still somehow– neat? Shaped well. They move like he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

There was a brief pause.

Tara deadpanned, “Nick. I think you want him to hold your hand and ruin your life.”

Nick flushed, but still added, “He has this lined bellflower tattoo on his inner forearm. Like, really fine-line. Bellflowers mean ‘thinking of you,’ by the way.”

Darcy let out a high-pitched noise and smacked Tara’s shoulder. “He’s so in love , this is insane.”

“And he has dimples,” Nick said, a little dreamily. “Like, really good ones. When he smiles or smirks, his whole face changes. His eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s just– ”

“You mentioned the dimples twice,” Tara pointed out.

“Did I?”

Darcy nodded solemnly. “You did. You are obsessed.”

Nick slumped against the table, groaning. “Okay, fine . He’s pretty . He’s nice. He’s soft and clever and funny and I like him.”

Tara reached across to squeeze his arm, her expression warm. “Nick, you’re gone. Like, fully. Might as well start drafting vows.”

Darcy clasped their hands together, misty-eyed and dramatic. “And so it was that our sweet golden retriever bestie was slain by a mute flower boy with cats and dimples.”

“I hate you both,” Nick mumbled again, face in his hands.

But he was smiling.

Tara leaned back in her chair, stirring her tea slowly, eyes still fixed on Nick with a kind of careful calculation. The teasing had faded into something softer now, a quiet fondness behind the curve of her smile.

“So,” she said, gentle and deliberate, “when are you going to ask him out?”

Nick choked on absolutely nothing. “Wh– Tara– ”

She shrugged. “You like him. You’re smiling like a dork every time you say his name. You notice his freckles . Which means you’re looking that close, and–”

“I just got out of a relationship,” Nick mumbled, ears going pink again as he poked at the edge of his sandwich. “It’s not that simple.”

Tara nodded, still calm. “I know. But it’s been almost a year since her, and I’m not saying rush into anything. But you’re allowed to like someone, Nick. You’re allowed to want something soft, and new.”

“Or,” Darcy cut in, slapping both palms on the table with a thwap , “hear me out– just ask him out . Boom. Problem solved.”

Nick’s eyes widened. “Darcy– ”

“No, listen. LISTEN,” Darcy said, already fired up, waving one hand like they were orchestrating a dramatic reveal. “You are pining like some poor Victorian ghost. You are haunted by this man’s dimples. And sweater collection. And cats. And probably his hands– ”

“Darcy– ”

“–and every time he so much as looks at you, you spiral into some soft poetic monologue inside your head, probably something like ‘his eyes are the sky and I am just a cloud longing to be close’ – ”

“I do not think that,” Nick muttered, pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

Tara raised a brow. “But you did say his eyes looked color-graded in post.”

Nick groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Why do I talk to either of you?”

Darcy grinned. “Because we’re the only ones who will bully you and get you laid.”

Nick let out a strangled laugh, lifting his head just enough to squint at them. “It’s not like that. I don’t even know if he’s into me like that. He’s… complicated. And he’s got a lot going on.”

Tara’s voice softened again. “You don’t have to know everything yet. Just… be honest. Try. If you’re kind, and patient, and you care like you clearly do , he’ll see that.”

Nick swallowed. He looked down at the table, then out past the window, where sunlight broke over the busy street. He felt warm, even in the spring air. His stomach had that fluttery, anxious thing going on again.

Ask him out.

It echoed in his head like it had already been decided, even as his mouth still said, “I don’t know…”

Nick’s fingers toyed with the edge of his plate, spinning a chip in lazy circles while the smile faded from his face. The lightness from before dulled into a slow inhale.

“I…” He paused, eyes flicking between his two oldest friends. “When I broke up with her– eight months ago– I think I didn’t really know what I wanted anymore. I’d spent so long trying to be something for someone else that by the end… I was kind of fine with being alone.”

Darcy’s grin slipped a little, and even Tara quieted, letting Nick speak at his own pace.

“I wasn’t sad,” he said, voice low. “Not even angry. Just… empty, I guess. I thought maybe that’s just how I’d feel for a while. That maybe that’s what it looked like. Getting older. Getting over it. Just… being alone and okay with it. And I was. I.. figured life out, I guess.”

He looked up, eyes crinkled, but not from smiling. “But now there’s Charlie. And I keep thinking about him, and how I feel around him, and how I want to be around him. And then right after that, I think– what if I screw it up? What if he’s not the right one, or worse, what if I’m not?”

Darcy blinked, something thoughtful tightening their jaw. “Nick…”

“I just– ” Nick scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m learning sign for him. Slowly, yeah, but I am. I try to mirror his pace. Let him lead. I want to make it easy. I want to make it safe . But I still don’t know how to support him. Not really. I don’t know what he’s carrying or how deep it goes. I don’t even know if I’m doing enough.”

He didn’t say anything about the scars– not the ones on Charlie’s arms he’d noticed once and tried not to stare at, or the way his voice seemed locked behind some door Nick wasn’t sure he’d ever be invited to knock on. But he thought about them. About the hum, too. That one little sound that had turned his whole chest inside out. About the notebook. The gestures. The way Charlie’s fingers moved as if they wanted to speak even without words.

Darcy was quiet for a beat longer than usual. Then: “Nick.”

He looked up.

“You are good enough,” they said simply, firmly. “You’re showing up. You’re learning a whole language . You’re not asking for Charlie to change– you’re changing with him. That’s not just good enough, that’s… kind of incredible.”

Tara nodded slowly. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be present . And you are.”

Nick swallowed, throat tight, blinking fast.

Darcy leaned forward, resting their chin on both palms. “Besides,” they added, a small grin creeping back, “you’re already halfway married, with how you describe him. Might as well ask the boy to tea with romantic intent.”

Nick laughed, quiet but real, warmth blooming under his ribs again. “You two are the worst.”

“And yet!” Tara sang, raising her tea in mock salute. “We’re right.”

Nick shook his head, but he wasn’t arguing anymore. Not really.

Because part of him was already thinking about the next time he’d see Charlie.

And how he might, maybe, start trying to show what he felt a little more clearly.

Nick leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly. His thumb absently traced the edge of his glass, still catching the last beads of condensation. “I think I’ll just… ride it out. For a bit longer.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Ride it out?”

“I won’t hide it. I’m not pretending I don’t like him. But I’m not gonna jump straight into asking him out either. Not yet.” He looked at them both. “It’s not fear– it’s more like… I want to make sure I do this properly. That I understand him first. That I’m not rushing him.”

Tara nodded immediately, her expression softening. “That’s reasonable.”

“Yeah,” Nick said quietly. “I just wanna stay close. Let it be whatever it is, until we both know.”

Darcy opened their mouth– probably to protest, tease, something loud– but Tara gently nudged them with an elbow. “Let him have his pace,” she said with a small smile. “Besides, look at him. Boy’s already gone.”

Nick flushed again, but this time didn’t fight it. He just smiled down into his drink and let it sit in his chest– the warmth, the thought of Charlie, and the comfort of knowing he didn’t have to rush.

Maybe this was what it felt like to get it right.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

The late afternoon light had gone syrupy and gold by the time they wandered back to the station. Their shadows stretched long behind them on the pavement, laughter still echoing faintly from some terrible joke Darcy had made three blocks back.

Outside the turnstiles, Nick paused, adjusting the strap of his tote over his shoulder. “Thanks for today,” he said. “Seriously. I didn’t know how much I needed that.”

Darcy didn’t even respond with words– just wrapped him up in a rib-cracking hug, tight and all-encompassing. “Don’t be a stranger, Nelson,” they mumbled into his shoulder. “Like, for real this time. I will show up at your flat uninvited and emotionally terrorise you.”

Nick laughed, patting their back. “That sounds terrifying.”

“That’s love, baby.”

Tara pulled him in next, much gentler but still firm. “We’re proud of you,” she said softly. “Keep letting yourself be happy, okay?”

Nick felt his throat tighten a little. He nodded, blinking rapidly. “You too. Both of you.”

“Tell flower boy we said hi,” Darcy chimed, wiping an invisible tear from their cheek dramatically. “And that if he breaks your heart, I will throw hands.”

Nick snorted. “I haven’t even asked him out.”

“Technicalities,” Darcy said, already halfway back toward Tara. “Love you!”

“Love you, Nick!” Tara added, waving as they walked off together, arms linked.

Nick stood there for a moment, watching them disappear into the crowd. His chest ached– but in a good way. The kind of ache that reminded you you’re not alone.

Then he turned toward the platform, smiling quietly to himself, the word flower boy still echoing in his mind like a bell.

Chapter Text

The morning air bit at Nick’s face, sharp and damp as it blew up the collar of his coat. He tugged it tighter around himself, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag. His coat was fluffy and oversized, the kind that swallowed his frame and trapped all his warmth inside. Still, his cheeks were pink from the cold, and his breath curled in front of him in delicate clouds.

The sun was only just beginning to rise– soft peach bleeding into grey over the London rooftops. The streets were mostly quiet. He passed a woman unlocking her bakery, someone hosing down the front of a fruit stall, the distant rumble of a bus engine further down the road. Nick’s footsteps echoed gently as he approached the corner.

The flower shop looked like something out of a dream in the early light. The windows fogged slightly with warmth from inside, vines tracing the glass. A few hanging baskets shifted gently in the breeze, already heavy with dewy petals. A dim, warm glow spilled from the glass door. Through it, Nick could just barely make out the outline of someone moving– familiar. Gentle. Steady.

He hadn’t been planning to stop in this early. Mondays were usually an after-school tradition. But he had a long day ahead, and he figured… he didn’t know. He just wanted to. Just for a minute.

The little bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open. Warmth hit him immediately– floral and green and a little bit earthy, the signature scent of the shop– and he sighed into it, grateful.

And then– 

Charlie looked up.

He was behind the counter, bent slightly over a small notebook, sleeves already pushed up past his elbows. His curls were tucked back loosely behind his ears, and he wore one of those soft knit sweaters that Nick had mentally nicknamed the “danger sweaters” because they made his brain stop working properly. This one was dark green, the sleeves just a little too long.

Charlie’s eyes widened when he saw him– really widened, full doe-eyes and surprise– and he straightened instinctively, lips parting.

There was a beat of stillness.

Nick blinked, not quite expecting the reaction. His tie was still half-done around his neck, the knot crooked. His hair probably needed a brush. He stepped in slowly, almost unsure, offering a tentative smile.

And then– 

Softly. Barely audible.

“Hi.”

Nick froze.

He stopped breathing. He stopped moving. His heart might have even stopped beating for a second– he wasn’t sure. The word was barely there, just a whisper, just a thread of sound hanging in the air. But it was real. It was his voice.

Charlie had spoken.

Nick didn’t speak immediately. He couldn’t. He just stared at him, lips parted, eyes wide.

The word echoed in his head, bouncing around like it didn’t know where to land. Hi. One syllable. One breath. But it was everything. It was more than anything Nick had ever been given in this shop.

And Charlie– Charlie was standing there with a pink tint spreading across his cheeks, just beneath the freckles. He looked proud, almost bashful, eyes sparkling like he’d just performed some sort of magic trick and was waiting to see if Nick had noticed.

Nick had noticed.

God, had he noticed.

He almost squeaked. He physically had to stop himself from making a sound– he pressed his lips together tight, hands clenched into fists in his coat pockets.

Charlie’s voice. He’d heard it. Not just imagined it, not just guessed what it might sound like. Not dreamt it in the spaces between Charlie’s expressions and his notes and his smirks.

He wanted to play it back, over and over again in his head. Record it to memory. Archive it somewhere deep and warm and never let it go. It wasn’t just a “hi.” It was Charlie. It was a piece of him Nick hadn’t been sure he’d ever get.

“Hi, Charlie,” Nick said at last, voice soft and reverent. Like he was afraid to scare it off.

Charlie gave a tiny smile. The smallest curve of his lips, the barest dimple. But it was there.

Nick’s chest swelled. His tie was still crooked. He didn’t care.

He felt dazed. Lightheaded. Like he’d stepped into a new atmosphere. A one-syllable kind of atmosphere.

Charlie didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He dipped his head slightly, curls falling forward, and turned toward the back shelves– probably to fetch Nick’s bouquet. But even as he moved, there was a quiet energy buzzing between them, like something newly charged.

Nick stayed where he was, coat still zipped up, fingers tingling.

He didn’t know how to describe it. Only that he was here, and so was Charlie, and he had said “hi.” And somehow, the whole world felt different now.

Charlie moved like he always did– quiet, measured, with a kind of careful grace that made Nick feel like he was watching something rare and important. Even the way he selected the bouquet from the shelf behind him was oddly delicate, like he wasn’t just handing over flowers but something far more personal.

He turned back, a faint crease between his brows in concentration as he adjusted the wrapping just slightly, his fingers lingering to secure the twine. His hands– long, slender, calloused– brushed against the petals, coaxing them into perfect place. A thin ribbon of floral tape stuck to the edge of his thumb.

Then, he held the bouquet out to Nick.

Nick stared.

It was beautiful, of course it was. Everything Charlie touched was. This one was warm-toned, glowing like a sunrise– orange ranunculus, yellow lisianthus, pale peach zinnias, delicate sprigs of mimosa tucked among eucalyptus. Nick reached out carefully, almost reverently, and took it from him, his gloved fingers brushing against Charlie’s bare ones.

Static jumped between them.

Nick tried to breathe. He could smell the bouquet from here, soft and fresh and rich in a way that made his chest feel full.

There was a small tag looped through the twine. Nick glanced down at it, knowing what it would be– Charlie always included one, written in his curling, faintly slanted handwriting. A list of the flowers. Their meanings. The way Charlie communicated when he didn’t use words.

Nick read:

Ranunculus: radiant charm
Lisianthus: appreciation
Zinnia: enduring affection
Mimosa: sensitivity
Eucalyptus: protection

And then, at the very bottom of the tag, like it had snuck its way in:

xx

Nick blinked.

Then again.

His brain stopped working. Literally just– blue screen. Complete system failure.

The two little letters, drawn in that familiar hand, sat at the bottom like they’d always belonged there. Not a word. Not a flourish. Just– xx.

As in kisses. As in softness. As in something real and unspoken and dizzying.

His heart did a somersault.

He looked up, stunned, eyes wide and searching.

Charlie was watching him. He didn’t look smug– though maybe a little amused, the tiniest hint of something flickering behind his lashes. His fingers were still poised in front of him, almost like he hadn’t fully let go of the bouquet, even though Nick now held it.

“Thanks,” Nick whispered, voice catching in his throat.

Charlie gave a small nod.

Nick opened his mouth to say something else. He had no idea what. Maybe something about how xx was a death sentence to his composure. Maybe something about how it was too early in the morning for his heart to be doing this. Maybe something about how Charlie was going to ruin him completely.

But nothing came out.

Charlie held out his hand for the payment. Their fingers touched again, and this time, Charlie’s hand lingered. Just a second longer than necessary.

It wasn’t an accident.

Nick’s breath hitched. The coins in his palm felt hot suddenly. He let them fall into Charlie’s waiting hand, watching as the other boy closed his fingers around them.

And then Nick turned and walked out.

He didn’t remember the bell jingling. He didn’t remember how he got to the end of the street.

All he could think about was hi and xx and the way Charlie had looked at him like he meant it.

And then, of course, the train.

Because right now, Nick had to go teach phonics to a group of seven-year-olds while his heart was currently floating somewhere in the stratosphere.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

The train rocked gently as it pulled out of the station, the sound of the doors hissing shut behind him. Nick found a seat near the window, bouquet balanced delicately across his lap, and just… stared.

He didn’t move. He didn’t check his phone or open his bag. He just stared down at the tag.

xx.

Two letters. Not even letters. Just marks . And yet they echoed in his chest louder than anything anyone had said to him in weeks.

His cheeks were burning.

The train lights flickered slightly as they slipped into a tunnel, and he caught his reflection in the glass. Wide eyes. Ridiculous smile. He tried to tone it down, but it didn’t work– he looked like someone who’d just been handed the answer to a question they’d been too scared to ask.

His mind replayed the moment like a broken record:

Charlie looking up, eyes wide and bright, saying “hi” like it hurt and healed him at the same time.

The warmth in his cheeks. The way he’d looked proud afterward. Like he knew what that one word would do to Nick, and had still chosen to say it.

The flowers. The bouquet crafted just for him. Again. As if Nick was someone worth the time.

And the xx.

His brain tried to reason with him. It could mean anything. Charlie might write it to everyone. It could be nothing.

But he knew it wasn’t.

Charlie didn’t waste gestures. He didn’t use words lightly. He was precise, always. And if he’d written xx, and said hi , it was because he’d meant to. It was deliberate. Chosen.

Nick's head thudded gently against the window as he leaned back, eyes fluttering shut. He could still feel the ghost of Charlie’s fingers on his own. Could still see the faint blush on Charlie’s cheeks. Could still hear the soft, almost breathless hi echoing in his ears like a song he never wanted to stop playing.

He was spiralling.

Fully, ungracefully, joyously spiralling.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t scare him.

It felt kind of… wonderful.

Nick barely registered the outside world as the train hummed along, the bouquet still cradled in his lap like something sacred. He’d run his thumb over the paper tag more times than he could count, and every time his eyes landed on the xx , his chest did that tight, full kind of ache again. Like he’d swallowed sunshine and it had nowhere to go.

He imagined Charlie again, behind the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, freckles catching soft morning light. That shy “hi” looping in Nick’s head like a song. Hi, Charlie, he’d said back, quieter than he’d meant to, like if he said it too loud it might vanish.

And the way Charlie had smiled, eyes glinting, cheeks pink with what looked like pride.

Nick could have sat there forever, staring at the tag, rearranging all the moments in his mind like pressed petals in a book, trying to understand how someone so gentle had carved out so much space in his chest without even trying.

A soft ahem broke into the loop.

Nick blinked and looked up.

Miss Rachel– head of the art department, eternally paint-splattered and wearing half-matching earrings– was standing in the aisle beside him, eyebrow raised.

“You planning on getting off at the end of the line, or…?”

“Oh– shit– sorry,” he mumbled, fumbling for the bouquet as he stood, nearly bumping his head against the pole above him. His face was hot. Again. It was always hot these days.

She gave him a knowing look as they stepped off the train together, the early morning chill wrapping around them like a wet scarf.

“You’ve got a look about you,” Rachel said, conversational as ever. “Pink all the way up your ears, like someone just told you they love you in a whisper.”

Nick tried not to choke on air.

“I didn’t– he didn’t– no one – ” he spluttered.

Rachel snorted. “So there is a he. And you’re carrying a bouquet again. What a coincidence.”

Nick tried to focus on walking. On not walking like someone who was internally combusting. Which he very much was.

Rachel tucked her hands in her coat pockets, giving him a sideways glance. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this florist boy is doing something dangerous to your nervous system.”

Nick kept his eyes on the footpath. “It’s not like that,” he said, a little too quickly. Then added, “...I mean, I don’t think it’s like that.”

“Mmhm,” Rachel said, far too satisfied. “You look like someone in a teen romance novel. I’ll allow it.”

Nick tried to compose himself, breathing deeply, bouquet held tighter now. He couldn’t tell Rachel– couldn’t – about the “hi.” About the way Charlie had looked at him. About the xx. Not yet.

So instead, he just smiled a little to himself, eyes flicking down at the flowers.

And Rachel didn’t press. Just gave him a gentle elbow nudge and said, “You’re lucky, you know. Some people never get soft mornings like this.”

Nick nodded, still pink, still dazed, still absolutely not over it.

And they walked together toward the school gates.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick was early enough that his classroom was still hushed and golden in the morning light, the faint chill of the walk clinging to his coat sleeves as he shrugged it off and hung it behind the desk.

He unwrapped the bouquet with careful fingers– more reverent than anything. The paper rustled softly as the blossoms revealed themselves: this week, soft purples and faded whites with hints of green, delicate and wild all at once. Nick could swear Charlie had a sixth sense for his moods. These flowers looked like a quiet exhale.

He reached for the tall vase on the windowsill, filling it at the classroom’s drinking tap and adding a pinch of the powdered flower food Charlie always tucked in, like he knew Nick would use it. The water clouded, then cleared, and Nick stirred it once with the stem of a flower before placing the bouquet in gently, adjusting each bloom like it was fragile.

He was still smoothing a leaf when the classroom door creaked open.

Nico entered, quiet as usual, his uniform neat, backpack hugged to his side. He stopped a few feet in, hazel eyes drawn to the flowers instantly.

“Good morning, Mr Nelson,” he said, stepping closer.

“Morning, Nico.” Nick smiled, still a little dreamy from earlier.

Nico came up to the desk and tilted his head at the bouquet. “Those are really nice.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, without thinking. “They always are.”

Nico’s gaze shifted slightly, sharp and curious, as he noticed the tag lying on the desk beside the empty wrapping. He reached out and picked it up, reading it silently.

Nick could feel the exact second Nico’s eyes landed on the xx at the bottom. The boy’s eyebrows lifted just slightly, and he looked up at Nick with the world’s most innocent curiosity.

“Who’re the flowers from?” he asked, like it was just a passing question.

Nick blinked. “Why?”

Nico turned the tag so Nick could see it. “They put kisses.”

Nick froze for a beat, ears already pinking. “Ah. Right. That.”

He cleared his throat, trying not to sound too sheepish. “They’re from… a friend. His name’s Charlie. He runs the flower shop.”

Nico nodded slowly, considering that. Then: “Flower friend writing kisses, huh?”

Nick groaned lightly, resting his forehead in his hand.

“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone, alright? Secret teacher rule.”

Nico beamed, clearly pleased. “I won’t. Promise.” He mimed zipping his lips shut, then locked them and tossed an invisible key over his shoulder.

Nick laughed softly, relieved and endeared all at once. “Thanks, Nico.”

The boy placed the tag gently back on the desk, almost ceremonially, and padded over to his usual seat, already pulling out his workbook like he hadn’t just gently flustered his teacher before 8:30 a.m.

Nick stared at the tag for a moment longer, then picked it up, brushing his thumb over the handwriting– xx . He tucked the string neatly, tucking it, with the tag into his pocket.

Definitely one for the fridge.

Nick lingered by his desk a moment, watching Nico settle in, already flipping through a few pages in his notebook. His brow was furrowed with focus, pencil tapping against his chin, totally unbothered by the early hour.

“You’re here pretty early today,” Nick said, casual but warm, resting a hand lightly on the edge of the desk. “Everything alright?”

Nico glanced up. “Yeah. I usually come early.”

Nick tilted his head, crouching a little so they were more eye-level. “Just like the quiet?”

Nico shrugged, then nodded. “And it’s warmer here.”

Nick blinked. Something about how simply Nico said it– that gentle matter-of-factness– made his chest ache.

The boy kept talking, like it was no big deal. “Mum works nights, and the heat’s not always on when I wake up. But she says I’m good at keeping warm, so it’s fine.”

Nick didn’t know what to say for a second. It was that kind of child-logic that made your heart twist and smile at the same time. Nico clearly didn’t see it as something sad, just a fact of life. Still, Nick felt something settle in his gut.

“Well,” Nick said softly, trying to keep his voice steady and his smile kind, “you’re always welcome to come in early. I’ll keep some tea bags in the drawer, if you like?”

Nico’s eyes lit up a little at that. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “And maybe a biscuit or two, but don’t tell the head.”

Nico grinned, a little crooked and shy. “Secret teacher rule?”

Nick winked. “Exactly.”

The rest of the morning slipped by in a soft, unfocused haze.

Students trickled in one by one, then in small clusters as the sun rose higher, chatter filling the once-silent halls. Nick moved through it all almost absently, guiding kids to lockers, answering questions about homework, supervising forgotten breakfast sandwiches at desks– present enough to manage, but his mind stubbornly, unwaveringly stuck on one thing.

The "hi."

The simple, delicate sound of it, almost shy in the empty air of the florist. How Charlie’s voice had wrapped around the word, careful but steady. How proud he'd looked afterward, eyes sparkling like he'd conquered a mountain. Nick kept replaying it in his head, like an old record he couldn't bring himself to stop.

Charlie had spoken to him.

The flowers didn't help his focus either– several students and even a couple of teachers commented on the arrangement sitting bright and lively on his desk.
"That’s a beautiful bouquet, Mr. Nelson," one of the older kids said, and Nick just smiled faintly, heart soaring and aching all at once.
Miss Rachel shot him a look across the staff room that screamed 'I'm watching you, flower boy,' and Nick had to duck his head into his mug to hide his grin.

Classes went on. Lessons were taught. He graded a few papers, helped solve a minor scuffle over missing markers, nodded along to updates about a scheduled fire drill. But all day, floating just beneath the surface of everything, was that word. That voice. That tiny, life-tilting moment.

Nick didn’t text Tara or Darcy about it.
Didn’t mention it at lunch when he sat among the other teachers.
Didn’t even let himself think too hard about what it meant.

He just held it quietly inside himself like a secret, tucked somewhere warm and careful, letting it fill him up little by little with something he hadn't had in a long time.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Nick flopped onto his bed, the rain tapping insistently against his window like it was trying to be let in. His laptop sat precariously balanced on his stomach, the screen illuminating the dim room with a soft bluish glow. It was early afternoon, the weekend stretching quietly ahead of him, and yet he found himself doing exactly what he swore he wouldn’t– typing Spring Blooms London florist review into the search bar with an embarrassing sort of urgency.

The first result was a tiny local article, almost more of a blog post than anything official. Nick clicked without thinking.

"Spring Blooms: A hidden gem tucked in the old quarter. Known for its pesticide-free, home-grown flowers, the little shop exudes charm– cats weaving between worn brick pathways, trailing ivy cascading from the windows, the scent of fresh soil and sweetness heavy in the air. There's a sense of care stitched into everything here. The arrangements aren't rigid or uptight; they're droopy, imperfect, alive. Like someone crafted them while humming to themselves, barefoot and smiling. Like someone meant every placement."

Nick swallowed. The words blurred a little.

He could picture it so easily– Charlie, behind the counter, hands gentle even when he moved quickly, those clever fingers plucking stems from scattered buckets of color. Barely brushing Nick’s skin when handing over the bouquet, but the touch had lingered, like Charlie hadn't wanted to let go either.

Nick closed his eyes, his chest tightening.
That tiny hi still echoed in his head, sweet and shaky and so brave .
The glimmer in Charlie’s wide, storm-colored eyes like he'd won a secret war inside himself.

Nick's thumb brushed the space over his ribs, absentminded, like trying to hold the feeling steady inside him.

His browser sat open, the article half-forgotten. On a whim, he flicked to another tab.
Something tugged at the back of his mind.
Something small– a detail he had noticed but never really let himself think about.

The tattoo.
The semicolon, tiny and neat on the inside of Charlie’s left wrist.
Mostly hidden by bracelets, but not always.

Nick sat up slightly, unease sliding down his spine. He typed semicolon tattoo meaning before he could overthink it.

The results loaded immediately:

"The semicolon is used when an author could have ended a sentence, but chose not to. It symbolizes survival, hope, and the choice to continue. Often associated with mental health awareness, particularly suicide prevention."

Nick stared at the screen until the words seemed to throb.

Oh.
Oh.

Images unfurled in his mind– the spindly white scars, barely visible under the gentle lights of the shop; the bracelets Charlie rarely took off; the heavy, quiet way he sometimes looked at Nick, like there were entire oceans he wasn’t saying out loud.

Charlie had chosen to stay.
Charlie had survived something.
And he had said hi to Nick.

Nick pressed the heel of his hand into his chest, trying to breathe around the sudden ache.

It made sense in a way that hurt.
The softness. The gravity behind his shyness. The way he sometimes smiled like it cost him, and yet did it anyway.

Nick thought about the way Charlie had lingered when passing over the bouquet, his fingers brushing Nick’s like a whisper. He thought about the xx on the tag, the way Charlie's glimmering eyes had looked when he said that single, careful word.

It wasn't just shyness.
It was courage.

Nick leaned back against his pillows, overwhelmed with a hundred things he didn’t have the right words for.
He wanted to be careful with him.
He wanted to be someone who never made that ocean behind Charlie’s eyes feel any heavier.
He wanted to be good enough.

The rain outside grew heavier, drumming a steady rhythm against the glass. Nick let it fill the silence, sitting there with a laptop half sliding off his stomach, a heart that ached in a way that somehow wasn't only pain.

Nick shut the laptop, pressing the screen down with careful fingers like he could trap the thoughts inside and stop them from crowding him.

But it was too late. They were already there, blooming and tangling in his mind.

Charlie.
Charlie, with his shy smiles and the weight in his eyes.
Charlie, who never spoke, but communicated so well.

Nick remembered, suddenly, the way Charlie's throat had bobbed when he said hi , the clear effort of it. How sometimes, Charlie would just nod when he entered the shop, or offer a scribbled note, his mouth clamped shut, or smiling softly.

Mutism.
Not just shyness.
Something protective. Something learned.
Maybe something he hadn’t always had to do– but needed now.

Nick's chest twisted sharply.
It wasn’t just that Charlie was quiet.
It was that the world had been loud to him. Violent, maybe. Unkind in ways Nick could only guess at.

Nick let out a shaky breath. His hand curled instinctively over his heart, his fingers pressing hard against the soft cotton of his jumper.

It hurt.
It hurt in this raw, furious way.
Like the ache you get when you love something so much you can barely fit it inside your own body.

He wanted – no, needed – to be someone who could keep Charlie safe.
To be soft where the world had been sharp.
To be patient where others hadn't been.
To be a place Charlie could exist without having to fight so hard to be understood.

The need rose up so powerfully that Nick had to close his eyes, feeling them sting, his throat thick and tight.
His heart squeezed painfully, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment, willing himself to keep it together.

Charlie wasn’t fragile– Nick could see that now, could see the strength it took just to exist in a world that hadn't been fair to him.
Charlie was made of something tougher than bone.
But Nick didn’t want him to have to be tough all the time.

He wanted to be a reason Charlie didn’t have to guard himself so much.
Even if all they ever were was this– a flower slipped between them, a whispered hi , a memory of fingers brushing gently– Nick wanted to be something safe in Charlie’s world.

He sniffed quietly, scrubbing the sleeve of his jumper across his face with an embarrassed little huff.
There was no one here to see, but still.
He had gotten a bouquet and a hi and he was coming completely undone.

Nick blinked up at the ceiling, heart hammering, feeling somehow cracked open and brand new all at once.

"I’ll be better," he promised quietly, to no one.
"I’ll learn. I'll be safe. I'll be good for him."

Rain rattled the windows in answer.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

The doorbell rang, a sharp sound that made Nick jolt upright like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
He wiped at his eyes furiously with the sleeves of his jumper, dragging his palms down his face once, twice, willing the redness away even though he knew it was hopeless.

His feet stumbled a little as he crossed the room, the floorboards cool under his socks.
He sucked in a deep breath, forcing his shoulders back into something like composure, and pulled open the door.

Sarah Nelson stood there, hair tugged into a loose bun, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, her face immediately softening at the sight of him.

And then her brows pinched, concern flashing bright and fast across her face.
"Oh, Nicky," she murmured, stepping forward before he could think, wrapping him up in her arms without waiting for permission.

Nick let out a breath that shuddered painfully, sagging into her without meaning to.
He felt himself trembling, just a little, against the solid comfort of her hug– the kind of hug that didn't ask questions, didn't demand anything except that he let himself be held.

He let her rock him gently for a few seconds, tucking his face into the shoulder of her coat, breathing in the familiar, clean scent of her.

But then he straightened up, clearing his throat roughly and stepping back.
He swiped a hand under his nose, blinking rapidly, and tried to smile. "Sorry. Um. Come in. I’ll put the kettle on."

Sarah gave him a look that said we’re not done talking about this, but she nodded and stepped inside, slipping her shoes off neatly by the door.

"Sit down," Nick said, a little hoarsely, gesturing toward the couch or the table– anywhere that wasn’t right in front of him while he tried to wrestle his heart back into his chest.
"I’ll just– I’ll just make some tea."

He turned away before she could answer, busying himself with clattering around the kitchen, filling the kettle, lighting the stove. His hands still shook a little as he worked, but he kept his movements slow and deliberate, grounding himself in the small, familiar motions.

Behind him, he could hear the soft creak of the couch as Sarah sat down, probably watching him with that look she always gave him when she knew he was carrying more than he said.

Nick inhaled through his nose, out through his mouth, and kept moving.

The kettle rumbled to life on the stove, filling the apartment with soft, familiar noise. Nick kept his back turned for a few more seconds, just breathing, just pretending he could fool his mum into thinking he was fine if he made enough tea.

But Sarah had known him since he was nothing more than a squirming bundle in a bassinet.
There was no hiding.

"So..." she said lightly, after a moment, voice threaded with too much care to be casual. "You want to tell me why your face is pink and your eyes are all watery, love?"

Nick hunched his shoulders a little, giving a weak huff of laughter that was closer to a sigh.
"I’m fine," he mumbled, flicking the switch off when the kettle clicked.

"Mhm."
Her tone was skeptical but not pushy– the kind of sound that left the door open, waiting for him to walk through it himself.

He set down two mugs on the counter, pulling out the box of tea she liked– not the strong builder’s brew he usually went for, but something lighter and a little floral.
(He’d bought it just for her, the last time she visited.)

"It’s– " he started, voice rough again. He cleared his throat. "I just. I was thinking too much."

He poured the water carefully, watching the tea darken and swirl in the cups. His hands were steadier now, but his chest still ached.
Still thought about Charlie. About the little hidden signs of hurt he'd pieced together like a puzzle he never wanted him to have lived.

Sarah hummed softly again, the kind of noise that meant she wasn’t going to rush him.

Finally, Nick turned around with the mugs, bringing them over to the table.
She reached out wordlessly, taking hers, and patted the chair next to her.

He sat, feeling a little like a deflated balloon, setting his tea down carefully.
Sarah leaned sideways into him, bumping her shoulder gently against his. "You don’t have to tell me everything, sweetheart. But you don’t have to keep it all locked up either."

Nick stared at the swirling tea for a moment, the scent of it filling the space between them.

"I just... want to be perfect for Charlie," he said quietly, surprising even himself with the way it slipped out, trembling and real.

Sarah’s face softened into something so tender it almost undid him completely.

"Oh, love," she whispered, sliding her hand around the back of his head and pulling him into a proper hug this time, cradling him close like he was still sixteen and had come home heartbroken from some bad match or awful exam.

He let himself stay there, forehead tucked against her shoulder, breathing in the comfort of her, the steady beat of her heart.

"You already are," she said firmly, rubbing his back in small circles. "You're doing more than anyone could ever ask. And you're being so patient, and so kind. That matters more than anything else."

Nick swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

"But I want to understand him properly," he said, words muffled against her jumper. "I want to make sure I don’t– don’t miss anything important."

Sarah smiled against his hair. "Which is why you asked me to bring the BSL flashcards, hmm?"

Nick pulled back just enough to nod, blinking at her.
She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a small stack of cards, flipping one at random.

"Alright, Mr. Nelson," she said, with a playful lilt. "Sign for me– flower ."

Nick’s face broke into a small, real smile for the first time that day.
He sat up straighter and, with slightly shaky but careful fingers, he formed the sign– blooming his hand near his mouth like a flower opening.

Sarah beamed. "Perfect! See? You’re already doing it."

Nick flushed a little, ducking his head, but he felt lighter somehow, the terrible weight inside him easing just a little.

They spent the next half hour like that– sipping tea, laughing softly when Nick fumbled a sign and had to do it again, Sarah gently correcting him and cheering him on.
The apartment warmed with the steam from their mugs and the steady, growing sense that maybe– just maybe– Nick was doing something right after all.

Every time he got a sign right, he thought about Charlie.
About how he'd light up, even if it was just in the tilt of his head or the shine in his eyes.

And Nick promised himself, right there at his tiny kitchen table with his mum beside him –
he would learn.
He would be steady.
He would be the safest place in the world for that boy with the quiet voice and the brave, battered heart.

After another successful round of signing– thank you and cat this time– Nick slumped dramatically back in his chair, grinning faintly.

"I’m gonna get fluent," he declared, pointing at her with mock-seriousness. "Even if it absolutely kills me."

Sarah laughed, a soft, full sound that filled the whole room.
"I don’t doubt it for a second," she said warmly, reaching over to squeeze his wrist. "You always had that stubborn streak. Even when you were little–  couldn’t even read yet and you still threw a tantrum until you figured out how to tie your shoelaces."

Nick flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck, but he was smiling, for real now.

They sat in the little bubble of domestic peace for a few minutes longer– sipping tea, sorting through the flashcards into piles of 'know it' and 'needs work.'
Nick felt the world starting to right itself again. Softer. Kinder. Less overwhelming.

But after a while, Sarah set her mug down and looked at him properly– that mum look, the one he could never squirm away from.

"Can I ask," she said gently, "what exactly has you so scared?"

Nick swallowed. His fingers toyed with the hem of his hoodie.
He thought for a second about shrugging it off. About pretending he was just being silly.

But the truth was already there, swelling heavy in his chest.

"It’s Charlie," he said finally, voice low but steady. "I think– "

He hesitated, picking his words like they were something delicate he didn’t want to break.

"I think... something bad happened to him. Before."

Sarah stayed very still, giving him room, her face open and careful.

Nick twisted his fingers tighter into the fabric of his sleeve.
"I mean, he’s just– he’s amazing. He’s so kind and funny and smart. And brave, I think. But sometimes he gets this look–"
He bit the inside of his cheek. "Like he’s miles away. Like he’s... scared to be here."

Sarah's hand found his again, just resting there, grounding.

"And the mutism," Nick went on, quieter now. "It’s not just shyness. Sometimes he’ll sign something but his hands will shake. And the scars–"

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

"I’m just scared," he whispered. "I’m scared of saying something wrong. Of– of reminding him of something he’s trying to get away from. I don’t ever want to be another person who makes things worse."

Sarah’s fingers squeezed his. "Oh, sweetheart."

Nick opened his eyes, and she smiled at him, fierce and soft at the same time.

"You won't be," she said, no room for doubt. "You’re already being what he needs, Nick. You’re patient. You listen. You notice when he’s scared, even when he doesn’t say it out loud."

"But–" Nick started, the old helplessness creeping in again.

"No buts," Sarah said firmly. "You’re doing the best thing anyone can do for someone who’s been hurt."
She smiled again, a little crooked. "You’re loving him the way he deserves to be loved. And that’s going to mean more than you’ll ever know."

Nick blinked hard, feeling something warm and painful lodge under his ribs.

He leaned forward again, cradling his mug in both hands, letting the quiet fill up the apartment like light through a cracked door.

He didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have a foolproof plan.

But he had this– the certainty, deep and stubborn in his chest –
that Charlie Spring was worth every careful word, every nervous heartbeat, every flashcard, every moment of fear.

And Nick was going to be brave enough to stay.

Sarah watched him for another beat, then leaned back with a playful glint in her eyes.

"You know," she said lightly, tapping her chin, "Nelsons are very loyal creatures. Once we get attached, there’s no shaking us off."

Nick groaned in mock outrage, throwing a cushion at her across the table. She caught it easily, laughing.

"I’m serious!" she teased. "Poor Charlie. He’s going to have a shadow following him around for life."

Nick huffed, but a smile cracked through. "He deserves one," he mumbled into his mug.

Sarah's smile turned gentler, proud and knowing.

Nick set the cup down and then dropped his face straight into his hands, groaning dramatically.
"I’m so smitten," he mumbled into his palms. "This is so embarrassing."

Sarah laughed again, warm and unbothered.
"It’s adorable," she said. "And very you."

Nick peeked through his fingers, cheeks burning pink again.
"I don’t even have his number yet," he moaned. "I’m out here spiraling like a romcom protagonist and I don’t even have a way to text him."

Sarah just chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his hair like she used to when he was younger.

"You’ll get it," she said simply. "Sometimes the best things take a little time."

Nick sighed, letting himself sag dramatically sideways against the back of the chair.

Maybe she was right.
Maybe– just maybe– the slow, careful way they were building this was part of what made it so special.

Even if it did make him feel like the biggest lovesick idiot on the planet.

He smiled into the sleeve of his jumper, heart a little steadier now, and let himself hope.

When Sarah glanced at the clock and stood up, Nick followed her toward the door reluctantly, still fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper.

At the threshold, she turned and cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks fondly.
"You’re doing so well, Nicky," she said quietly. "Learning every day, being patient, being kind. I’m proud of you."

Nick swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

"And when you’re ready," she added with a little smile, "I’d love to meet this Charlie who’s got you blushing like a schoolboy."

He laughed under his breath, ducking his head.
"I’ll… yeah. I’ll see if he ever wants to meet my terrifying mum."

Sarah gave an exaggerated gasp, slapping his arm lightly.
"Terrifying! I’m delightful."

Nick snorted, warmth spilling through him.

Her face softened again, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Take care of yourself, alright?" she said, squeezing his shoulders. "And take care of your heart too. It's a good one."

Before he could say anything back, she pulled him into another hug– tighter, lingering a little longer this time– before finally slipping out into the apartment hallway, the door clicking quietly behind her.

Nick leaned against the door for a second, listening to her footsteps fade.

The apartment was quiet again, but it felt different now– lighter, somehow.
He smiled to himself, and wandered back toward the kitchen, heart still warm, mind still full of Charlie.

Chapter Text

The rain had been coming down in a soft, silver mist all afternoon, turning the streets slick and reflective like a watercolor painting. Nick pulled his coat tighter around himself as he jogged the last few steps to the flower shop, shoes skidding slightly on the wet cobblestones. The small brass bell above the door jingled softly as he pushed inside, and for a moment, he just stood there– letting the warmth and the rich, green scent of soil, petals, and storm air wash over him.

The shop was mostly empty, save for the quiet hum of the old heater by the counter and the rhythmic ticking of the rain against the front windows. It felt like stepping into a pocket of another world, tucked away from the cold, gray afternoon outside. Plants drooped lazily from their hanging baskets, their leaves glossy with recent misting, and somewhere deeper in the back, the faint creak of floorboards gave away the movement of a cat.

Charlie was there– behind the front counter, a half-drunk mug of tea steaming gently beside him, one hand absentmindedly stroking Nyx’s sleek black fur where she sprawled across the worn wooden surface. He was wearing another of his soft jumpers, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a flash of the woven bracelets around his wrists. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon, and his cheeks were faintly pink, warmed by the heater.

When he heard the bell, Charlie glanced up– and the moment his eyes found Nick, something shifted.

The slight tension in his shoulders melted away. His mouth lifted into a tiny, crooked smile, and his eyes– that endless, impossibly blue gaze– lit up like someone had thrown open every window in the place. A breath of pure, bright pride crossed his face, so unguarded it made Nick’s own heart catch painfully behind his ribs.

Charlie set down his tea, straightening up a little.
And then, voice so soft it barely stirred the air, he said,
"Hi, Nick."

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy.
But it was everything .

Nick felt the sound of it ripple through him like the first beam of sunlight after a storm. His whole face heated up at once, ears burning, and he had to duck his head quickly under the pretense of wiping a bit of rain from his hair. He wanted to smile so hard it would split him open.

“Sorry,” he managed, voice cracking with a little helpless laugh as he stepped further inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. His hands flapped awkwardly at his sides for a second before he stuffed them into his pockets.
“I don’t– ” he tried again, shaking his head with a soft, breathless sound. “You just– wreck me. Every time.”

Charlie's smile grew fractionally, a little secret thing. His fingers curled lightly against the wood of the counter, almost like he was bracing himself from fidgeting, or from smiling even wider. His eyes shimmered under the yellow light, proud and amused and shy all at once.

Nick tried not to combust on the spot.

Across the counter, Nyx stretched and yawned, flashing a set of tiny fangs, before rolling onto her side to offer her belly lazily to the room. Charlie glanced down at her fondly, stroking a hand through her fur once more– and Nick, standing there dripping faintly onto the welcome mat, soaked through with rain and something far more dangerous, thought:
This might just be the best moment of my life.

Nick made his way up to the counter, peeling off his damp jacket and slinging it carefully over one of the nearby hooks. As he shook the rain from his sleeves and ran a hand through his curls, Hypnos padded out from the back room –  a streak of soft brown and black fur weaving deftly between Nick’s ankles.

“Hey, buddy,” Nick murmured automatically, crouching a little to scratch behind Hypnos’s ears. The cat let out a pleased rumble and pressed closer, winding himself insistently around Nick’s legs.

Charlie made a sound– a tiny, soft thing– and Nick glanced up just in time to see it:

A breathy, almost inaudible giggle, half-hidden behind the fall of Charlie’s fringe. His nose crinkled slightly in this utterly unguarded, painfully sweet way, and Nick– 

Nick forgot how to stand.

His heart just stuttered violently, then seemed to punch him straight in the throat.

For a second, he could only blink at Charlie like an idiot, crouched there mid-pet, as warmth flooded through him so quickly it almost made him dizzy.

Charlie looked a little startled by his own laugh, too– cheeks coloring faintly as he ducked his head and focused very intently on adjusting one of the little jars of flowers on the counter, as if trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Nick let out a helpless, choked little laugh of his own, straightening up, heart hammering.
“Don’t– ” he started, voice cracking again. He ran a hand down his face, grinning stupidly. “You’re not allowed to just– do that.”

Charlie peeked up at him from under his lashes, a thread of mischief hidden in the blue of his eyes.

Nick swore very softly under his breath and Charlie’s shoulders shook with another silent giggle.

Nick decided he was absolutely doomed, and that he was probably fine with that.

Still a little unsteady, Nick stepped closer to the counter, fingertips brushing against the displays almost absently. The shop was so quiet– only the sound of rain, the tick of the clock, and the warm hum of two people trying very hard not to fall all the way into something dangerous.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Um– ” Nick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Would it be… okay if I– ” He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks blazing. “Could I have your number?” he blurted finally, feeling all the blood in his body rush straight to his ears.
“I just– you know, in case I wanna ask about flowers sometime. Or say hi. Or, uh– anything.”

He realized he was babbling and bit his tongue.

Charlie tilted his head, his hair sliding soft over his forehead. There was something achingly fond in the way he looked at Nick then– a kind of gentle amusement, paired with an almost boyish shyness.

And then, slowly, he nodded.

Nick handed over his phone with hands that were maybe trembling a little. Charlie’s fingers brushed his when he took it– a fleeting contact, feather-light but burning enough that Nick nearly fumbled the handoff.

Charlie tapped softly at the screen, the tips of his fingers careful and sure. After a moment, he handed it back.

Nick glanced down– and his heart gave a full somersault in his chest.

A new contact stared up at him, saved under simply:
Charlie

And before Nick could even think, his phone buzzed lightly in his hand.

A new text.

hi :P

Nick made a small, completely involuntary sound– something between a laugh and a sigh and a squeak– and looked up at Charlie again, who was now biting his lip to keep from smiling too widely.

Nick clutched the phone to his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna die,” he announced, deadpan.

Charlie let out another breathy giggle, barely audible but there, warm and real and alive between them.

And Nick, standing there in the cozy, rain-lit shop, grinning like an absolute fool, thought:
Yeah. No way I’m walking away from this.

Charlie turned toward the workspace behind the counter, fingers drifting lightly over the vases and sprigs of color laid out in neat, effortless disarray. A few blooms drooped lazily over the edges– soft storm-colored petals in deep blues, muted purples, ghostly creams and pale silvers, like the sky just before it broke open with rain.

Nick leaned his hip against the counter, still clutching his phone loosely, feeling something inside him slowly unravel.

He should have said something– offered to help or at least made some kind of comment– but the words caught, tangled somewhere in the back of his throat.

Because– 

God.

Charlie.

Charlie with his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, slender hands dusted in stray bits of pollen and petals, moving so gently it was like watching someone paint a masterpiece only they could see.

Charlie with his hair still a little messy from the afternoon humidity, curls catching the light like spun thread, wild and soft and unfairly beautiful.

Charlie with those long, delicate lashes that cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he focused, and the tiny freckles dusting across the bridge of his nose, so subtle Nick wanted to lean closer just to count them.

Charlie who was quiet, yes– painfully shy at times– but who smiled in a way that could level Nick’s entire world without a single word.

Nick felt something twist low in his stomach– not sharp or scary, but slow and warm and inevitable.

He could barely believe it.
That somehow, out of some absurd twist of luck, out of a bored afternoon and a half-hearted search for a bouquet that wasn’t mass-produced and half-dead by the time he brought it home –  this was where he had ended up.

Here.

In a rain-washed little florist’s shop, watching the most beautiful boy he had ever seen tenderly coax life into a bundle of storm blooms.

How had this happened?

How had the universe decided that he , of all people, got to be standing here, heart pounding like a drum, watching Charlie Spring with his rainwater eyes and quiet giggles and soft, crinkling smiles?

Nick swallowed hard, trying to get a grip on himself, but it was no use.

His heart wasn’t just full; it was overflowing, dizzy with it.

You’re so gone for him, Nick thought helplessly, fingers curling a little against the cool countertop.
And you don’t even care.

Charlie glanced up then, sensing Nick’s gaze, and his mouth tilted into something soft –  a shy, pleased kind of look, like he didn’t mind being caught.

Nick smiled back– wide, unfiltered, completely unable to hide how utterly gone he was.

Charlie ducked his head again, curls falling into his eyes as he carefully began assembling the bouquet, his hands choosing stems with the sort of deliberate tenderness that made Nick’s chest ache.

Outside, the rain tapped gently against the windows, a steady lullaby to the quiet magic unfolding inside.

Charlie worked slowly, his hands sure even as the storm outside deepened, smudging the world into soft grey and silver.
Nick stayed where he was, hands tucked loosely into the front pocket of his hoodie, watching.

The bouquet wasn’t just a handful of flowers thrown together– it was built , composed , like a prayer.

Drenched lilac, pale as mist.
Ivory roses with rain-speckled petals.
Deep indigo anemones, dark hearts glowing like twilight stars.
Sprigs of fresh leaves, soft and silver-green, weaving between the colors like whispered promises.

Charlie tucked the last sprig into place, stepping back with a tiny, satisfied breath.
He turned the bouquet gently in his hands, as if testing its weight, his brows furrowed in concentration– and then, slowly, he turned toward Nick, the tiniest light of pride in his storm-colored eyes.

Without a word, he extended the bundle forward– not across the counter, but toward Nick himself, bridging the space between them like an offering.

Nick’s heart caught behind his ribs.

Slowly– reverently– he reached out and took it from Charlie’s hands, brushing fingertips by accident, barely a breath of contact.
The bouquet was cool and damp against his palms, heavy with rain-sweet scent.

Charlie smiled– small, closed-lipped, but real– and after a tiny pause, lifted his hands.

His fingers shaped slow signs in the air, a little hesitant but sure:

Storm.
Gift.

Nick's grin broke across his face before he even thought about it, wide and dizzy, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his ears go pink.

Charlie, seeing it, dropped his gaze with a bashful little scrunch of his nose, lashes fluttering low and shy.

Nick fumbled to set the bouquet carefully against the counter– the last thing he wanted was to damage the holy thing he’d been given– and lifted his own hands clumsily, trying to mimic the signs back.

Not perfect– probably a little shaky– but Charlie looked up at him again when he did, and something melted soft in his face, like the rain easing into mist.

Then, quietly, Charlie reached for the notebook tucked at his hip and scribbled something in neat, careful handwriting.

He turned the page around to show Nick:

You don't have to pay. It’s for you.

Nick blinked, touched beyond words.

He opened his mouth instinctively– Charlie, no, you can’t just – but when he caught sight of Charlie’s earnest, almost fierce little smile, the protest melted on his tongue.

Instead, he nodded, fiercely grateful, and pressed a hand against his chest in a clumsy little gesture of thanks he hoped translated.

Charlie giggled– the barest breath of sound, almost inaudible– and Nick would have sworn the shop itself grew warmer for it, like the rain outside was falling somewhere very, very far away.

Nick still hadn’t moved.
He was standing there with the storm blooms clutched gently against his coat, staring at Charlie like he was something unreal .
Like Nick couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to be here– sharing this small, secret world where rain brushed the windows and the whole shop smelled like wet stone and eucalyptus.

Charlie shifted, just a little, under the weight of it– not uncomfortable exactly, but almost... uncertain.
Like he didn’t quite know what to do with that kind of attention.
He dropped his gaze, fingers brushing absently over the spine of his notebook, lashes low and long against his cheeks.

Nick saw it– the way Charlie shrank in on himself slightly, almost shied from the look he was being given.
Something about it made Nick ache.

Without thinking– barely even breathing– Nick said it, voice low and barely a whisper:

"You're so pretty."

The words tumbled out into the space between them like a confession.

Charlie’s head snapped up.
His mouth parted slightly– not enough to speak, just enough to breathe– and for a split second, the purest, rawest confusion flickered across his face.
Like he hadn’t quite processed the words.
Like he hadn’t quite believed they were meant for him.

For a long heartbeat, he just looked at Nick– wide-eyed and blinking, like a startled bird.
Pink bloomed high across the apples of his cheeks, racing to the tips of his ears.

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth– a small, unconscious gesture– his brows knitting, soft and uncertain.

Nick felt his own heart stutter and trip, overwhelmed by the sheer tenderness of it all.

Charlie ducked his head again– but this time it wasn't exactly shyness.
It was something quieter. Sadder.
A kind of wonder, maybe, mixed with disbelief.

As if no one had ever said something kind to him without wanting something in return.
As if he didn't quite know how to receive something freely given.

Nick wanted– desperately– to tell him a hundred times over.
To fill up every empty pocket in him that someone else had hollowed out.

Instead, he just shifted a little closer– so close their shoes nearly bumped– and smiled, soft and crooked.

Charlie peeked up at him through the fringe of his lashes, and– maybe without meaning to–  smiled back.
Tiny, like a sunrise trying to break through fog.

It made Nick want to weep, and laugh, and hold him, all at once.

The storm rumbled low outside, rattling the glass faintly.
But in here–  in this warm, rain-sweet bubble of a world– Nick swore he could hear nothing but the sound of Charlie's breathing.

Slow.
Steady.
Real.

But all of a sudden, Charlie’s smile faltered– flickering out like a candle hit by a gust of wind.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there– frozen between leaning in and pulling away–
before he stepped back, sharp and hurried, like he'd touched something too hot to hold.

Nick’s heart twisted.

Charlie dropped his eyes, fumbling to organise the flowers he left behind–  moving with quick, nervous hands, busying himself with adjusting the stems, brushing invisible dust from the counter.
It was the kind of frantic movement people did when they didn’t know where else to put their feelings.

Then– almost imperceptibly– Charlie signed a single, hesitant word:

"Sorry."

Fingers curling inward against his chest, head bowed.

It was soft.
Small.
Crushing.

Nick’s chest ached.
Immediately– immediately – he stepped back too, giving Charlie space, hands raised slightly in the air like he was showing he meant no harm.

"Hey– " he said, voice just above a whisper, "Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry."

Charlie peeked up at him– a quick, flickering glance–
like he was trying to assess if he meant it.

Nick softened further, letting himself smile, even though it felt a little cracked around the edges.

"I’m the one who went too fast," Nick said, gently. "I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

Charlie blinked– slow and startled– and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

The rain whispered against the windows.
Somewhere, a cat leapt down from a shelf with a soft thump.

Then– in a movement so small Nick almost missed it– Charlie shook his head.

Not no to him.
No to the idea that Nick had done anything wrong.

Nick felt something in his chest squeeze, tight and bright and painful.

Carefully– slower this time– he tilted his head and gave Charlie a tiny, lopsided smile.

"We can go as slow as you want ," he promised, voice low and honest.

Charlie looked at him again– really looked at him–
and something loosened in his shoulders, just barely.

Not enough to close the distance between them.
But enough to stay.
Enough to try.

Nick didn’t want to leave.
God, he didn’t want to leave.

Every inch of him wanted to stay here –  in the quiet hum of the flower shop, surrounded by the smell of rain and green and earth, with Charlie standing shy and beautiful in front of him.
But he knew if he didn’t, he’d miss his window to get his lesson plans done –  and there was no way he could afford to throw the whole afternoon away, no matter how much he wanted to.

He shifted his weight reluctantly, the storm bouquet cradled carefully against his chest, still slightly warm where Charlie’s hands had brushed it into shape.
The paper crinkled as he moved.

" I should... " Nick started, thumb brushing over the slick paper.
He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

Charlie looked up at him through his lashes– wary, but open– and Nick found himself smiling without even meaning to.

"You can text me whenever you want," Nick said, gentle and earnest, heart pounding as he spoke the words aloud.
"No pressure or anything."

Charlie tilted his head– curls falling into his eyes– and for a moment, Nick thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.

But then –  so softly it almost wasn’t there–  Charlie nodded.
Tiny. Shy. Sure.

Nick’s heart did a somersault.

He tucked the bouquet tighter into the crook of his arm, offering a last grin–  a little overwhelmed, a little in awe–  and took a hesitant step backward toward the door.

"Thank you, Charlie," he said, meaning it more than he could explain.
Not just for the flowers.

For the moment.
For the bravery.
For the chance.

Charlie blinked at him– cheeks flushed pink– and signed "Thank you" back, hands small and precise.

Nick’s heart ached in the most beautiful way.

With one last, lingering look– burning him into memory– Nick slipped out into the misting rain.

• ─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

The walk back to his flat was a blur.

Nick barely noticed the soft mist cooling his cheeks, or the way the wet concrete soaked through the soles of his shoes.
He clutched the bouquet close to his chest, like it could anchor him in the real world.

All he could think about was Charlie.

The way his lashes fluttered when he smiled.
The tiny furrow of his brow when he was concentrating on signing.
The soft pink dusting his nose and cheeks.
The way he had said Nick’s name– real and solid and warm– like he wanted him there.

Nick laughed under his breath– a wet, breathless sound– blinking up at the gray sky.

He felt wrecked.
Wrecked in the best possible way.

How was it even possible that a simple trip to buy flowers had led to this?
To him?

Nick tightened his hold on the bouquet –  careful not to crush the petals –  and ducked his head against the rain, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

He said my name, Nick thought, over and over, like a prayer.
He said my name.

And even though he had lesson plans waiting, deadlines ticking louder in his mind, Nick couldn't stop himself from smiling so wide it hurt.

Nick stepped into his flat, the door clicking softly behind him. The rain still drizzled gently against the window, and he felt a little damp, but his mind was somewhere far away–  back at the flower shop, with Charlie.

He set the storm bouquet on the table, fingers lingering on the delicate paper, as if afraid the flowers would slip away and the moment would vanish. The soft scent of the blossoms mingled with the faint, earthy scent of rain, and for a second, it was like he could still feel Charlie’s presence hanging in the air, all delicate and uncertain.

He ran a hand through his wet hair and exhaled deeply, still buzzing from the conversation. From the way Charlie had looked at him, so open, so shy. From the softness of his voice when he’d spoken, the way his hands moved through the air when he signed.

Nick’s phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at it.

A text from Charlie.

He felt a little breath catch in his chest. He hadn’t expected anything so soon.

He unlocked the screen, his heart fluttering, and then there it was.

Charlie :
Hey, Nick. Just wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean to freak out when we were standing so close. I think I got a bit overwhelmed. It’s not you, it’s just me... I don’t always know how to handle stuff like that. I’m sorry if I made it awkward.

Nick blinked at the message for a moment. It was carefully written, no typos, but still felt Charlie –  a little hesitant, almost overthinking.

Nick's heart softened. He immediately typed back.

Nick :
Hey, no need to apologize, seriously. I didn’t think you freaked out or anything. I get it–  sometimes it’s just a lot. I’m glad you’re okay though. And no rush. Just wanna make sure you know that.

He paused for a second before sending it, then added something else.

Nick :
I’m really glad we met, Charlie. Don’t stress about anything, alright?

Nick hit send and leaned back in his chair, feeling a little lighter. He stared at the screen, wondering if Charlie would get it, if it would help him feel better.

Not long after, another message popped up from Charlie, and this time Nick’s heart skipped a beat. It was brief, but there was something so honest in it.

Charlie :
Thanks for understanding. I think I needed to hear that. I don’t want you to think I’m weird or like I’m pushing you away. I just get scared sometimes. I’ll try not to let it happen again.

Nick’s heart warmed. He smiled to himself, fingers already typing.

Nick :
Nah, you’re not weird. And I get it, really. Just take things at your own pace. I’m not going anywhere.

Nick paused again, feeling like maybe that was all he needed to say.

Nick :
You’re doing great, Charlie. Don’t overthink it.

With that, he sent the message, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. It wasn’t too much, but he hoped it would help Charlie feel more comfortable, more at ease.

Chapter Text

It was a Monday, but for once, Nick wasn’t rushing through the morning in a flurry of coffee and lesson plans.
No classes today— a rare, quiet day off— and somehow, without even thinking too hard about it, he found himself walking toward the florist.

The air was still crisp from the weekend's rain, damp and sweet like overturned earth and something new growing. Nick tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, the cold nipping gently at his knuckles, and tried not to check his phone again to make sure the shop would be open.
(He knew it would be. He knew the hours by heart now.)

When he reached the corner, he spotted the familiar hand-painted sign swinging slightly in the light breeze. And there— through the big front window— Charlie.
Still setting out a few mismatched buckets of flowers, fluffing stems, adjusting labels.
The shop was technically open, but empty except for him and the two lazy cats lounging on the counter.

Nick’s stomach turned over itself with a ridiculous, fluttery kind of warmth. He wasn’t even inside yet, but he was already gone.

Charlie looked up as the bell over the door jingled, and Nick was hit— bodily, almost— by the brightness of his smile.
Full dimples, soft crinkling around his wide blue eyes, his whole face lighting up with recognition.

Nick froze for a second on the threshold, a little breathless.
He offered a small, sheepish wave.

Charlie waved back — a little shy, a little proud — before smoothing a stray curl back from his forehead with one of those slender, careful hands Nick had admired far too much already.
Then, still smiling, Charlie gestured warmly for him to come inside, stepping back to give him space.

Nick swore, as he stepped through the door, that the entire shop smelled even sweeter than usual— like jasmine and rain and something he didn’t have a name for.

Maybe it was just him.
Maybe it was just Charlie.

Nick stepped carefully around a drying patch of floor— where Charlie must have mopped that morning— and hovered near the counter, a little unsure where to put himself.
He’d meant to come in and be casual. Normal.
But Charlie was smiling at him like that, all pink-cheeked and dimpled, and Nick’s brain was already short-circuiting.

Still, he cleared his throat and, remembering what he’d practiced the night before, lifted his hands to sign something new.

Good morning.

At least, that’s what he tried to sign.

Charlie blinked— the most fleeting, barely-there little hitch of confusion— and then, in the next second, gave a small, helpless giggle. It was almost soundless, barely a breath, but Nick heard it anyway.
Felt it land right in the center of his chest.

Charlie shook his head fondly and, without hesitation, stepped closer.
Nick hardly dared to breathe as those careful hands — smaller than his, warm — reached out and gently took Nick’s clumsy ones.

For a second, Nick thought he might actually black out from how gentle it all was.
Charlie’s fingers were patient, guiding his own into the right shapes, adjusting a thumb here, nudging a wrist there.
When he finished, he tapped Nick’s knuckles lightly and smiled — wide and a little bit cheeky, the corners of his mouth pink from the cold, the curve of his dimple deep and devastating.

Nick exhaled a soft, stunned laugh. "Thanks," he said, his voice dropping low without meaning to.

Charlie just gave a small, proud nod, stepping back again, the light catching in his curls. His eyes were brighter than the shop windows — brown and gleaming and quietly delighted.
It wasn’t just that Nick had tried.
It was that Nick cared enough to want to get it right.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The hum of the heater clicked quietly in the background. Somewhere behind the counter, Hypnos stretched and yawned, tail curling lazily.

Finally, Charlie ducked his head — lashes fluttering — and made a little beckoning gesture.
Come see.

Nick grinned and followed, feeling weightless, like he'd stepped into a secret, sacred world he didn’t ever want to leave.

Charlie led him past the main displays — the big, carefully arranged bouquets and seasonal spreads — and toward a little nook near the back window.
It was half-hidden, almost an afterthought.
A narrow table tucked between a storage shelf and a peeling radiator, cluttered with loose flowers — single stems, wild sprigs, bits of greenery that didn't fit the main stock.

Nick's breath caught in his throat a little. It wasn’t grand, exactly. But it felt special, like something private. A glimpse into Charlie’s mind: careful, creative, a little chaotic.

Charlie hovered by the table, then looked at Nick, head tilting a fraction. His curls brushed his forehead.
He lifted his hands, fingers dancing in the air — slow, deliberate.

Favorite.

Nick recognized it, just barely, from the app he’d been grinding through late at night.
His brow furrowed in concentration, and he said it out loud without thinking:
"Favorite?"

Charlie’s lips twitched, pleased. He nodded once — neat, decisive — and then, with a flick of his hand, signed another word.

Nick hesitated. "Um... choose?"

Charlie let out a tiny breath of a laugh — soft enough it barely stirred the air — and shook his head fondly.
Before Nick could get too embarrassed, Charlie reached out again, lightly capturing Nick’s hands. His touch was deft but gentle, nudging Nick’s pinky up, straightening his wrist just so.

Nick’s face burned pleasantly. He couldn’t help it.
The warmth of Charlie’s skin — soft in some places, calloused in others — made him dizzy.

They went back and forth like that, falling into a kind of rhythm.
Charlie would sign a simple word — flower, rain, cat, pretty — and Nick would either guess out loud, triumphant when he got it right, or stumble endearingly until Charlie corrected him, hands ghosting against his own.

Sometimes Nick couldn’t quite manage the shapes. His hands were too big, too clumsy, his fingers fumbling at the precision Charlie’s small, slender ones made look effortless.
But Charlie never looked frustrated.
Only amused. Patient.
Proud, even, when Nick finally pieced a sign together.

Nick thought he could have stayed in that corner of the world forever— surrounded by the damp-earth smell of flowers, the muted light through cloudy glass, Charlie’s smile blooming bright enough to eclipse the rest of the city.

Every now and then, when Nick got a sign right without help, Charlie would give a tiny approving nod.
Every now and then, when Nick got it wrong — and knew he got it wrong— Charlie would simply touch his wrist, barely a brush, and fix it without a hint of judgement.

It made Nick feel safe.
It made him want to learn more. To earn more of those little smiles.
It made him wonder, not for the first time, what Charlie’s laughter would sound like, if he ever dared to let it out fully.

Nick swallowed thickly and smiled back, heart thudding loud in his chest.

Maybe someday.
Maybe if he was careful and patient enough.
Maybe Charlie would trust him enough to hear it.

Charlie smiled at him— wide and crinkly at the corners — and signed something simple, his fingers slow so Nick could catch it.
Talk.

Nick's heart swelled stupidly in his chest.
He smiled back, a little dazed, and obediently started to ramble.

"Uh, well— " he rubbed the back of his neck, "there’s this kid, Nico, in my year 2 class? He’s honestly— he’s brilliant. Really clever. But he’s so shy he practically disappears in the back row sometimes."
He laughed under his breath, glancing at Charlie, who was wiping down a counter with an old linen rag, methodical and neat.

"And, um... he's got this thing where he comes into my room before lessons, you know, like... twenty minutes early? Doesn't even really say anything, he just... exists. Sometimes he reads. Sometimes he just sort of... hangs out."

Charlie smiled around the edge of the pot he was scrubbing, a quiet kind of approval.

Nick kept going, encouraged.

"And like— I don't know, I think it's his way of... trusting me? In his own Nico way. I just sit there marking stuff, or setting up lessons, and he's there, and it’s— it’s nice. It's quiet. It's... easy."

As he talked, Charlie moved through opening tasks. He wiped down grimy flowerpots, tidied up stray leaves, rearranged the battered cash register.

Every now and then, as Nick spoke, Charlie let out these tiny hums — soft little sounds of satisfaction or thoughtfulness.
Not words. Just small, instinctive noises. Like the sound of someone content to be exactly where they were.

Nick thought he might actually die of how sweet it was.

At one point, Charlie gave a slightly longer, airy hum — pleased, engaged — and Nick faltered mid-sentence.
He stumbled over his words, dragging a hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to play it cool.

"Sorry, I just— " he said, flushing, "your little— your, um, noises are seriously doing tricks on me."
He laughed, awkward and fond. "But don’t stop. Please don’t stop."

Charlie paused for a heartbeat, like he was weighing how to react.
Then he grinned— grinned— one of those sly, dimpled smiles that made the room feel warmer, cheekier.
His head ducked slightly as if to hide it, but Nick caught the whole thing, heart thudding behind his ribs like a drum.

He didn’t even care if he was blushing.
He was just so stupidly glad to be standing here, in the rainy light, being given these tiny, rare treasures from Charlie— a hum, a smirk, a trust that unfolded so gently it almost broke him to witness it.

Nick smiled helplessly and kept talking, trying to act normal even as his chest felt like it might float right up to the ceiling.

He was in the middle of telling Charlie about another student— some disaster involving a tipped-over paint set— when he heard the familiar scrape of the door opening.

Ms. Henley, in her usual bright scarf and weather-beaten coat, bustled in from the rain, shaking droplets off her umbrella.
Charlie glanced up, his whole face lighting instinctively at the sight of her, before returning to lining up flowerpots by size.

Ms. Henley spotted Nick almost immediately.

"Well, if it isn't you again," she said, her voice all fond mischief.

Nick grinned. "Guilty."

She leaned her umbrella against the wall and made her way over to where he stood. Charlie, busy with a particularly stubborn pot, hummed absently in the background.

Ms. Henley tilted her head toward Nick, lowering her voice conspiratorially like they were partners in crime.

"You know," she said, almost in a whisper, "I've been around Charlie far too long.."
She glanced at Charlie, who was bent over the counter, a stubborn lock of curls falling in front of his eyes.
"...and I don't think I've ever seen him smile the way he does when you're here."

Nick felt his ears go hot, his hand instinctively tugging at the strap of his bag.

"It's lovely to see," Ms. Henley added, squeezing his forearm warmly. "Don't you dare stop coming."

Nick was about to follow Charlie further into the shop when Ms. Henley caught his wrist lightly with two fingers.

Nick tilted his head, inviting her to continue.

Ms. Henley smiled at Charlie, who was still wiping down the counter, blissfully unaware.

"I've been coming here since this place opened," she murmured, her eyes soft with memory. "Back when Charlie first started, he was... oh, so much quieter than he is now. If you can believe it."

Nick’s chest tightened subtly.

Ms. Henley sighed, shaking her head fondly.

"Poor boy," she said gently. "Back then, you couldn't so much as raise your voice or move too quickly without him flinching like you'd struck him. Always had those big sleeves pulled down over his hands... sometimes with bandages peeking out, though he tried to hide them."
She gave a sad little chuckle. "Broke my heart. But he was always so good with the flowers. Like he spoke through them."

Nick swallowed around the lump building in his throat.

Ms. Henley patted his wrist once more, smiling up at him with an almost motherly warmth.

"But he’s brighter now. You see it, don’t you?"
She winked, letting go of him. "And something tells me... he sees you."

With that, she shuffled off toward a cluster of dried lavender bundles, leaving Nick standing there, feeling like something inside his chest had been cracked carefully open.

When he looked at Charlie again, Charlie was crouched near a low bench, rearranging some stems, his curls flopping forward, his entire being so soft and focused it almost hurt to look at him.

Nick drew in a slow breath, letting it settle, before smiling faintly to himself and stepping forward— toward him.

Nick stepped forward carefully, the faintest creak of the floorboard under his boot marking his approach. Charlie was crouched beside the low display table, his shoulder just brushing against the side shelf as he adjusted a loose frill of amaranth. The soft light of the overcast sky filtered in through the front windows, casting a silvery glow across his curls. He didn’t seem to notice Nick— too absorbed in the arrangement, face focused, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration. There was something achingly gentle about the way he moved— delicate hands brushing petals like they were something sacred.

Nick, caught in the moment, forgot himself for a second. He took one more step and murmured, “Hey, Charlie— ”

It was like setting off a tripwire.

Charlie flinched— for just a second.

His shoulders jerked, head snapping up, eyes wide and sharp and terrified. For a brief, chilling second, Nick saw it— pure animal fear. Not annoyance. Not surprise. Fear. Eyes blown wide, breath caught, like his body was ready to bolt or brace. And Nick...
He froze, mouth half-open, heart plummeting like a stone in his chest.

God.

It was just a second. A flicker. A moment so brief that anyone else might’ve missed it.

But not Nick.

He recognized that look. The look of someone who'd learned— too well— that softness didn’t always keep you safe. That sometimes voices came with consequences. That even in peace, your body remembered war.

And then it was gone.

Charlie blinked, the fear draining from his face like water down a sieve. His expression softened, the tightness in his shoulders unraveled. His mouth curved upward into a quiet smile, like a small apology threaded through it. And before Nick could say anything— before he could ask or offer or do something— Charlie lifted his hands and signed something slow, deliberate, familiar.

Play again?

His fingers moved carefully, almost testing if Nick remembered, if he’d want to join in. The glint in his eye was back, a subtle mischief blooming beneath his lashes. His face was all light again. As if nothing had happened.

Nick swallowed, still standing there with his heart held gently in his hands, unsure where to place it. He smiled back— not quite steady, but real.

And then he crouched beside him, matching his level, the ghost of the flinch still burned behind his eyes.

He flinched like he thought I’d hurt him.

That thought haunted him as he reached out and repeated Charlie’s sign— Play again?— his movements clumsier, broader. Charlie huffed, amused, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and reached for Nick’s hands to correct him. Those slender fingers guided his, gently adjusting the shape, tilting his wrist the right way. His touch was warm, his hands faintly calloused from stems and soil.

Nick exhaled, letting the earlier tension bleed out of him as best he could.

He let Charlie take the lead. Let the softness return.

But he didn’t forget.

He wouldn’t forget that flinch.

They kept at the sign game for a little while longer. Charlie would sign something simple— rain, sun, friend— and Nick would squint, tilt his head, attempt the shapes back with clumsy fingers and more confidence than skill. He got a few right. Most, not really.

But Charlie didn’t laugh. Not unkindly.

He just gave those little huffs of amusement— soft, breathy, and barely audible— and scribbled the right word on a nearby scrap of paper, or sometimes just guided Nick’s hands again with his own. His touch was so light it was barely there. Just gentle corrections, a faint curl of a smile blooming in those dimpled cheeks whenever Nick got close.

Eventually, Nick found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the display, petals scattered between them like confetti. Charlie perched beside him, half-leaning against the nearby cabinet, legs folded delicately beneath him. His curls bobbed as he adjusted position, and the light caught his face in a way that made his freckles look like constellations. He looked peaceful again. Calm. Not like before.

And that—
That was what made Nick’s heart ache.

Because that flinch hadn’t been a misunderstanding.

And he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen it.

He glanced down at his hands, then slowly up again, softening his posture as best he could— shoulders open, voice gentled to something barely above a whisper.

“Hey, um… Charlie?”

Charlie glanced over, curious, head tilting just a little.

Nick took a breath. “Are you okay? I— earlier, when I said hi... I saw you flinch.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Only concern. The kind that sat low in the throat, earnest and patient. His brow furrowed slightly, but not in a way that asked for answers— more like he was offering something. A hand. A moment. A choice.

Charlie didn’t answer at first.

He looked down. And Nick watched— felt— him freeze, just the smallest hesitation in his movements, like his body wasn’t sure what to do next. His hands hovered near a notepad before dropping again. A breath escaped through his nose.

It was a full ten seconds before he wrote anything.

Then, slowly, he turned the paper around.

“Force of habit.”

Another pause. He flipped to the next page.

“You startled me. That’s all.”

And then— before Nick could say anything else— Charlie gave him a small, apologetic smile. It wasn’t fake, but it wasn’t effortless either. Just tired. Worn at the edges. But his eyes were clear, and he didn’t look away.

Nick nodded, slow, keeping his body still. He let that be enough.

The moment balanced between them, fragile and unspoken.

And then— 

A shriek.

A scream, really— sharp and shrill, like someone had stepped on a violin and torn through it. Both of them startled slightly as the noise echoed from somewhere toward the back, followed by a clatter and the unmistakable crash of a tipped-over vase.

Charlie blinked. His head whipped toward the sound.

Another screech.

Definitely a cat.

Charlie let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a fond grumble, then pushed himself up and headed toward the back room with the calm of someone well-acquainted with chaos. Nick stayed where he was, heart still heavy, watching him go.

He pressed his lips together, the ghost of Charlie’s smile still echoing in his mind alongside the words: force of habit.

He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the truth.

But he didn’t push. He wouldn’t.

Charlie had chosen to share something— even if it was vague. That counted.

A soft meow echoed from the back, this time far less murderous.

Nick leaned back against the wall, fingers brushing the edge of the paper Charlie had left behind.

Just don’t scare him again, he told himself.

Let him come to you.

The clatter died down. Another distant, indignant yowl rang out— less banshee this time, more feline complaint. And then, silence.

Nick stayed on the floor for a beat longer, blinking up at the ceiling as he processed everything. Charlie’s smile. His flinch. Force of habit. The sharp, wild sound of the cat.

A scuff of paws broke the quiet.

And then, padding through the archway with the nonchalance of royalty and the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean actor, came a sleek, black cat— Nyx, if Nick remembered right. His tail flicked with practiced elegance, eyes narrowed in vague annoyance, as if it had been his vase that had been rudely in the way of his great adventure.

Nyx paused when he spotted Nick still sitting on the wooden floor in the middle of the shop, head tilted, like he was deeply unimpressed.

Nick let out a soft laugh under his breath. “Yeah, alright,” he murmured. “I get it.”

He pushed himself up slowly, brushing his hands off on the thighs of his jeans and giving the cat a look that was somewhere between fondness and accusation. “You’re a menace, aren’t you?”

Nyx just blinked at him. Then, with a soft mrrp, he trotted past like nothing had happened, brushing against Nick’s leg in the briefest show of affection before hopping up onto the front counter like he owned the place.

Charlie reappeared in the doorway a moment later, wiping his hands on a slightly damp cloth. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Nyx lounging smugly beside the till.

Nick grinned sheepishly. “I see he’s feeling dramatic today.”

Charlie signed something fast, a little flourish in his fingers.

Nick squinted, then guessed, “He always is?”

Charlie nodded, clearly pleased, and gestured toward Nyx again— this time signing slower. Nick tried to keep up, muttering the words under his breath as he deciphered them.

“He thinks… he’s the boss?” he translated.

Charlie nodded again, biting back a grin. Nyx stretched out luxuriously as if to agree.

Nick laughed, warmth returning to his chest. The moment before still lingered, but it was softened now— wrapped in the comfort of ordinary things: cats knocking things over, smiles held like secrets, and Charlie watching him like he was glad Nick had come back.

And Nick was glad.

Even with all the silence, all the unanswered questions— he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

As Nyx made himself comfortable on the counter— pawing at a stray dried leaf like it had personally offended him— Charlie stepped away for a moment, rummaging behind the register. When he returned, he had a scrap of thick, cream-colored notepaper in his hand.

He didn’t look up as he wrote, pen moving slow and deliberate, curls of ink matching the way his thoughts seemed to form— carefully, but with quiet sincerity.

Nick tilted his head, watching the way Charlie’s brow furrowed in concentration, the way his hand hovered for a moment before drawing something in the corner. When he finished, Charlie slid the paper across the counter between them with a tiny smile.

Nick reached out gently, taking it like it might melt in his fingers.

The handwriting was neat but a little whimsical, letters sloping gently upward like they were smiling too:

You didn’t have to learn a whole other language just to talk to me.
But you are.
And I forgot people could be like that.
Thank you.

A doodled smiley face sat tucked in the margin, and beside it— clearly Nyx, sketched in loose, soft lines, tail curled like a question mark.

Nick stared at the note for a second, lips parting in a soft inhale.

“Charlie,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up.

Charlie was already half-turned away, pretending to reorganize a stack of coasters, though the pink flush at the back of his neck gave him away.

Nick’s hand gripped the note a little tighter, careful not to smudge it.

“This is,” he began, then laughed under his breath. “This is absolutely going on my fridge.”

Charlie looked back, surprised— and then something bloomed across his face. Not just a smile, but one of those soft, stunned little grins that meant more than he probably realized. Dimples in full show, eyes sparkling under the soft hum of the shop lights.

Nick tucked the paper carefully into his jacket pocket like it was made of glass.

He didn’t need to say anything else. Charlie already understood.

He stood slowly, dusting imaginary flower crumbs from his jeans, and took a final look around the space— the half-trimmed stems on the counter, the little vase Charlie had filled with leftover poppies, the faint pencil doodles still visible on the edge of a notepad. He didn’t want to leave just yet, but the day was already sliding toward evening.

“Thanks for letting me crash your day,” Nick said lightly, stepping closer to the counter, warmth curling beneath his voice.

Charlie looked up from where he was tidying, snipping the brown end off a stem. He smiled, soft and warm in a way that made something in Nick’s chest flicker.

Then, slow and sure, he signed:
No, thank you.

Nick grinned, mirroring the motion with careful fingers. He got it mostly right.

Charlie tilted his head just slightly, watching him with that small, dimpled smile— the one that said he wasn’t going to correct Nick because he’d tried, and that was more than enough.

And then, before Nick could say anything else— without warning—  Charlie stepped forward.

He closed the space between them in an instant and wrapped his arms tight around Nick’s middle. The force of it surprised him; it wasn’t a careful, half-hearted hug. It was full-bodied. Real.

Nick barely managed to steady himself, breath catching, before his arms folded protectively around Charlie in return. The top of Charlie’s head tucked perfectly beneath his chin, curls brushing against his jaw. His grip was firm, fingers clutching slightly at the fabric of Nick’s jacket like he was afraid to let go too soon.

Nick held him back just as tightly, letting himself breathe in the quiet weight of it. One hand gently pressed between Charlie’s shoulder blades, grounding them both.

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t move. Just stayed.

And then— just as suddenly— Charlie stepped away. He blinked down, cheeks blooming a soft, impossible pink, already turning from Nick and retreating behind the counter like nothing had happened.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached for a towel that didn’t need moving and busied himself again, quick hands brushing over petals and leaves.

Nick stood there, stunned and still, his arms falling slowly to his sides like his body hadn’t caught up yet.

He watched the curve of Charlie’s back, the way his shoulders were just a little tense now, like maybe he hadn’t meant to do that, or maybe he had and it scared him. Nick didn’t know. But he didn’t want to make him retreat any further.

So, he cleared his throat quietly.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

Charlie didn’t turn, but he gave a small nod, almost shy.

Nick lingered just one second longer— heart humming, skin warm where Charlie had touched him— before stepping toward the door, the quiet chime of the bell sounding almost too gentle.

Outside, the clouds hung low but dry, the air cool and still. The world looked soft around the edges.

Nick walked home with the little note Charlie had given him earlier tucked safely into his pocket, already knowing it would live on his fridge forever.

And no matter how the rest of the evening went, he knew he’d keep thinking about the way Charlie had held onto him— so sudden, so real— and how he hadn’t wanted to let go.

Chapter Text

It started with a burst of whispering near the back of the classroom. Nick glanced up from his desk, where he’d been half-marking spelling tests, half-daydreaming. A few Year 2 students huddled over a sheet of paper, giggling and glancing back at him with faces far too innocent to be innocent.

“Mr. Nelson,” one of them— Amara, bold as ever— finally called, holding the paper behind her back. “We made something for you.”

Nick smiled, setting his pen down. “Should I be nervous?”

They all shook their heads far too quickly.

Amara stepped forward and handed it over like it was a sacred scroll. He unfolded it and stared.

It was a crayon drawing. A boy, softly sketched, with dark curls and big eyes and a shy smile. He was holding a bunch of colourful, mismatched flowers. The words written in shaky block letters across the top resembled something along the lines of:
“To the mystery flower boy — thank you for making Mr. Nelson smile.” 

Nick’s throat caught. He blinked once. Then again.

“Did— Did you all make this?”

Noah, a quiet kid with grass stains on his knees, nodded solemnly. “He must be really nice if you always get flowers from him.”

Nick smiled, touched and pink in the ears. “He is.”

He folded the drawing carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands, and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Thank you. I think he’s going to love it.”

They beamed. He glanced at the clock. Still a few hours left of the day— but he wasn’t teaching today. No planning. No lessons. Just… time.

Nick wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen to walk to the florist that early, or why he’d waited until he knew Charlie would be opening up. He could’ve gone later. Could’ve gone anytime.

But there was something about catching that quiet moment at the start of Charlie’s day that made his chest feel light.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

The bell above the door gave its usual chime as Nick stepped into the florist shop, the familiar scent of earth and petals greeting him like an old friend. The place was quiet— just the low hum of indie music and the sound of someone gently watering plants in the back.

Charlie looked up from the sink, already drying his hands on a towel. As soon as he saw Nick, his whole face shifted— his eyes went wide with recognition, and then softened into something warm and open. He waved with both hands, fingers splaying cheerfully, and signed a clear, “Hello.”

Nick returned the sign— “Hello, Charlie”— trying not to let his grin get too ridiculous.

Then he remembered the drawing.

With theatric slowness, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the slightly crumpled sheet of paper. “I come bearing a gift,” he said dramatically, dropping to one knee like he was proposing. “From the small, chaotic artists of Year 2.”

Charlie tilted his head, curious, and stepped closer. Nick unfolded the paper with flourish, presenting it like a treasure.

Charlie took one look— and let out a soft, surprised sound. Not quite a laugh, but something just as genuine. His shoulders lifted in delight, eyes crinkling.

Then, barely audible but unmistakable, came the smallest giggle.

Nick’s head snapped up, stunned. Charlie’s hand flew to his mouth, like he hadn’t meant to make a noise, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks already starting to flush.

On the drawing, the words read in big, jagged letters:
“TO THE MISTURY FLOWER BOI — THANK YOU 4 MAKING MR NELSON SMILE.”
The stick-figure Charlie was holding what looked like a rainbow exploding in a bouquet. There was even a little smiley face in the corner with stars around it.

Nick clutched his heart. “Oh no. That sound. You giggled. I’m never recovering from this.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but he was still pink, still smiling, still holding the drawing like it was something fragile and precious.

He signed, slow and clear: “They drew me?”

Nick nodded, laughing. “They did. You’re officially a muse now.”

Charlie made a pleased little humming sound, turning to pin the drawing gently to the small corkboard behind the register, carefully smoothing out its edges. When he stepped back, his eyes lingered on it for a second too long, like he was afraid it might disappear.

And then, just as Nick was about to say something else— 

The front door flung open with a jingle.

Tori Spring stormed in like a wind front in Docs and sarcasm.

The door slammed shut behind her, the bell jostling angrily from the impact.

Charlie didn’t even flinch. He just waved one hand lazily over his shoulder and started signing furiously, rapid and effortless, like muscle memory.

Nick blinked. Whatever Charlie was saying, it was way too fast for him to follow.

The girl— dark coat, fierce eyeliner, and energy that could cut glass— locked eyes with Nick like she’d spotted a stain on her favorite shirt.

“Oh, so you’re Nick,” she said, with the kind of tone that made Nick straighten up instinctively. “The mystery teacher who’s basically a golden retriever.”

Charlie snorted, still turned away, shoulders shaking.

“Uh.” Nick glanced at Charlie for help, but he was clearly pretending to organize tiny pots of succulents like his life depended on it. “I— hi?”

Tori stepped further inside, arms folded. “Just needed to see the guy who’s got my brother drawing cat smiley faces and apparently hugging people now.”

Nick blinked. “He— he told you about that?”

Tori raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t have to. He was practically levitating when he texted me. You have any idea how rare that is?”

She gave him a long, pointed look. The kind of look that made Nick want to explain every good thing he’d ever done in his life just to prove he was trustworthy.

Then she dropped her tone, voice lower and quieter. “He actually hugged you?”

Nick swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. I— I wasn’t expecting it. But yeah.”

For the first time, Tori seemed… surprised. Not annoyed or judgmental, just quietly processing. She glanced toward Charlie— who was still absolutely not looking at either of them— and her face softened, just for a moment.

“He doesn’t do that,” she said. “He doesn’t even let most people get close. Physically, emotionally. I mean, he’s working on it. But…”

She trailed off. Then, her voice snapped right back to full volume. “Anyway. He told me you’re learning sign. For him.”

Nick, still reeling a little, nodded again. “Yeah. I mean— he’s worth it.”

Tori stared.

Then, with a sudden narrowing of her eyes, she asked, “What do you want from him?”

Nick blinked again. “I— nothing. I mean— not nothing. I want to keep seeing him. Spend time with him. Just… bond. I guess.”

He scratched the back of his neck, ears turning red. “I’m not trying to, like, take anything from him. I just want to be someone he can trust.”

Tori studied him for a beat longer, then sighed— like she didn’t want to be satisfied with that answer but kind of was.

“You’re alright,” she said, stepping past him.

Then, without turning, she added, “But if you ever hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

Nick choked on air. “Right. Okay. Cool.”

Charlie, finally looking over his shoulder, gave him a thumbs up and an exaggerated smirk, clearly enjoying Nick’s panic. Nick narrowed his eyes playfully and mouthed, traitor, which only made Charlie grin harder.

And in that moment, despite being threatened by a girl who was maybe five foot four on a good day, Nick felt something settle warm in his chest.

Charlie had people.

Scary, loyal, sarcastic people.

He stepped aside as Tori strode past him like she owned the whole shop, stopping in front of Charlie with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. They started signing immediately, hands moving too fast, too fluid for Nick to keep up. It wasn’t the simple, patient version Charlie used with him— it was shorthand. Familiar, messy, efficient.

Nick watched, catching only bits and pieces. A flash of annoying, a sloppy version of coffee, maybe bored or snooze. Charlie rolled his eyes at something she signed and responded with a flick of his fingers and a deadpan expression, which made her laugh— an unguarded, sisterly snort.

It was like witnessing a language and a relationship he only half understood.

And still, it was kind of beautiful.

Charlie signed something quickly at the end, his fingers flicking toward Nick, and Tori turned her head just slightly, giving him a sharp little nod.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her coat sleeve. “I’ve sussed you out.”

“You’ve what?”

“Sussed,” she repeated, like it was obvious. “It’s a sister thing. Ask your mystery boy.”

Charlie gave a tiny huff behind her, lips twitching.

Tori stepped toward the door, but paused with one hand on the frame. “Don’t mess this up,” she said, not looking back.

“I won’t,” Nick said quietly.

She nodded once. Then louder: “Love you, Charles.”

Charlie didn’t sign anything back, but his shoulders dropped the way they did when he was letting someone in. He watched her go, still pink-cheeked from earlier, then turned back to Nick with a quiet little smirk that said you survived.

Nick held a hand to his heart, mouthing, barely.

Charlie grinned.

And then, like the sun shifting just enough to spill through the window, the shop felt warmer again.

Nick leaned back against the counter once the door had closed behind Tori, still recovering slightly from the whirlwind that was Charlie’s sister. He looked over at Charlie, who had gone back to tidying the already-clean countertop with a faint blush still clinging to his cheeks.

“So…” Nick said, tipping his head a little, “that wasn’t… normal signing, right?”

Charlie paused mid-wipe, eyes flicking up with a small spark of amusement. He tilted his head, eyebrow raised.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. “I mean, I caught like… four words? And one of them might’ve been ‘coffee’ but honestly it could’ve been ‘chaos’ for all I know.”

Charlie let out a breathy noise that might’ve been a laugh, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. His thumbs moved quickly, and a moment later Nick’s phone buzzed with a message:

“It’s a shorthand system. Me and Tori made it up over the years— mixed BSL and random gestures that only make sense to us.”

Then another text, a second later:

“Not meant to be rude. Just easier.”

Nick read the message and grinned, glancing back at Charlie. “No, no, it’s not rude. I just…” He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “It looked kinda cool, honestly. Like… code. Spy stuff.”

Charlie snorted silently, then typed again:

“We’re not spies. She just talks too fast.”

Nick laughed aloud this time, a warm, easy sound. “Explains a lot, actually.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, tilting his head to the side as he looked at Charlie. “Still— kinda love that you two have your own language.”

Charlie glanced at him, shy but pleased, fingers twitching like he was resisting the urge to sign something quickly again. Instead, he just smiled, slow and small and dimpled.

And Nick felt it hit him again— how soft this boy was, and how much he wanted to understand every word.

His gaze lingered a little too long on Charlie’s smile before he abruptly looked away, his ears going pink. He fiddled with a stray stem on the counter, heart thudding faster than he thought reasonable.

Then, in a voice just a touch too casual to be truly casual, he said, “Hey, uh… so, like— name signs?”

Charlie blinked, curious.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck again, glancing sideways. “I, um… I know you’re usually given one. I mean, you don’t just ask, right? That’s not how it works?” His voice stumbled over itself. “But I was just wondering… if maybe one day… if you ever wanted to… I don’t know— make one for me?”

Charlie’s expression softened immediately. He stepped closer, tilting his head, that glimmer of affection in his eyes that made Nick’s stomach turn upside down. He nodded, slow and deliberate.

Then he motioned for Nick to watch, lifting one hand and tapping his fingers twice just over his heart— then drawing a swooping half-circle forward, the motion gentle, a little dramatic, like the kind of arc a falling flower petal might make.

Nick blinked. “That’s… me?”

Charlie nodded again. Then he picked up his phone and typed:

“N + heart = how kind you are. The swoop is for your hair. It always falls like that when you laugh.”

Nick stared down at the message, warmth flooding through him so fast he thought it might show through his skin. His hand self-consciously touched the side of his head, ruffling the strands Charlie had referenced. “That’s— ” he swallowed, then looked up at Charlie again. “That’s really nice.”

Charlie just gave a little one-shouldered shrug, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but his eyes were twinkling and his cheeks a little pink too.

Nick smiled, bashful and full of something bigger than words, and slowly tried to repeat the motion Charlie had shown him— fingers to his chest, then that soft swoop forward.

Charlie nodded, approval clear in the way he smiled at him— quiet, bright, like he’d just shared a secret.

Nick tilted his head, expression caught somewhere between sheepish and endeared. “Wait…” he said slowly, the gears in his brain turning out loud, “how do you know my hair does that when I laugh? That’s such a specific detail…”

He trailed off, brow raised, eyes narrowing playfully in Charlie’s direction.

Charlie was already tapping at his phone, trying too hard not to smile.

A moment later, Nick’s phone buzzed.

“I watch you a lot.”

Just that.

Nick’s brain short-circuited for a solid second, heat blooming across his cheeks like wildfire. He looked up from the message, met with Charlie’s impish little smirk and the faintest dimple on one side.

“I— oh.” Nick cleared his throat, barely managing to form words as Charlie went back to fussing with a vase like he hadn’t just dropped that text like a casual confession.

Nick couldn’t stop grinning. Or blushing. Or grinning again.

He was still recovering from the last message— still feeling way too warm in the cheeks and way too fluttery in the chest— when his phone buzzed again.

“How do you feel about my sister?”

“(Be honest.)”

He blinked, looked up at Charlie, who was suddenly very focused on trimming the stems of a small bouquet, his expression suspiciously innocent.

Nick’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh god.”

Charlie looked up briefly, raising a brow in challenge, as if to say Well?

Nick dragged a hand down his face. “She’s… very protective.”

His phone buzzed again.

“So she terrifies you.”

Nick groaned. “A little! Okay, yes— she looks like she could murder me with a glance and make it look like an accident.”

Charlie made a breathy noise that might’ve been the edge of a laugh, shoulders shaking just slightly. He tapped out one more message and waited for Nick to read.

“Good. You should be scared.”

Nick gaped at him. “You want me to be scared of her?”

Charlie grinned outright now, the little dimple showing as he shrugged and signed— slow and exaggerated— “Keep you in line.”

“Oh wow,” Nick said, mock affronted. “This is betrayal. I come here on my day off, bring you adorable thank you art, let you mock my signing attempts, and now this?”

Charlie just kept smiling, smug and pink-cheeked, like he was absolutely enjoying himself. Nick shook his head, trying not to laugh.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but he was still grinning like a lovesick idiot.

Charlie glanced over, clearly pleased with himself, before signing something slow and simple. The grammar was easy to interpret, and the message was clear:

“Made you flowers. Blue. Yellow. Yours.”

Nick tilted his head. “Wait— you made me flowers, again?”

Charlie nodded, already turning toward the back room. He returned moments later with a small bouquet, carefully wrapped in soft tissue paper. Blue delphiniums, cornflowers, tiny sprays of lavender. Bright yellow ranunculus tucked between them like little suns. The colors weren’t perfect, but close enough. Blue and yellow. Nick’s favorite. Charlie’s.

Nick stared at it, speechless for a moment.

“You— ” he started, voice going a little hoarse. “You remembered my favorite color?”

Charlie shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing, but there was a flicker of nervous pride in his eyes. He reached for his phone and typed quickly.

“Yours is blue. Mine is yellow. Thought they looked nice together.”

Nick’s heart twisted in his chest.

They looked nice together.

The bouquet was beautiful, yes, but the meaning hit harder than it probably should have. His color. Charlie’s color. Twined together. Grown in the same soil. Held in the same stems.

Charlie stood in front of him, looking slightly unsure now, eyes flicking away like maybe he thought he’d overstepped.

Nick smiled, soft and full of awe. “It’s perfect.” His voice cracked a little, but he meant it. “I’m gonna… keep this forever. Or, like… until it dies. And then I’ll press the petals. And frame them. And stare at them when I miss you.”

Charlie made a flustered noise and immediately looked away, ears burning. But his dimples gave him away, peeking out as he fought back a grin.

Nick held the bouquet like it was sacred. Like maybe it was.

He dug into his wallet, pulling out a few crumpled notes. “Alright, how much do I owe you for this masterpiece?”

Charlie blinked, then immediately shook his head, already waving his hands in a firm “No.”

Nick raised a brow. “Charlie. Come on. You made this. I’m paying.”

Another shake. Another pointed “No.”

Nick narrowed his eyes, lips quirking into something playful. “Don’t make me,” he warned.

Charlie just crossed his arms, lifting his chin, the picture of stubbornness.

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Nick said, tone teasing, and then with a dramatic sigh, he reached forward and practically shoved the money at Charlie, slipping it into the front pocket of his apron with mock ferocity. “Too slow, Spring.”

Charlie let out a tiny, startled squeak— a soft, high sound that absolutely shattered the room’s silence— and slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as if the noise had escaped against his will.

Nick blinked… then cracked up. “Was that you?!”

Charlie, mortified, turned red to his ears and busied himself behind the counter, pretending like it had never happened.

“Oh my god, you squeaked.” Nick grinned. “That was so cute I think I just died a little.”

Charlie glared, though the blush stayed. He shot Nick a look that said don’t you dare bring it up again, but Nick only wiggled his eyebrows in response.

The moment lingered— soft, ridiculous, warm. And just like that, Nick had a bouquet in his hand, a grin on his face, and a squeak to cherish forever.

Nick lingered, shifting the bouquet in his hands as he looked at Charlie— who was now pointedly organizing a bucket of carnations that definitely didn’t need organizing.

He opened his mouth to say goodbye, but the words caught.

Instead, quietly, he said, “Hey… before I go.” His voice dipped low, a little soft, a little careful. “Those little sounds you make… the ones you probably don’t even realize? They mean a lot.”

Charlie glanced up, startled, and Nick pressed on, gently.

“I know it might not seem like a big deal. But every hum or laugh or— yeah, even that squeak— it just… it tells me you feel safe. Like, with me. And that means more than I can explain.”

Charlie’s head ducked fast, his curls falling forward like a curtain. His ears were already turning pink, and Nick could see the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even as he tried to hide it.

“I mean it,” Nick added, softer now. “I feel safe with you too, you know. Like I can be kind of dumb or awkward or overly sentimental and it’s… okay.”

Charlie gave the tiniest nod, curls bouncing with it, still not looking up.

Nick let out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop being sappy.”

He hesitated at the door, casting one last look at Charlie— still pink, still hiding— and then turned to go, bouquet tucked carefully in one arm. The yellow and blue flowers peeked out in bursts of brightness against the grey sky, and Nick found himself smiling at them, warmth blooming in his chest as he stepped back into the world outside. The blue and yellow petals swayed with each of his steps, bright against the overcast sky— like a little bit of sunshine Charlie had tucked together just for him.

He walked slowly, letting the scent of fresh flowers follow him, a stupid grin tugging at his lips. His heart felt light. Full. A little ridiculous.

But mostly, it just felt warm.

He looked down at the bouquet again and whispered, “Fridge-worthy.”

Chapter Text

It was early on a grey-skied Saturday when Nick showed up instead of his usual Monday. The sign taped to the shop door read in careful, slightly smudged handwriting:

“If you need to make a purchase or talk to me, I’m in the alley.”

Nick smiled.

He rounded the corner to the narrow alleyway, familiar now after a few visits, and paused just at the edge of the garden bed that stretched along the back wall. Charlie was crouched low among the green, completely absorbed, hands buried in soil. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, revealing pale, freckled skin smudged with dirt. In the light, the thin silvery scars that crossed his forearms caught the sun faintly– barely visible unless you were looking. Nick had noticed them before, but something about how they shimmered slightly now made his breath catch.

Charlie looked up at the sound of Nick’s footsteps, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, hair a little windswept.

He smiled, lifted one muddy hand in greeting, and said in that barely-there voice, “Hi.”

It wasn’t new, but it still hit Nick like it always did.

Even now– after weeks of soft moments and slow trust– it still left him wordless for a second. Not frozen like before. Just… reverent. Like hearing a rare bird call. His chest fluttered.

He managed a breathy, “Hey,” and gave a little wave back.

Charlie motioned him over, and Nick stepped carefully between stray pots and empty crates, letting himself sink into the quiet, where Charlie felt most himself.

Charlie shifted slightly to one side, making space for Nick on the cracked stone pavers beside him. He didn’t say anything else, just handed Nick a small, chipped trowel with a smudge of dirt across the handle and pointed to the shallow planter box in front of them. His hands moved in simple, slow signs:

“Here. Loosen roots. Re-pot.”

Nick nodded, mirroring the movement back. “Got it.”

They worked in silence for a while, a kind of natural rhythm building between them. Charlie moved with careful precision, unbothered by the cold soil, while Nick fumbled more than once trying to free a tangle of thyme roots without damaging them. When he glanced over in slight frustration, Charlie didn’t laugh– he just gave him a look, soft and amused, and then gently took the plant from Nick’s hands to show him how.

Their fingers brushed, a smear of earth left on Nick’s skin where Charlie touched him. The smallest thing. Barely a moment. But it rooted deep.

Charlie didn’t speak again, but he hummed a little– so quietly Nick might’ve imagined it– and every now and then Nick would look up and find him already watching him, expression unreadable but not unkind. Just present. Noticing.

The garden bed smelled of rosemary and wet clay. Their knees bumped occasionally as they worked side by side, the cold sinking into Nick’s jeans but the warmth in his chest more than made up for it. Birds chirped in the distance. A car door slammed on the next street over. Still, the world here felt far away.

Eventually, when the last small pot had been pressed firm with soil and tucked back in place, Charlie stood without a word and tugged lightly at Nick’s sleeve.

Nick followed him to the back room door, still trailing dirt under his nails, and let Charlie lead him to the old, stained sink in the corner. The cold water squeaked as it started, and Nick bent to scrub his fingers clean– but the dirt clung stubbornly.

Charlie let out the tiniest sound– something like a stifled laugh– and leaned in beside him, holding up his own hands in comparison. They were rough, long-fingered, permanently edged with soil no matter how often he washed them. His voice was barely a whisper, but it was there:

“Like me now.”

Nick turned, eyes catching the soft flush still in Charlie’s cheeks. For a moment, he forgot what to say.

He only smiled. And nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly like you.”

Then, without explanation, Charlie reached into a small bundle of stems sitting by the wall and pulled out a sprig of thyme, freshly trimmed and tied with a little yellow ribbon. He handed it over without ceremony, eyes flicking away like it was nothing, even though Nick’s heart was suddenly too full for his chest.

It was only then that Nick noticed the sun had shifted– and half the day had slipped past like it was nothing.

“I should probably– ” Nick started softly, the words reluctant.

Charlie didn’t argue. He just nodded and signed “Thank you.”

Nick signed it back.

But as he turned to leave, he couldn’t stop thinking about how, when Charlie brushed the soil off his hand earlier, his own fingers had lingered just a second too long– barely touching, but still warm.

And for the rest of the walk home, the weight of the thyme in his pocket felt like something sacred.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick reaches his mum’s house just as the sun begins dipping low, casting soft gold across the garden path. The thyme sprig is still tucked carefully in his hand, delicate and a little wilted from the walk, but he can’t bring himself to let go of it.

His fingers are still smudged with dirt, lines of soil under his nails and a faint, earthy scent clinging to his sleeves. He hesitates on the step– just for a moment– then rings the bell with his free hand.

The door opens almost immediately.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Sarah says, smile wide as she pulls him in for a hug without hesitation. “You’re freezing. Come in before you turn into an icicle.”

Nick laughs, leaning into her familiar warmth. “You always say that.”

She pulls back and looks down at his hands. “You’ve been gardening?”

He holds up the sprig of thyme, sheepishly. “Sort of. Charlie’s idea.”

Her smile softens even more. “How is he?”

Nick’s cheeks tint pink. He looks down, thumb brushing the edge of the little ribbon tied around the herb. “He’s… good. He gave me this.”

Sarah doesn’t tease. She just touches his shoulder and says, “I’m glad. He’s special.”

Nick nods, still holding the thyme like it’s something precious.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He really is.”

She squeezes his arm once before heading to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Dinner’ll be ready soon. Go wash up– thoroughly this time.”

Nick finally grins, heading to the sink. As he scrubs the soil from under his nails, he keeps glancing at the sprig, chest feeling full.

There’s dirt under his nails and cold in his bones, but he feels warm all over.

They sit down to dinner– something warm and simple, something Nick’s mum always seems to know he needs. The kind of meal that feels like love. They’re halfway through when the quiet starts to stretch comfortably, the clinking of cutlery and soft hum of the heater filling the silence.

Nick swirls his fork in his mashed potatoes for a second, eyes drifting toward the sprig of thyme now resting carefully beside his plate.

Sarah notices, always notices. “What’s on your mind?”

He hesitates for a moment– then breathes in. “Charlie said words to me.”

Sarah sets her fork down gently. “He did?”

Nick nods quickly, the words tumbling out before he can filter them. “It’s not a lot– just a few– but… it started with ‘hi’ a few weeks ago, just really quiet. Then, about a week and a half ago, he looked right at me and said, ‘hi, Nick.’ And today, he said it again. And then he– ” Nick’s voice catches, a little breathless from how fast he’s speaking. “He said, like… ‘like me now,’ after I couldn’t get the dirt out from under my nails.”

He laughs softly, almost disbelieving. “It was so quiet. Like barely a whisper. But it was there.”

Sarah’s eyes glisten, even as her face breaks into the most gentle, proud smile. “Oh, Nicky.”

“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but– ”

“It’s everything,” she interrupts softly, reaching across the table to rest a hand over his. “You’re creating a space for him where he feels safe enough to let those walls down. Even just a little. That’s… that’s huge, Nick.”

He swallows, blinking fast.

She squeezes his hand. “I am so proud of you. You have no idea. The patience, the care… letting someone find their own pace, and never pushing them– that’s love, Nick.”

His throat is tight. “I don’t even know if it’s love. I mean– I mean, maybe. But even just as a friend, I just want to make it easy for him to exist. I want him to know he doesn’t have to explain everything to be heard.”

“You’re giving him that,” Sarah says. “You’re showing him what kindness looks like, without expecting anything in return. That’s what makes me proud. You’re showing him it’s okay to be exactly who he is.”

Nick looks down at their hands– her fingers warm over his dirt-stained ones– and he nods, small and quiet.

“Thanks, Mum.”

She smiles. “Always.”

And for a moment, the world feels soft. Everything feels a little more possible.

Later, they curl up on the couch– Nick in one of his mum’s too-soft knitted blankets, Sarah with her cup of tea, remote in hand. The movie starts playing, something light and forgettable, and Sarah leans into the cushions with a long, content sigh.

Then, she glances sideways at him with a smirk.

“So…” she says slowly, drawing the word out like bait, “this Charlie boy.”

Nick groans playfully, dragging the blanket up to his chin like a shield. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” she sings, teasing now, “you talk about him a lot for someone who’s not in love.”

Nick doesn’t answer. He just grins. Big and soft and faraway.

Sarah nudges him with her socked foot. “Aha! That’s a guilty smile if I’ve ever seen one.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he breathes in and lets the smile stay. “He’s… he’s just incredible, Mum.”

“Tell me.”

Nick lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Where do I even start?”

And so he does.

He talks about the little blackboard Charlie keeps behind the till with rotating puns. About how he writes thank-you notes for the deliveries in perfect, careful handwriting, like he’s composing letters that’ll be archived one day. How Charlie writes texts like he’s afraid of being misinterpreted– every sentence clear, perfectly spelled, no emojis, just full stops and the occasional exclamation point if he’s feeling bold.

“He said, and I quote,” Nick begins, scrolling on his phone, “‘Today the flowers looked particularly proud of themselves. It may be a me thing, though. Hope your class was tolerable.’” He grins. “That’s how he flirts.”

Sarah laughs. “That’s adorable.”

Nick nods, more to himself. “It is. He always texts in lowercase when he’s tired. Like, that's how I can tell. And he writes in fragments when he's sad. Just… dots. One-word sentences. But then sometimes, he’ll send something completely out of the blue. Like last Thursday, I told him my umbrella broke and I got soaked on the way home, and he sent back, ‘I hope your dampened clothes did not dampen your mood.’”

Sarah laughs again, eyes sparkling.

“He doesn’t even know he’s funny,” Nick murmurs. “And he tries to act like he’s all guarded and mysterious, but he’s so soft underneath it. You just have to wait long enough to see it.”

He’s quiet for a second.

“And he keeps showing up,” Nick says. “Even when it’s hard. Even when it clearly takes effort. He’s there. He shows up.”

Sarah leans her head against the couch cushion, watching her son with that kind of quiet awe only a mother can have. “He’s lucky to have you, Nicky.”

Nick smiles, distant and lovestruck. “No. I think I’m the lucky one.”

And as the movie continues to play in the background, forgotten, Sarah watches her boy– grown up now, and still somehow glowing from the inside out– and thinks: yeah… he really might be in love.

Nick hums. “That’s the thing– he’s always thoughtful. Always intentional. Like the blue and yellow bouquet he gave me last week. I know he meant something by it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Nick’s grin returns, lopsided and fond. “He didn’t say it out loud, obviously. Just… wrote that he made a bouquet for me. Blue and yellow. And I’d told him once– like, offhand– that blue was my favourite. And yellow is his. And I dunno. I looked at them together and…” He shrugs, his voice drifting a little. “It felt like something. Like a message.”

Sarah nods, gentle and quiet, not wanting to interrupt the way her son’s heart is spilling out.

Nick’s expression shifts then– still warm, but a little sad now. More careful.

“He hugged me once,” he says. “Just once. A while back. I didn’t expect it. He just… leaned in. Pressed into me, all shaky and fast like he thought he’d lose the courage if he waited too long. And then he pulled back really suddenly. Like he thought he wasn’t allowed to. Or like– like it scared him to even want it.”

Sarah’s brow furrows a little, but she stays silent, letting him keep going.

“I think…” Nick trails off, then tries again. “I think he has feelings too. I mean, I’m not trying to assume, and I don’t want to rush him, I never would. But the way he looks at me sometimes. Or how he signs slower when I’m tired, or double-checks I’ve eaten. Or how he lets me stay even when he clearly doesn’t feel up to talking much. It’s all… it’s his way.”

He pauses, thumb tracing the edge of the thyme ribbon.

“I just think maybe no one’s ever let him feel safe enough to admit he wants things,” Nick says finally. “Not without strings. Not without consequences.”

Sarah’s eyes are soft and wet with the beginnings of tears. “You’re doing something really good, Nicky.”

Nick lets out a small breath. “I hope so.”

He doesn’t say the rest: I want him to feel safe with me. I want him to know that love doesn’t have to be earned.

Sarah shifts closer on the couch, resting a hand on Nick’s knee. Her voice is soft, like it always is when she knows he’s being vulnerable– never too loud, never too firm. Just enough to anchor him.

“You’re doing more than you think, sweetheart,” she says. “I know it doesn’t always feel like it, but you are. You’re showing up for him, week after week, with nothing to gain. Just love in your heart.”

Nick looks down, cheeks slightly pink. “It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes.”

“It’s exactly enough,” she says. “You’re being patient. You’re being kind. You’re letting him decide the pace. That matters. And believe me, Nicky– he sees that. He might not say it, but I know he does.”

Nick swallows. His throat feels tight again, but this time in a good way.

Sarah gives him a small smile. “You’ve always had this way about you… this ability to make people feel seen. It’s part of who you are. And if Charlie’s slowly letting himself be seen by you – well, I think that says everything.”

Nick nods, quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling gently on his shoulders. Not heavy– just grounding.

Sarah leans back and grabs the blanket, tossing it lightly over both of their laps. “Now, we’re actually watching Paddington, and you’re not allowed to cry more than three times.”

Nick lets out a laugh, full and fond. “No promises.”

But he keeps the thyme clutched loosely in his hand, and when he leans against her a little while later, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Later that night, when Nick’s already gone home and the flat is still, he lies in bed with the lights dimmed, the little sprig of thyme resting on his bedside table like a pressed memory.

He opens his messages and types without overthinking this time.

Nick:
Today was really special. I hope you’re not too tired. I loved helping with the herbs. Sleep well, Charlie.

He hovers for a second, then adds:

Nick:
The thyme smells like you, by the way.

He hits send and immediately groans into his pillow at himself, but the nerves melt away a moment later when his phone buzzes.

Charlie:
ur silly

Then, a follow-up– sent almost immediately, like he was too shy to put it in the same message:

Charlie:
: )

Nick just stares at it, grinning at the little, punctuation-less smile. So simple. So un-Charlie.

So Charlie.

He puts the phone down on his chest and stares at the ceiling, heart beating soft and sure.

Chapter Text

Nick had been rehearsing in his head all day. In the car. In the mirror. During lunch when one of his students accidentally flung mashed potatoes at the ceiling.

And still, as he stood just inside the flower shop, staring at Charlie arranging a vase of marigolds like it was sacred work, his brain decided now was a great time to turn to scrambled eggs.

He shifted from foot to foot, clutching the corner of a book he’d already “pretended” to browse three times. His fingers were sweating. How did fingers even sweat?

Charlie hadn’t noticed him yet. Or maybe he had– he always seemed to know when Nick walked in, even when he didn’t look up. There was a kind of quiet gravity to Charlie’s presence, something still and warm and a little dazzling, like morning sunlight filtering through glass. Nick felt a lot like a moth around him lately. One with heart palpitations.

He took a breath. Inhaled flowers. Exhaled absolute panic.

Just ask him. It’s coffee. It’s not marriage. You’re not proposing. You’re just– 

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at that exact moment, and his eyes landed on Nick.

Everything in Nick’s chest promptly did a front-flip.

Charlie’s expression softened immediately. He gave a tiny smile– just the barest curve of his mouth– and lifted one hand in a gentle wave, fingers curled loosely like always.

Nick waved back, a little too enthusiastically. “Hey.”

Charlie tilted his head a little in that inquisitive, amused way he did when Nick acted like a human cartoon. Then, with quiet grace, he set down the flower he’d been holding and turned to face him fully.

Nick’s heart sprinted ahead of him. It was now or never.

“I, um.” He coughed into his sleeve. “Hi.”

Charlie’s brow quirked. Nick could almost hear him saying, You already said hi. But instead, Charlie just stepped forward slowly, pulling a soft cloth from his apron and wiping his hands. He didn’t say anything– he rarely did, at least not out loud– but he looked at Nick with such patience it made him feel steadier.

Kind of.

“So…” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just thinking– this is gonna sound totally lame, probably, and I don’t know if you’ll even wanna, but…” He winced, then laughed. “Okay, I’m already ruining this.”

Charlie gave a light puff of laughter through his nose, then reached behind the counter for his ever-present notepad and pen. He flipped to a new page and paused, pen poised, waiting.

Nick took a breath.

“Would you maybe want to get coffee sometime?” he asked. Then immediately added, “With me. Like, just us. You don’t have to, obviously, and it’s not, like, a thing if you don’t want it to be, but I thought maybe– ”

Charlie scribbled something and held it up before Nick could spiral any further.

“A date?”

The words sat in careful, rounded letters, a little smudge on the edge of the page from where Charlie’s palm had pressed too hard. Nick stared at it, then at Charlie, whose gaze was as open and unreadable as ever– but there was the faintest pink in his cheeks, a slight shift in how he stood. Hopeful, maybe.

Nick blinked. “Only if you want it to be?”

He tried not to look like he was about to explode.

Charlie looked down at the page again, then tapped his pen once. Slowly, he added beneath the first line:

“Okay.”

He underlined it once. Then twice. Then wrote:

“I’d like that.”

Nick felt something lift in his chest so fast it left him breathless. Like a balloon, like a sunbeam, like maybe he could float through the ceiling.

“Friday?” he asked, voice a little higher than normal.

Charlie nodded immediately. Then, with a smirk playing faintly at the edges of his mouth, he wrote one more thing and held it up:

Friday – followed by a tiny heart next to it.

Nick made a completely involuntary noise that could best be described as a squeak.

“I– cool. Yeah. Cool,” he said, as if repeating the word would make him seem less like he was melting from the inside out.

Charlie just shook his head fondly and reached for a little flower from a small bundle on the counter, twirling it between his fingers. He walked over, held it out.

Nick took it carefully. His fingers brushed Charlie’s.

“A wildflower?” he guessed, voice soft.

Charlie didn’t write anything else. Just nodded.

They stood there for a moment, the world narrowing to a quiet, fragrant hum between them, petals and paper and breath and everything good.

Nick looked down at the thyme still warm from Charlie’s touch, then back up at him.

“I really like you,” he said before he could stop himself.

Charlie's smile didn’t grow, not really, but his eyes did something– softened, shimmered, said everything his voice didn’t have to.

He mouthed, “Me too.”

And Nick nearly tripped over the doorframe on the way out.

Nick was walking home, but honestly?

It felt like flying.

Not even in the dramatic, flapping-wings, wind-in-his-hair sort of way– but in that dizzy, helium-balloon-in-the-heart sort of way. Like the air had shifted, like gravity didn’t apply to him in quite the same way it did this morning. Like he might just drift off the pavement and into the clouds if he let himself go still for too long.

He kept glancing down at his hand.

Clutched gently between his fingers was the single wildflower. A tiny, unassuming thing– just a burst of purple petals and a slightly crooked stem. A little crushed where Charlie had held it too tightly before awkwardly pressing it into Nick’s hand. It was bent and imperfect and probably picked from some crack in the pavement outside the shop.

But Nick felt like he was holding treasure.

His fingers curled around it instinctively. He couldn’t stop smiling.

He had asked Charlie out . He’d done it. And Charlie had said yes. Not a long, elaborate yes. Not even a signed one. Just a small tap of his fingers over the letters Okay , scribbled at the bottom of a half-filled notebook page. Underlined once, with slightly shaky pressure. Then he’d looked away, cheeks pink, ears pinker, body almost folded in on itself from how nervous he’d been.

Nick had wanted to hug him. Or cry. Or laugh. Or all three.

Instead, he’d barely managed to say “okay, cool!” without his voice squeaking, waved awkwardly, and turned to leave because if he stayed one more second, he was genuinely going to combust.

He’d walked out of the alley, flower in hand, like it was the first day of spring and he was the main character in a movie no one had bothered to cast properly.

Because honestly– how?

How had Charlie said yes?

How had this beautiful, complicated, extraordinary boy agreed to go on a date with him – Nick Nelson, with his coffee-stained jumpers and messy hair and dumb jokes about flowers? Who tripped over his words when Charlie looked at him too long, who couldn’t even keep it together when Charlie smiled ?

What on earth did Charlie see in him?

His stomach flipped. His heart twisted, warm and fragile and full to bursting.

He needed to tell someone. Anyone. Immediately.

He yanked his phone from his hoodie pocket with slightly trembling fingers, tapped into the PowerCouple (Plus One Honorary) group chat, and without letting himself overthink it, he typed:

Nick:
soooo… I kinda asked him out. and he kinda agreed

Sent.

It was barely gone from his screen before– 

Darcy:
YOU DID NOT– 

And then– bam . His phone exploded .

Not literally, but close enough. It started vibrating like a jackhammer in his hand. Message after message began to flood in at warp speed– Tara’s typing bubbles blinking to life, Darcy responding in chaotic caps, stickers flying, GIFs popping up, hearts, exclamation points, something about “wedding bells already???” and “YOU LEGEND” and– 

“NOPE,” Nick gasped, face instantly on fire , and crammed the phone deep into his pocket like it was about to detonate.

But it didn’t stop. Oh no. It kept buzzing . Every few steps, another bzzzt . Then two more. Then a full second of aggressive vrrrrrrrrr that felt like his phone was doing a tap dance in his hoodie.

He couldn’t even look at it.

His cheeks were glowing . His ears felt like lava. His heart was punching itself into his ribs and his feet were moving faster than ever, like if he just got home quick enough , maybe the overwhelming joy of it all would settle into something manageable.

But it didn’t.

Because Charlie had said yes.

And not just anyone. Charlie . The boy who barely spoke. The boy who built poetry from petals and silence, who sent messages through flowers and kindness and fleeting touches. The boy who had been slowly and carefully, softly , letting Nick into his quiet little world.

Charlie had said yes.

To him .

To nervous, over-eager, rambling, tripping-over-his-own-feet Nick Nelson.

And maybe– maybe– Charlie liked him. Maybe all the warmth Nick had been holding inside his chest wasn’t one-sided. Maybe Charlie felt it too.

The idea alone sent another stupid, giddy laugh tumbling out of his throat as he practically skipped the rest of the way home, wildflower clenched in his palm like it was all that was keeping him grounded.

His phone vibrated again.

He didn’t dare look.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

By the time Nick stumbled through his front door– wildflower still tucked behind his ear like some enchanted forest boy– the sky had darkened, his cheeks were still red, and his phone was still vibrating.

He hadn’t checked it once since he crammed it into his pocket.

He’d tried to ignore it. Truly. He told himself he needed to just breathe, process, be calm about this. But the moment he kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket onto the banister, and finally sat down on the edge of the stairs with his hoodie strings bunched in his fists– 

Curiosity won.

With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone and braced himself.

47 new messages.

He swallowed.

PowerCouple (Plus One Honorary)

Darcy:
YOU DID NOT– 

Darcy:
YOU DIDDDDDDDD
I AM ACTUALLY GOING TO SCREAM

Tara:
Nick?? HELLO???
Tell us EVERYTHING

Darcy:
Did he smile?? Did he nod?? Did he like, write it down?? Oh my god. Did he SAY something???

Tara:
Did you hold hands

Darcy:
Did you HOLD HIS FACE

Tara:
Darcy oh my god he didn’t do that

Darcy:
BUT WHAT IF
BUT
WHAT

Tara:
STOP IT
Seriously Nick, we're so happy for you

Darcy:
We're going to need OUTFIT DETAILS

Tara:
And what you said! Word for word. Verbatim.

Darcy:
Tell us everything or we riot
This is not a drill
Charlie Spring said yes to YOU

Tara:
This is a milestone. A life event.

Darcy:
I'm actually crying and I’m not even the one in love

Tara:
Well, I am

Darcy:
NOT THE POINT

Tara:
Nick, seriously. We’re so proud of you

Darcy:
Like. Fr. For real. You’ve been so gentle with him and we can see it
Charlie sees it too. That’s why he said yes.

Tara:
He said yes to you . That’s massive.

Darcy:
Nick. You absolute romantic potato.

Tara:
Please tell us when the date is so we can scream accordingly

Darcy:
AND FASHION PLAN

Tara:
And you are wearing the blue jumper.

Darcy:
NO, THE GREEN

Tara:
The green makes his eyes pop

Darcy:
But the blue makes him look soft and kissable

Nick (finally typing):
guys.
guys oh my god
i’m actually shaking
he gave me a FLOWER
i asked him and he said yes and he gave me a flower

Darcy:
STOPPPPPPPP

Tara:
That is the most Charlie thing I’ve ever heard

Darcy:
We are dead

Tara:
We are ghosts of love

Nick:
and he looked so shy and his ears were all pink and he wrote it and underlined it and i think i’m gonna pass out

Darcy:
You’re in too deep, Nelson. There’s no coming back.

Nick:
i don’t want to come back

Tara:
Then stay there. Float in the softboy void. We love this for you.

Nick let out a watery little laugh, his thumb hovering over the keyboard as another message popped in.

Darcy:
also. we are absolutely crashing the wedding

Tara:
Not before the second date

Darcy:
Fine. We’ll be normal.
(But only a little.)

Nick slumped back against the stairs, head thumping gently against the banister rail, heart fluttering like a sparrow.

Charlie said yes.

And somehow, the world was a little brighter, a little warmer, and filled with entirely too many flower emojis.

Chapter Text

Nick had already tried on five outfits.

Five.

And his floor looked like the men's section of a very confused charity shop.

Now, standing in front of his mirror, slightly sweaty, his phone propped precariously on a stack of books for the FaceTime call, he sighed as Tara and Darcy stared him down through the screen like two judgmental angels of fashion.

“…So?” Nick asked, arms out, spinning slowly like a sad rotisserie chicken. “Is this– does this look okay? It’s not too much, right?”

He was wearing a mossy green jumper– soft, worn, the one Charlie had once glanced at for a second too long– and dark jeans. Casual. Thoughtful. Approachable.

Darcy sucked her teeth. “Okay, I love the jumper. Very ‘boyfriend in a BBC drama.’ But those jeans? Babe. No.”

Tara nodded solemnly. “Too tight. You’re going for soft and glowy, not ‘accidental thirst trap.’”

Nick groaned and threw himself backward onto the bed. “Why is this so hard?? It’s just coffee. Casual coffee. Normal people go to coffee.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said, “but normal people aren’t going on a date with Charlie freaking Spring .”

Tara added gently, “And you want him to keep saying yes. So. You gotta nail this.”

Nick sat up again, muttering, “I want to look like… me. But like the best version of me. Like, warm. But still… cool?” He made a tortured noise. “I don’t know what that means.”

Darcy grinned. “You mean: ‘effortless but adorable but hot in a respectful way.’”

“Yes!” Nick pointed. “Exactly!”

Tara and Darcy simultaneously held up fingers and said, “Sixth outfit.”

Nick blinked. “What’s the sixth outfit?”

Darcy leaned close to the camera. “The navy button-up. Sleeves rolled. Brown cords. The necklace with the little silver leaf. And. Hear me out– white trainers.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “You’ve thought about this.”

“We’ve dreamed about this,” Darcy said.

Tara laughed. “You didn’t think we were gonna let you mess up your first date with Charlie, did you?”

With a dramatic sigh of surrender, Nick stood and began peeling off his jumper. “Okay, okay. Sixth outfit it is.”

Darcy whooped. “You’re gonna look like a Pinterest board!”

“And like you accidentally walked out of a coming-of-age indie film,” Tara added, beaming.

Ten minutes later, Nick reappeared, fully dressed in the approved ensemble. He pushed his hair back, held his phone up with mild awkwardness, and did another slow spin.

Tara gasped. “ Yes. ”

Darcy clasped her hands like a proud mother at a school play. “Our boy’s gonna knock him DEAD.”

Nick’s cheeks flamed, but he smiled– half shy, half glowing.

“This is really happening, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “I’m going on a date. With Charlie.”

Tara softened. “Yeah. You are.”

“And he likes me back,” Nick said, in a tone that was still laced with disbelief. “Charlie likes… me.”

Darcy nodded. “And you look like someone worth liking. Because you are. ”

Nick’s eyes stung a little, but he laughed it off, fiddling with his sleeves. “Okay. I’m gonna… go pack the wildflower.”

They both made squeaky, sentimental noises.

As he reached over to end the call, Darcy added, “If you cry, FaceTime us after.”

“And if you kiss, also FaceTime us after,” Tara said with a wink.

Nick rolled his eyes fondly. “Goodbye.”

He ended the call.

And stood in the quiet of his room, hand brushing over the tiny, carefully dried wildflower he’d kept in a little glass jar beside his books.

Then, with a deep breath and a hammering heart, he tucked it carefully into his satchel and headed out.

• ─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick spotted him from half a block away.

Charlie was leaned against the brick wall just outside the café, phone in hand, head tipped forward, dark curls falling slightly into his eyes. He wasn’t doing anything special– just scrolling or typing something with his thumbs, expression blank and unreadable like usual.

But somehow, Nick’s brain short-circuited anyway.

The morning sun had made a surprise appearance, casting everything in a pale, watery glow. It wasn’t warm, not really– Nick’s nose and ears were still a bit pink from the walk– but the light caught on Charlie’s sweater, and Nick nearly tripped over his own feet.

It was the fluffiest-looking jumper he’d ever seen.

Dark turquoise, oversized, sleeves pulled down past his wrists so only his fingers peeked out as he typed. The hem curled up just a little at one side where it’d gotten caught on the strap of his messenger bag. He was wearing ripped black jeans, a little frayed at the knees, and battered black Converse that looked like they’d been loved a long time.

Nick stopped for a second. Just stood there.

Watching him.

Charlie. Charlie Spring.

And that was the boy he was about to go on a date with.

He clutched the strap of his satchel tighter, pulse skipping madly in his throat.

He was so utterly doomed.

Because somehow, even standing still and doing absolutely nothing, Charlie managed to look like a dream Nick had once had as a teenager– the kind you wake up from aching and hopeful, but never expect to come true. There was something about him in this light, his skin pale against the dark sweater, curls unruly, mouth slightly parted as he focused on whatever he was typing.

Nick felt every inch of himself go warm and stupid.

Was it weird to already miss him, even though he hadn’t even gotten to him yet?

His heart gave a ridiculous flutter as Charlie shifted slightly and lifted his head, gaze scanning lazily up the street. His eyes landed on Nick.

Charlie didn’t smile– but he didn’t look away, either.

Nick’s legs started working again, carrying him forward on autopilot.

By the time he got close enough, Charlie had slipped his phone into his pocket. He adjusted his bag, the movement casual, but something in his shoulders tightened ever so slightly.

Nick slowed, suddenly unsure how to start. “Hey,” he said, breathless and dopey.

Charlie looked at him for a second longer.

Then– very faintly – his lips twitched.

Not a full smile. But almost.

Nick wanted to melt into the pavement.

Charlie reached into the front pocket of his messenger bag and held out something small. It was a flower again– wild, tiny, purple and white, tucked between his fingers like it belonged there.

Nick took it gently. “For me?”

Charlie gave the smallest nod. His fingers brushed Nick’s as he handed it over. Warm, dry. Deliberate.

Nick stared at the flower like it was a holy artifact.

“…I can’t believe this is real,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Charlie tilted his head, curious.

“You,” Nick said, eyes still locked on him. “You’re so– you’re the one who actually said yes.”

Charlie looked down, a sudden flush creeping up his neck.

Nick immediately softened. “Sorry,” he added. “That probably sounded dumb.”

Charlie shook his head quickly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he pointed toward the café door, a wordless little shall we?

Nick nodded too fast. “Yes. Yeah. Lead the way.”

Charlie opened the door, and Nick followed him in, heart hammering like he’d just won something enormous and fragile.

Because he had.

And it was Charlie.

The bell over the café door gave a soft jingle as they stepped inside, warm air curling around them, thick with espresso and cinnamon.

Nick paused just long enough to take it in– quiet indie music, the low murmur of a couple people working on laptops, the golden morning light slipping through foggy windows– and then blinked in surprise when Charlie gently pressed something into his palm.

A small folded note.

Nick opened it, brow lifting.

Mocha. Extra chocolate.
(Thank you for ordering.)

His handwriting was perfect– neat, thoughtful, like every letter had been carefully considered. There was even a tiny flower doodle in the bottom corner. A daisy, Nick thought. Maybe?

He looked up.

Charlie offered him a tentative, hopeful smile. A quiet sort of I hope that’s okay energy radiated from him like a slow exhale.

Nick’s stomach did a full-on flip .

“Oh my god,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “You’re unreal.”

Charlie tilted his head, confused. But there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and maybe just a hint of smugness too– like he knew what he was doing, just a little.

Nick gave him a playful look as he stepped toward the counter. “Be right back.”

The barista smiled politely. “What can I get for you two?”

Nick cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware that his hands were slightly sweaty. “Um, one mocha with extra chocolate…” he glanced at the note again, just to be sure, “…and a flat white, please.”

He paid– refused to let Charlie even try– then turned to find him.

He’d vanished.

For a second, panic fluttered in Nick’s chest– but then he spotted him, tucked into a cozy little corner table by the window. It was round, wood slightly scuffed with age, and there was a little potted plant in the center that looked like it was thriving. Charlie had already claimed one side, shrugging off his bag and settling in like he belonged.

And the table– Nick realised with a rush of heat– was intimate .

There was no way to sit there without knees brushing, without leaning in close. It wasn’t one of those “casually across from each other” arrangements. It was tucked into the corner at an angle, the kind of place meant for couples, quiet conversations, and whispered laughs.

That couldn’t have been an accident.

Charlie had either been here before… or he’d researched. Possibly scouted . Nick could almost see him carefully weighing table options, mentally assessing proximity, angles, lighting– 

He practically tripped over his own feet trying to get over there.

Charlie looked up as Nick approached and offered a tiny, twitching smile– the kind that barely touched his lips but blazed in his eyes.

Nick set down the drinks when they arrived, sliding the mocha across with a soft “Your majesty, extra chocolate.”

Charlie laughed– but silently. Just a little puff of air and a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He picked up the mug, fingers curling around it like it was already his new favourite thing, and then tilted his head in a gesture that was equal parts thank you and you’re ridiculous.

Nick grinned.

When he finally sat down, his knee bumped Charlie’s under the table.

Nick startled– just a little– and nearly pulled back on instinct. But then he caught himself. Because Charlie didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch .

In fact, after a beat, Charlie shifted just the tiniest bit closer. Not so much that it would be obvious to anyone else, but enough that the side of his arm brushed against Nick’s. It was a deliberate choice, small but steady. Like he was saying, I’m here. I want this.

Nick’s breath caught.

He let it out slowly, grounding himself in the warmth of that touch– and then, with a swallow and a little courage, he let his hand rest lightly on the table, palm-up.

Not demanding. Not asking.

Just… there .

Charlie glanced at it. His eyes flicked down, lingering.

There was a second where Nick thought maybe he wouldn’t– maybe it was too much, too fast– but then, very delicately, Charlie extended his hand and laid the tips of his fingers across Nick’s.

Nick’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.

They didn’t hold hands, exactly. It wasn’t interlaced fingers or cupped palms. But it was touch , quiet and thoughtful and breathtaking in its own way. Charlie’s touch was light, like he was still learning the shape of this closeness, but he didn’t pull away.

Nick’s fingers curled just slightly, barely grazing against Charlie’s.

Neither of them said anything.

The café buzzed softly around them– milk steaming, cups clinking, a low hum of chatter– but at their little table, it felt like the rest of the world had receded.

Then Charlie’s thumb moved. Just once, a soft brush over Nick’s knuckles. Barely there.

Nick nearly melted .

He turned his head, heart thudding, and found Charlie watching him with eyes full of light. Open. Gentle. Almost shy.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” Nick whispered, voice barely carrying.

Charlie blinked. And then– without breaking eye contact– he reached into the front pocket of his bag, pulled out a small notepad and pen, and quickly scribbled something down.

He turned it toward Nick.

You make me feel safe.

Nick had to look away. His throat ached, and his eyes stung a little in the nicest, worst way.

He bit down on a smile, cheeks flushed, and stared into his coffee for a moment like it held answers to everything.

God.
God, he was so gone for this boy.

Nick talked.

Softly, mostly. His voice pitched a little lower than usual, like he didn’t want to disrupt whatever spell this was. But once he started, it was hard to stop. Maybe it was the nerves, maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was just Charlie – sitting across from him in that impossibly fluffy turquoise sweater, hands occasionally brushing Nick’s, watching him with that gentle kind of focus that made Nick feel like the only person in the room.

He rambled about school first. “One of my coworkers’ Year Sixes tried to convince me that doing a TikTok dance was a valid interpretation of Shakespeare. And, like– I sort of admired the confidence? But he also kicked over a chair doing it. Chaos in a tracksuit.”

Charlie huffed out a quiet laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. He picked up the small notepad balanced on his knee and scribbled something down.

He turned it toward Nick with a half-smile.
That kid is your mini-me.

Nick gave a dramatic groan, dropping his head briefly to the table. “God, don’t say that. I’m going to start seeing my own bad habits in all of them, aren’t I?”

Charlie shrugged, all mock-innocence. Then– while still smiling– he added another note and slid it across.
You talk more when you’re nervous.

Nick paused mid-sip of his mocha and choked slightly. “Do I?” he asked, wide-eyed. Then, immediately, “Crap. I do. Don’t I?”

Charlie bit back a smile and nodded, eyes twinkling.

Nick groaned again and slumped a little in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls. “I’m so busted.”

Charlie looked thoughtful for a moment, then gestured between the two of them with his fingers– you and me – and made a tiny, quick sign.

Nick blinked. “Wait– was that… ‘me too’?”

Charlie grinned. Then added an exaggerated sigh, flopping his head back against the chair for dramatic effect.

Nick burst out laughing. Not too loud, but open and soft and honest. That kind of bubbling warmth that left him smiling long after the moment had passed.

“You’re so– ” he stopped himself, shaking his head a little. “God. I don’t even have a word for you.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, amused, and took another sip of his mocha.

Nick looked at him then, really looked– at the way Charlie’s hands curled around the mug, at the faint coffee blush on his lips, at the way the light caught in his eyes. How still he was, but not in a rigid or guarded way. Just present . Peaceful. Like he belonged in this little corner of the world, with soft sweaters and tiny cafés and wildflowers in his pocket.

And maybe– maybe– he belonged with Nick too.

The thought hit him so fast it almost made his chest ache.

So he just sat back, brushing his pinky against Charlie’s again, letting himself be in it. Letting the buzz of nerves and giddy affection settle into something quieter. Something real.

He didn’t need to fill the silence. Charlie was already listening.

Nick swirled the last bit of coffee in his cup, watching the foam settle, before glancing up again. His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful than flustered.

“You know,” he said, smiling faintly, “I didn’t really understand how someone could be so quiet and yet still… say so much.”

Charlie tilted his head, curious.

Nick’s eyes softened. “You do. All the time. With your notes and your hands and your face. It’s like– ” He paused, fumbling for the words. “You don’t speak, but I feel like I hear you more clearly than I hear most people. Like I always know what you mean. And I just… I think that’s kind of amazing.”

Charlie looked at him for a moment, just looked– eyes bright and unreadable and very, very present . Then his lips twitched in a half-smile as he reached for his notepad again.

He scribbled for a little longer this time, then turned it toward Nick.

Since we’re getting to know each other you should know
It’s selective mutism
It used to be like coping but now I’m just used to it
Feels peaceful :)

Nick read the note slowly, taking it in word by word. He didn’t rush. When he finished, he looked up and met Charlie’s eyes with something soft and unshakeable.

“Okay,” he said, his voice warm. “Thank you for telling me.”

Charlie nodded a little, a quiet gratitude in the gesture.

Nick hesitated– but just for a moment– before reaching across the table. His hand slid forward until it met Charlie’s, gentle and sure, and this time, he didn’t just leave it palm-up. He took Charlie’s hand.

Held it.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of Charlie’s fingers.

“I’d accept you no matter what you’re like,” Nick said quietly. “I already do.”

Charlie’s eyes widened just a little– not in fear, but surprise– and then the blush bloomed up his cheeks like someone had set him gently on fire.

He didn’t say anything. Just ducked his head slightly and stared into the swirl of mocha in his mug, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

He held on.

And Nick just sat there, heart hammering and chest aching in the very best way, watching Charlie’s fingers curl more securely into his.

The coffee shop around them hummed gently– low conversations, the clink of cups, a barista’s laughter somewhere near the back. But at their little table tucked in the corner, it felt like the world had slowed down. Like it was just them.

Nick still hadn’t let go of Charlie’s hand. Their fingers stayed loosely laced on the tabletop, every now and then brushing or tightening slightly– absent, automatic.

“I was actually having the worst day,” Nick said, sipping the last of his drink and leaning back in his chair just a little, never quite pulling away. “When I first came into the shop. Do you remember? I looked like I’d been hit by a train.”

Charlie gave a single, tiny nod, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Nick laughed. “I felt like I’d been hit by a train. That kid had spilled glitter glue down my leg. My lesson got hijacked by someone ‘just needing to express themselves’ with interpretive dance. And then the train I was actually on broke down.”

Charlie’s eyes crinkled. He raised his hand and signed something simple.

Nick blinked, then grinned. “Yeah. Bad luck magnet, apparently.”

Charlie nodded, amused, and then picked up his notepad again.

You looked tired.
But kind.

Nick’s heart fluttered like it had been caught in a breeze. “You noticed that?”

Charlie just gave him a look. One of those subtle, slightly dry looks that somehow translated to: Of course I did, you idiot.

Nick huffed a soft laugh. “Well… you saved me. That day. I remember stepping inside and just– ” he paused, trying to find the words. “Everything felt different. The smell, the quiet, the way the flowers were just there , not staged or forced. Like they grew from the walls or something.”

Charlie’s cheeks went pink.

Nick leaned a little closer. “And you. You didn’t even say anything. You were just… behind the counter, arranging something. You glanced up, and for a second I thought– ” He stopped, embarrassed. “I don’t know. It was like you saw right through me. Not in a creepy way. Just… like you knew I needed someone to not ask me questions.”

Charlie blinked slowly, then set down the notepad and signed something again– both hands this time. Then, when Nick tilted his head in confusion, Charlie scribbled:

I remember.
You looked like you needed somewhere soft to land.

Nick’s breath caught. He smiled so wide it made his eyes crinkle. “I did.”

They sat in that soft hush for a while, hands warm against each other, Charlie occasionally sipping from his cup. Nick would glance over sometimes and just watch– watch the way Charlie’s eyes moved, how he listened, how he tilted his head like he was memorizing Nick’s words to replay them later.

Nick spoke again, a little quieter this time.

“I didn’t know you’d turn out to be one of the most important people in my life.”

Charlie didn’t write anything back.

He just looked at him, steady and sure, and nodded once.

Like he already knew.

Nick shifted in his seat, fingers still lazily tangled with Charlie’s. He leaned forward again, warmed by the coffee and even more by the quiet glow that always came from Charlie when he was comfortable like this– face open, lips slightly parted like he might smile at any moment. Nick’s voice lowered a little, soft with awe.

“My students are obsessed with your bouquets, you know. They act like I’ve brought them some kind of treasure map every time I walk in with one.”

Charlie’s brows lifted, curious and amused.

“Seriously,” Nick said, laughing under his breath. “They’re like, ‘Where did you get this one? Is this lavender? Did you pick it yourself? Did your mysterious flower guy make this?’”

Charlie pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Nick looked at him and smiled, then dropped his gaze to the table, running a thumb over the curve of Charlie’s knuckles. “And I always say, ‘Yeah. My mysterious flower guy did.’”

Charlie raised his brows like he was saying oh, really? and reached for his notepad.

You’re their favorite teacher, huh?
Bet they think you have a secret boyfriend.

Nick laughed a little too loud and flushed immediately, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Maybe. I mean– maybe I kinda do now?”

Charlie’s eyes widened just slightly. Not surprised. More like… shyly pleased.

Nick caught the look and lost all ability to play it cool.

“I mean,” he continued, voice soft and reverent now, “how could they not love what you make? You do this magic thing, Charlie. Like– you speak through the flowers. You tell entire stories with petals and leaves and somehow they always feel like the right ones. I didn’t even know flowers could do that before you.”

Charlie looked away for a second, overwhelmed. He fidgeted with his sleeve.

Nick wasn’t done.

“And the first time I saw you?” he said, not quite able to meet Charlie’s eyes now. “I actually… I had to double take. You were… are so pretty. I thought– there’s no way he’s real. I mean, come on. The sweater, the rings, the hair, the whole dark-and-dreamy vibe? I looked like a potato and you looked like a fairytale.”

Charlie’s eyes snapped to his, wide and stunned.

He didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he scribbled something and turned the notepad around with an almost sheepish look:

you’re prettier.

Nick forgot how to breathe. “That’s… not even true, but– god, thank you.”

Charlie smiled, just barely. It was shy and crinkly and dangerous.

And Nick, once he started, couldn’t stop.

“I love your hair,” he said softly. “The curls. And your eyes, they’re like… so blue it should be illegal. You’ve got these freckles that show up when you’re out in the sun and your hands are always cold but I don’t mind. You dress better than anyone I know. You don’t even speak half the time and you still manage to say more than most people I’ve met.”

Charlie’s mouth parted, stunned.

Nick reached up with his free hand, brushing his thumb just barely against the back of Charlie’s. “You laugh without sound but it’s so loud somehow. You smile and I feel like someone handed me a warm blanket. And when you do speak… even if it’s one word? It feels like a secret. Like I’ve been given something sacred.”

Charlie was frozen, blinking like he couldn’t process it all. His face was so red it matched the roses in the vase on the nearest table. And still, he didn’t pull his hand away. He stared into his half-drunk mocha, lips trembling at the corners like he didn’t know whether to hide or burst into some kind of light.

Nick smiled gently. “You deserve to hear it. All of it.”

Charlie looked up slowly, eyes glassy but bright.

And then, in the smallest, quietest way, he nodded. Just once.

And smiled.

• ─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

They stepped out of the café, the bell above the door chiming softly as it swung shut behind them. The air was still crisp, but the mid-morning sun had taken the edge off the chill, casting soft gold over the pavement. Nick zipped up his jacket a little higher, and Charlie pulled his sweater sleeves over his hands as they stood just outside, side by side.

Nick glanced over. “Want to… maybe walk a little? Through the park?”

Charlie looked up at him, something fond and warm in his eyes. He gave a small nod, then smiled, the kind that made Nick’s stomach flip like a page in a favorite book.

They began walking slowly, the quiet rhythm of their steps falling into sync without effort. Charlie didn’t speak, of course, but he didn’t need to. He walked close– closer than necessary– and Nick noticed it immediately. It wasn’t quite arm-touching, not yet, but it was close enough that Nick could feel a small pull, like gravity bending ever so slightly toward warmth.

Nick stole a glance, heart already soft.

Charlie had his hands in his sweater sleeves, head slightly ducked, curls falling into his eyes. His cheeks were still flushed from the compliments Nick had showered him with inside the café, and the little curve of his smile hadn’t left. He looked… peaceful. Like someone who had been holding something heavy for a long time and had finally set it down.

Nick couldn’t help it. “You’re walking really close.”

Charlie looked up at him, eyes dancing. He bumped their shoulders, gently, on purpose.

Nick laughed, a little breathless. “Cold?”

Charlie gave him a maybe face, then nodded. Just a little. But then he held up two fingers and tilted his hand– sort of .

“Sort of cold,” Nick translated, grinning.

Charlie’s smirk widened just a bit, and he shrugged as if to say, also maybe just wanted to be near you.

And Nick’s heart just… melted.

They passed under a row of bare-limbed trees, their branches arching overhead like a soft tunnel of light and shadow. There weren’t many people out– just a few older couples walking dogs, someone jogging in the distance. It felt like they were in their own little world.

Charlie stepped a little closer. Their arms brushed.

Nick couldn’t feel the cold anymore.

“I could walk with you like this every day,” he murmured, not expecting Charlie to respond, just… needing to say it.

Charlie turned to him, eyes soft.

Then he reached for his notepad again, scribbled something, and handed it over.

so walk with me again tomorrow.

Nick stared at the words, warmth blooming across his chest like sunlight through frost.

He looked up at Charlie, who was already watching him.

“I will,” Nick said quietly. “I really, really will.”

Charlie smiled.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

They stopped at the little corner where the paths split– Charlie’s route one way, Nick’s the other. Neither of them moved for a moment.

Nick shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, smiling like a complete idiot, and Charlie stood with his weight shifting from foot to foot, eyes flicking between Nick and the ground like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

And then– without warning– Charlie closed the distance between them.

Nick blinked in surprise, barely getting his hands free before Charlie threw his arms around him. It wasn’t tentative like the last one. This hug was immediate, sure, and closer – arms wrapping tight around Nick’s middle, head tucking perfectly into the crook of Nick’s neck like it belonged there.

Nick froze for just a beat. Then melted. Absolutely melted.

He brought one arm around Charlie’s shoulders, the other gently cradling the back of his sweater-clad form. His palm brushed the ends of those wild curls now spilling over his shoulder, soft and warm against his cheek.

He could feel Charlie breathing. Slow. Steady. Comfortable.

And then– barely there, barely more than breath– 

“Thank you.”

It was soft. Muffled against his neck. Not quite a whisper, not quite a word– but it was real.

Nick’s arms tightened slightly without meaning to.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t have if he tried.

Charlie pulled away slowly, not abruptly, just with a kind of care that made Nick’s chest ache. His hands lingered for a second at Nick’s waist, fingers brushing over his coat as he leaned back to look up.

Big, soft eyes met Nick’s. Wide and brown and glowing with something that looked suspiciously like awe. There was a vulnerability in them that knocked all the air from Nick’s lungs. Like Charlie was trying to memorize every inch of him before saying goodbye.

Nick swallowed. He wanted to say something– to hold him, to kiss his forehead, to tell him he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

But Charlie just gave the tiniest smile. A flick of his fingers.

Then turned.

And walked away.

Nick stood there in the cold, barely breathing, arms still tingling from the hug, heart thundering in his ears.

He didn’t move until Charlie rounded the corner and disappeared.

• ─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick wasn’t sure how he got home.

His legs carried him, but it felt more like floating. Or maybe like someone else was walking for him– he couldn’t really tell. His coat was still buttoned, his scarf twisted, cheeks wind-stung and pink. The world outside was bright with winter light, but it blurred a little at the edges.

The second the door shut behind him, the silence was deafening.

He didn’t go to the couch. Didn’t take off his shoes. He just dropped– slowly, carefully– to the floor. Back pressed against the wall. Legs stretched out in front of him. Hands in his lap, one thumb absentmindedly brushing over the spot where Charlie had touched him, just before they parted.

Charlie had hugged him. Held him. Whispered “thank you” in his ear like Nick was some kind of miracle.

The moment played in his head on a loop– like his brain had short-circuited and decided this was the only file it could open. The feel of those curls against his cheek. The warmth of that soft, shy sweater pressed into his chest. The way Charlie had looked at him.

Like Nick was someone worth looking at.

He stared at the opposite wall for who knows how long. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime.

His phone buzzed against his thigh.

He blinked down at it.

Incoming call: PowerCouple (Plus One Honorary)

He answered without thinking, lifting the phone to his ear in the same slow, dazed way he’d done everything since Charlie walked away.

“HEYYYYY LOVERBOY– ”

Darcy’s voice exploded into the stillness like a firework. Nick winced, holding the phone slightly away, but she kept going, unbothered. “OKAY TELL ME EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW I NEED THE WHOLE STORY– DID HE SMILE? DID YOU SMILE? DID YOU KISS? DID YOU TOUCH? WAS THERE HAND-HOLDING?? I NEED DETAILS, SWEETIE, GIVE ME LIFE– ”

“Told you he’d be in shock,” Tara’s voice came in behind her, a little more muffled, a little softer.

Nick couldn’t even form words. He just made a quiet sort of half-sigh, half-laugh sound. Like maybe he was trying to speak but didn’t know how anymore.

“Nick?” Tara again.

Nick hummed, curling slightly forward, letting his head rest against the wall. He was smiling– he was pretty sure– but it felt like it was happening to someone else.

“…he hugged me,” Nick said eventually, voice quiet and hoarse.

There was a pause on the line. Then some rustling.

“I’m stealing the phone,” Tara announced, and Darcy protested in the background, but gave it up quickly.

“Hey,” Tara said, gentle now. “You okay?”

Nick tried to speak. Failed. Swallowed.

“…I don’t know what I’m feeling,” he said finally. “I think my soul left my body.”

Tara laughed, but not at him. Soft and warm. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“He was just…” Nick closed his eyes. “He looked at me like– like I was something good. And then he said ‘thank you,’ and– I don’t know. I can’t think.”

“I think you’re just overwhelmed,” Tara said, kind and calm like a warm blanket. “It’s okay to let yourself sit in it.”

“I haven’t moved since I got home.”

Darcy’s voice piped up faintly in the background. “Let him marinate!”

“Darcy says you should marinate in it,” Tara added, trying not to laugh.

Nick laughed quietly for real this time. The sound felt cracked open, soft, still stunned.

“I think I’m in love,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Tara didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence stretch. Then:

“Yeah. I think you might be.”

“Thanks, Tara,” Nick murmured, shifting the phone slightly in his hand. He rubbed at his forehead, as if that could help make space for thoughts again.

“Anytime,” she said, voice steady. “We’ll let you breathe now, okay?”

Darcy's voice was muffled but chipper in the background: “Go stare at a wall and think about his curls for the next hour. You deserve it.”

Nick smiled. “Already on it.”

They hung up.

The stillness settled in again. Softer this time.

He let his head fall back against the wall, arms limp at his sides, his heart still fluttering like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the date was over. The memory of Charlie’s hand resting over his own– light as a petal, warm and deliberate– seemed to echo on his skin.

His phone buzzed again.

He blinked, glanced down.

Charlie:
Thank you for taking me out today. I had a really good time.
If I was too forward, or overstepped anything, I’m sorry.
A bit out of practice.

Nick’s breath caught, just a little. He already felt a smile starting as the next message came in:

Charlie:
Also– look.

There was a photo attached.

It was of a narrow patch of sunlight falling across cracked pavement, pots clustered together just outside the alley fence. Centered in the frame: a little tangle of newly blooming violas, their petals rich and purple and delicately veined, nestled among the moss and trailing greenery. Charlie had clearly taken time framing it. There was a smudge of dirt on one edge of the planter.

Charlie:
You helped me re-pot these a few weeks ago.
I’ve named them Nicky Junior.

Nick made a choked little sound. He brought the phone to his chest and just held it for a second, a warmth blooming under his ribs so big it almost hurt.

Then, with a dopey grin, he thumbed out a reply.

Nick:
They are way more put-together than me, so I’m honored.
Do they also cry after hugs or is that just the original Nicky?

He hesitated. Then added:

 You weren’t too forward. Not even a little bit.
  It was… perfect, Charlie.
  You’re perfect.

He hit send before he could overthink it.

Then he lay there, staring at the ceiling like maybe he’d just made up the whole day in a dream.

Moments later, another buzz:

Charlie:
Original Nicky is cuter.
And realer than any flower I’ve ever seen.
Even if he does cry after hugs.

Nick, on the floor, made a quiet noise like a dying star.

He didn’t answer the last message.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because his whole body was humming, full of something too warm and too wide to put into words. The kind of happiness that didn’t buzz or burn, but settled – heavy and safe and whole– like a quilt dropped over your shoulders in the middle of winter.

He let the phone slip gently from his fingers, the screen still lit with Charlie’s words.

He didn’t move to plug it in.
Didn’t get off the floor.
Didn’t even grab a blanket.

He just curled slightly where he sat, back resting against the wall, knees drawn a little toward his chest. His cheek pressed to his shoulder as his eyes fluttered closed.

And somehow– somehow– he didn’t replay the awkward parts.
He didn’t second guess the way he smiled too wide, or tripped over compliments, or rambled like a goof about flowers and dogs and chaotic children.

Instead, all he felt was soft skin against his knuckles.
The shape of a shoulder in his palm.
The weight of curls brushing his neck.
And the tiniest whisper of thank you in a voice that had barely breathed a word all night.

He fell asleep like that.
On the floor.
Still dressed from the date, heart wide open, soul in a puddle.

And for the first time in what felt like years–
He slept like someone who believed they were loved.

Chapter Text

It was a usual Monday afternoon. Grey, but not rainy. The kind of dull light that settled across windows like a thin film— harmless, forgettable. The shop was warmer inside, brighter too, but not just from the bulbs strung overhead. It was busy. Busier than usual.

Three people waited at the counter, each with bouquets in hand— one with fresh tulips, another with a bouquet wrapped in navy tissue, the third clutching something small and spiky that looked like it might be for a cousin’s graduation. Two more customers browsed by the near wall, trailing fingers over vases and delicate price tags.

Nick stood near the door, not quite in the way but close enough to take it all in. He recognized one of the five— a soft-spoken regular who always asked for the tiny sorts— but the others were new. They didn’t seem confused, though. Not thrown off by the silence. If anything, they moved with a kind of easy rhythm that matched the quiet music playing low in the background, as if the shop taught you how to exist in it.

Charlie was behind the register, pressing numbers into the till with quiet precision. His tongue poked out just slightly in focus, brow furrowed as he counted change. The customer he was helping laughed at something he wrote on a notepad beside the till, and Charlie gave a half-shrug in response, one corner of his mouth lifting.

Nick watched, arms folded loosely, doing his best to look casual. To not stare. But the truth was, he loved watching Charlie like this— efficient, quiet, calm. Entirely himself.

Nick finally walked fully in like he wasn’t brimming with nerves. Like he didn’t already feel his ears getting warm.

The bell above the door chimed, and he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, eyes sweeping the front table. New arrangement— roses and snapdragons? He barely registered it. His gaze drifted back almost immediately. Back to him .

He was with the second customer in line— an adult man in a navy coat, holding a simple mix of flowers he couldn’t name. Charlie took the bouquet with a gentle nod, then turned to begin wrapping it.

And Nick— well, Nick stared.

He meant to be subtle. But the moment Charlie’s hands came into view, everything else faded.

They were… beautiful , in the sort of way Nick had never thought about hands before.

Long, slender fingers. Knuckles faintly pink from the cold. His nails were a little uneven, but neatly shaped, and underneath them— dirt, etched deep into the nail beds. Soil also clung faintly in the wrinkles where his fingers bent, caught in the ridges like faint brushstrokes of shadow. Normally, that might have seemed messy. But on Charlie, it wasn’t. It was… honest. Pretty, even.

His skin was mostly smooth, soft-looking, with the faintest pink at his fingertips like they’d just been warmed. But then— there were the callouses. Tiny ones at the base of his fingers, barely visible but just enough to catch the light. Not harsh. Not rough. Just quiet evidence of constant work.

Nick found himself wondering, completely unprompted, what those hands would feel like. In his hair. On his cheek. Curling around his own.

Jesus Christ.

Charlie curled the ribbon slowly with the side of a pair of scissors, careful and practiced, the soft paper creasing beneath his hands like it trusted him. Then he picked up a small, brown tag, pen already uncapped. He leaned slightly to the side, pressing the tag to the counter and writing in quick, rounded script— his usual style, loopy and expressive, the kind of writing that felt like it had emotion in the lines.

Nick watched, breath half-held, as Charlie handed the bouquet back to the man with a bright-eyed smile. The man said something, grinning, and Charlie tapped quickly at the till again before flipping the notepad around to show a reply. The man laughed. Something kind in his face, like this exchange had made his whole afternoon.

Money exchanged hands. Charlie nodded again.

Nick blinked.

His whole face went hot.

He was still staring.

He looked away, far too quickly, eyes latching onto a nearby display like it had asked him a question. Tulips. Blue and yellow, damp stems in silver buckets.

It didn’t matter. His mind was still full of Charlie’s fingers.

Soft-looking and stained with earth.

And somehow the most delicate thing Nick had ever seen.

Charlie was nearly done with the last customer, a woman holding a bundle of dusty pink roses and baby’s breath. He handed her the finished wrap gently, nodding in response to whatever she said— then tapped something on his notepad, a soft smile curling at the corners of his mouth. It lingered there even after she left.

And then— he looked up.

Nick felt it before he saw it. That subtle shift in the room, like a light turning toward him.

Charlie’s eyes found him across the space— soft, bright, and undeniably focused. His cheeks flushed pink almost instantly, blooming up from the collar of his hoodie like rising color in watercolor paper. But he didn’t look away.

He smiled. A warm, wide one that pushed his dimples all the way out and made his eyes crinkle just slightly.

Nick’s heart twisted so tightly he thought it might give out on the spot.

He smiled back— grinning, actually— then glanced away, trying not to look too starry-eyed, even as his skin buzzed with it. With the rightness of being seen like that.

Turning toward the display to give Charlie space to finish up, Nick let his gaze trail along the shop— and that’s when he started noticing.

Not just flowers this time.

Things.

The drawing from his year two students— he knew it. Nick had given it to Charlie ages ago, folded twice and barely legible in crayon, a wonky little piece of notebook paper covered in multicolored scrawl, surrounded by stick figures, lopsided hearts, and a disproportionate number of flowers. And now— there it was, framed in a white photo frame, sitting by the greenhouse door like it belonged.

Nick blinked, the edges of a smile curling at his mouth. He hadn’t thought Charlie would keep it, let alone display it.

His eyes scanned the rest of the room now with fresh attention.

Blue and yellow.

It was everywhere— woven in subtle, intentional ways. Not just in flowers. There were pillowcases on the windowsill bench in alternating shades of sky and daffodil. A vase on the front counter filled with tiny bluebells and golden freesias. Even the tissue paper in the main wrapping station: stacked in two piles, pale blue and soft yellow, side by side like they were meant to be together.

Nick’s heart stuttered a little.

Then he caught the chalkboard.

It had the usual “welcome” and a few flower care tips scribbled at the top— but underneath, someone had scrawled:

“What do you call a flower that runs on electricity?”

And just beneath, in smaller, curlier writing:

“ A power plant.”

Nick let out a short laugh, too fond for it to be anything else. That was his joke. One he’d told Charlie weeks ago while laughing through his iced coffee, proud of how stupid it was.

Charlie had written it down.

He turned again and caught sight of the counter, where a small ceramic tray held a scattering of handmade bookmarks— thin watercolor paper with pressed petals sealed under clear laminate. Each one had a pride flag painted across the top. Rainbow, lesbian, trans, ace.

And right at the front— bi.

Nick stared for a long moment, something sharp and soft blooming all at once in his chest.

He couldn’t even try to pass that off as coincidence.

His eyes flicked to the small, battered notebook Charlie always carried near the register— slightly bent at the corners, a pencil tucked into the spine. Nick leaned ever so slightly, just enough to catch the edge of the sticker on the front cover.

Two of them, side by side.

A golden retriever.

And a black cat.

Nick’s breath caught.

He couldn’t help it. He’d told Charlie once, a little shyly, that a friend of his said he had golden retriever energy. Charlie had laughed— truly laughed— and then said nothing, only raised a brow and nodded, amused. But now…

Now he wondered if Charlie remembered because he felt the same way.

Black cat. Golden retriever.

Nick pressed his lips together, warmth pooling in his chest, tinged with a kind of awe he didn’t know how to carry properly.

This wasn’t random.

This was Charlie talking . In his language. Quiet, careful, detail-rich. A conversation built of small offerings and soft gestures. Nick could see it now— not just affection, but attention. Care . The kind that didn’t ask for praise, that didn’t need to be flashy. Just there , like petals pressed gently between the pages of a well-read book.

Charlie had been listening to him all along.

And maybe, just maybe, this was his way of flirting — of telling Nick something he wasn’t ready to say out loud, but felt just as deeply.

And Nick— Nick saw it.

Felt it like a low ache behind his ribs.

His hand drifted over a nearby bouquet— sunflowers and purple asters, another joke of his made real— and he smiled.

He was learning Charlie too.

And maybe, just maybe, they were both saying yes in their own ways.

“You’re turning red, dear.”

Nick nearly jumped, the sudden voice beside him tugging him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Ms. Henley standing there, arms crossed, amusement written all over her face like she’d been waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

He blinked, then laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Am I?”

“You are .” Her eyes twinkled. “Right across the cheeks. Practically glowing.”

Nick shrugged, playing it casual. “Maybe it’s just warm in here.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, clearly not buying it. “Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the way you were just looking at him like he hung the stars.”

Nick snorted, trying to suppress the sheepish grin creeping onto his face. “That obvious, huh?”

Ms. Henley gave a gentle, knowing look. “You’re not exactly subtle, sweetheart. But don’t worry— neither is he.”

Nick’s smile faltered just slightly, his heart giving an uncertain flutter. He followed her gaze across the shop. Charlie was at the loose flower section, crouched beside a little girl and her mum, helping her carefully pick out individual stems to build her own bouquet. His hands wrote small notes from time to time, finger pointing toward the different flowers, and his eyes— his eyes kept flicking over toward Nick, quick little glances he tried to disguise as nothing.

But Nick saw it.

And maybe Ms. Henley did too.

“You should see how he gets before you come in,” she said, adjusting the sleeves of her cardigan. “Pretends he’s not checking the clock. Pretends he doesn’t smooth down his hair ten times. Pretends he’s not smiling at the door every time it opens.”

Nick’s chest tightened with something impossibly tender. He looked back at Charlie again— at the soft way his hands hovered over the little girl’s choices, how he let her make each decision but still guided gently. His face was calm, focused.

But his eyes crinkled again when they flicked back to Nick.

“I’ve known Charlie for a while,” Ms. Henley said, softer now. “And he’s always been sharp, always good with people. But when you’re here, he’s… different.”

Nick tilted his head, watching.

“Lighter,” she clarified. “Like something inside him relaxes. Like he’s breathing in color.”

Nick swallowed hard, smiling in that quiet, helpless way he did when he was overwhelmed with too many emotions to name.

“He listens harder than anyone I know,” Ms. Henley added, with a little smile of her own. “But with you , it’s more than listening. It’s like he’s learning.”

Nick’s voice was low. “He’s been… leaving things. Around the shop. Things I’ve said.”

“I know. I see him do it.” She nudged him gently. “And I see the way you look at him when you notice.”

Nick ducked his head, caught out but not ashamed. Just shy. Just full.

“You’re good for him,” she said, with a finality that made his breath catch.

Nick blinked. “You think?”

Ms. Henley gave him a sideways look. “I know . And he’s good for you, too. You were sweet before, but now— your eyes are brighter. Like you’re waking up.”

Nick looked back at Charlie again, just in time to see him laugh at something the girl said, head tipped back slightly, hands mid-motion in some playful reply.

Warmth bloomed all the way to Nick’s fingertips.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “He is.”

Ms. Henley leaned against a shelf beside him, her arms folded over her clothes and a sly smile tugging at her mouth. She glanced sideways at Nick, who was very obviously pretending to admire a vase of buttercups that he definitely hadn’t noticed before.

“You know,” she said lightly, “your ears go that particular shade of red every time you walk in here and he smiles at you.”

Nick sputtered a little laugh, running a hand through his hair and keeping his eyes on the flowers. “What? No they don’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart. They absolutely do.” She grinned. “It’s sweet, really. Like watching the slowest romance novel unfold in real time.”

Nick finally glanced at her, mouth opening like he might protest, but he didn’t get the chance.

“So,” Ms. Henley said, far too casually, “have you two actually gone on a date yet, or are we still in the secret garden pining stage?”

Nick nearly dropped the vase. “What— ?”

She laughed, not unkindly, but fully enjoying herself. “It’s a genuine question. I keep seeing him come in looking like the sun’s tucked itself in his pocket, and then you come in and act like you’ve never seen a boy before.”

Nick opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze flicked instinctively toward the far side of the shop where Charlie stood beside a customer, head tilted as he listened to a question, arms gently cradling a handful of stems. He must’ve said something, or written it, because the customer nodded and moved to follow. Charlie glanced up just for a second— and his eyes caught Nick’s.

Charlie’s lips curved, soft and amused. He didn’t look away.

Nick turned back to Ms. Henley with flaming cheeks. “We’ve… hung out.”

She arched a brow. “Hung out,” she echoed, drawing out the words like taffy.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “It wasn’t— not officially— but… yeah. Kind of. We did.”

Ms. Henley beamed like she’d just won something. “I knew it. He looked like he’d floated in the next day. Had a whole new kind of shine to him. You’re good for him.”

Nick didn’t know what to do with that— so he just smiled, eyes flickering back to Charlie again. Charlie, who had just handed off the flowers and was now fiddling with the ribbon tin, but his body was angled toward Nick. Like he was listening without listening.

Nick lingered a little longer by the small display table, fingers trailing along the edge of a ceramic dish until his eyes caught on a cluster of soft pinks and reds nestled together near the middle. It was dainty— nothing dramatic or showy— but it was arranged with care. Tulips, tiny bleeding hearts, baby’s breath. A simple paper tag hung from the basket, handwritten in looping cursive:

“For compassion and care.”

Nick’s mouth tilted at the corners.

It was… maybe a little flirty. Or it could be. If he wanted it to be. Which— he kind of did.

His first instinct was to look around and see if anyone else had clocked him staring at it like it had spoken to him. Then he looked up toward Charlie again. Still busy— still helping someone pick out a loose flower arrangement. His hands moved delicately over stems and scissors and ribbons, precise but unhurried.

Nick’s gaze flicked back to the bouquet. Then to Charlie again. Then back. His fingers hovered before he gave in and gently pulled the arrangement free, cradling it like something fragile. A warmth settled in his chest, silly and light.

He joined the short line at the till behind an older woman with a bunch of forget-me-nots and lavender, bouquet already wrapped in brown paper. Charlie was finishing her order— head slightly bowed in concentration, his handwriting spilling across a fresh notepad sheet with his pen clutched loosely in those long, graceful fingers. The very tip of his tongue was just barely poking out between his lips in focus.

Nick felt his chest do a full somersault.

It was such a small thing— such a completely unremarkable, ordinary thing— but it melted him all the same. The way Charlie’s expression softened just a little in concentration. How the light caught in the curls that had fallen into his face. The dirt smudges under his nails and the faint callouses on his knuckles didn’t dull it— they somehow made it more beautiful. More real .

Nick stared at his hands again. At the way Charlie pressed one against the counter to steady the paper as he signed something final at the bottom. How his fingers flexed ever so slightly as he tore off the note and handed it to the customer, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Nick barely remembered to move forward when it was his turn. His heart thudded, too loud in his ears, bouquet clutched in his hands like a secret.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Charlie didn’t look up at first.

He was focused on the register, the soft click of buttons under his fingers oddly grounding in the background noise of the shop. His tongue peeked out just slightly in concentration, the same way it had earlier, and Nick swore he could feel it in his chest again— that squeeze, that stupid, swooping ache. He watched as Charlie handed over change to the customer in front of him with a little smile, then turned to write something quick on his notepad. Still all business. Still unaware.

Nick stood there with the bouquet pressed lightly to his chest, trying not to stare too obviously. Trying not to feel like the moment was stretching out forever.

And then— 

Charlie looked up.

His eyes landed on the flowers first, just briefly, then slowly lifted. They found Nick.

And Nick swore— he swore — he actually saw the moment it hit Charlie. Like something inside him unfurled. Like the sun rose behind his eyes all at once.

Charlie’s entire expression changed in a heartbeat. The neutral attentiveness he wore for customers melted away, and something soft, bright, and devastatingly tender took its place. Worshipful, almost. Like Nick had caught him off-guard with his very presence. Like he couldn’t believe he was real. His lips parted, eyes wide and shining— not just with surprise, but with a kind of quiet reverence, the sort that made Nick’s throat go tight.

And then that smile bloomed across his face.

Not the polite one he gave customers. Not the brief, closed-lipped version he sometimes wore when he was thinking. But the full one— the one that took over his whole face, dimples carving deep into flushed cheeks, eyes crinkling, pink dusting his ears and the tip of his nose. The one that looked like joy. Like disbelief. Like affection so raw and real it made Nick feel dizzy.

Charlie signed, “Hi Nick,” with his special name sign— the N traced like a heart over his chest, then a little swoop that mimicked Nick’s fringe when he laughed.

Nick’s heart stuttered. He felt like the floor had dropped out from under him— but in a soft, weightless kind of way.

He smiled, or tried to, but it came out a little crooked. His voice barely worked when he said, “Hi, Charlie.” And he signed it back too, careful, a bit clumsy. His fingers still fumbled some letters, but he knew Charlie would understand. Charlie always did.

Charlie giggled— soundless but rich with warmth. His shoulders curled slightly inward in that familiar, bashful way, and then he reached across the counter and gently took Nick’s hands in his.

And Nick— 

Nick just stopped .

Charlie’s fingers curled around his with such softness, guiding his hands, thumbs tracing the edges of his palms to shape the signs again. His touch was gentle but certain. Familiar. There was dirt under Charlie’s nails, smudged in the soft wrinkles of his knuckles from earlier bouquet wrapping, but his skin was still warm and smooth. And Nick could feel the callouses too— small and scattered, earned and real . They didn’t make his hands feel rough. Just true . Just his .

Nick’s eyes flicked up to Charlie’s face again.

And Charlie was still looking at him.

Like that. Like he didn’t understand why Nick was here again— why he kept coming back— but he was grateful. Awed. Shy about it, but glowing all the same. Like he was trying not to fall harder, but couldn’t help it. His gaze was so open, so quietly vulnerable, that Nick’s chest ached with how badly he wanted to hold it, match it, deserve it.

He didn’t know what he’d done to earn a look like that.

But he knew, with utter certainty, that he wanted to be the reason Charlie smiled like that for a long, long time.

Then, Nick’s fingers curled a little tighter around the bouquet as Charlie’s hands slipped from his. He gently set the bundle of flowers on the counter between them, trying not to look too flushed— even though the warmth had already started climbing up his neck.

Charlie looked down at the arrangement, the soft pinks and reds, the little heart-shaped “ Compassion + Care ” tag still hanging at the basket stand.

Then he looked back up at Nick. And smirked.

Not a mocking one. It was gentler than that. Teasing, yes, but fond— like he knew exactly what Nick had done and wasn’t about to let it slide without a little fun.

He raised his brows just slightly, lips quirking more at the edges, and reached for his notepad. His pen scratched quickly against the page, a few flicks and loops, before he turned it around and held it out to Nick.

“ Are you trying to say something… or flirt with me?”

Nick stared at the words. Then at Charlie. Then quickly away from Charlie, as if the very act of reading had set his face on fire.

“I— what— ?” he stammered, desperately scrambling to play it cool. “I mean… It’s a nice bouquet. That’s all.”

But Charlie was already grinning, and Nick knew he was so busted .

Charlie didn’t press. He didn’t have to. He just giggled again, silent and glowing, and gently tugged the bouquet toward him to start wrapping it. His fingers moved with practiced ease, coaxing blue and yellow tissue paper around the stems like muscle memory, and Nick stood there like a useless puddle, watching him.

The way Charlie worked with flowers was different than with customers. Softer, somehow. Less performative, more focused. He took his time— especially now. And Nick noticed.

He watched as Charlie paused at the ribbon box, fingers hovering over a few different shades, before selecting a particular hue of blue— Nick’s favorite one, just a bit deeper than sky but lighter than navy. The choice wasn’t casual.

It was deliberate.

Intentional.

Flirty.

Nick felt something unfurl in his chest again, slow and sweet and reverent.

Charlie wrapped the ribbon carefully, tying it in a neat little bow and then curling the ends with a small pair of scissors, letting them bounce slightly with each flick. He took his time with that part, clearly enjoying it. Clearly enjoying Nick’s watching, too.

Then came the tag.

Charlie plucked a new one from the little pile by the till, and Nick saw his face screw up in thought before he began scribbling— slanted cursive spilling out fast, his head bent low. A few extra swirls. Something underlined. And then— 

Charlie grinned.

He flipped the tag so Nick couldn’t see and tucked it into the bouquet with exaggerated care, sealing it between the tissue and brown paper like a secret. And then, as a final touch, he reached for a pen and scrawled a tiny doodle on the back— just quick strokes of black ink, but Nick caught the shapes as they formed: a floppy-eared dog, tail wagging, pressed up against a sleek little black cat with narrowed eyes and a smirk.

Nick’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, a little breathless. “You did do the stickers on purpose.”

Charlie shot him a wink.

Nick swayed a little on his heels. And this time, when he smiled, it wasn’t just shy— it was a bit awed. A bit unsteady. A bit like falling. Because maybe that’s what he was doing.

When Charlie slid the now-finished bouquet across the counter, Nick instinctively reached for his wallet.

“I’m paying,” he said firmly, already pulling out a few folded notes before Charlie could even gesture otherwise. “No arguments.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow like he was absolutely going to argue— then thought better of it, tilting his head in exaggerated surrender. He held out his hand, and Nick dropped the cash into it, their fingers brushing.

But Charlie didn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand closed gently over Nick’s, warm and deliberate. And then, just for a moment— barely a few seconds— Charlie’s thumb moved. A slow, soft stroke over Nick’s knuckles. Like he was memorizing the shape of them. Like it meant something.

Nick’s breath hitched quietly, eyes darting up in surprise. The touch wasn’t teasing or playful. It was tender . Real. His heart stuttered in his chest, heat blooming behind his ribs as he stared at the boy in front of him, in utter disbelief that Charlie could be this soft with him. Could want to be.

But when he looked up, Charlie wasn’t meeting his gaze.

He was already turning back toward the till, typing something in with his shoulders a little too straight and his lips pressed together like he was trying not to grin. His ears were faintly pink.

Nick blinked, still holding onto the lingering warmth of that brief touch like it was something precious.

And maybe it was.

Because for all the unspoken things between them, that small, wordless moment said a hell of a lot.

Charlie handed over the receipt, folded in a strange little triangle— clean edges, one corner slightly tucked in like a secret. Nick took it automatically, his fingers brushing Charlie’s. For a second, Charlie didn’t let go. His thumb brushed lightly over Nick’s knuckles in that careful, brief way that always left Nick breathless, like even the smallest touch was something to be treasured. Then he let go, retreating just enough to type something into the till, but his eyes flicked up once— soft, fond, and a little smug.

Nick held the triangle in his hand, unsure whether to smile or combust on the spot.

“Thanks,” he managed, voice soft. “I’ll text you.”

Charlie gave him a small wave, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking closely, but Nick always was. His smile was crooked in that knowing way, like he was proud of whatever chaos he’d just caused. Nick took a slow breath and turned toward the door, trying not to grin too obviously.

“Bye, cats,” he mumbled on his way out, offering the comment to the sleepy creatures curled in their usual windowsill spot. One of them blinked at him as he passed, the other remained a loaf. Nick pushed the door open, the little chime sounding above him as he stepped into the cool grey afternoon.

It was only once he was down the street— just far enough from the shop to not feel watched— that he looked down at the paper still clutched in his hand. He hadn’t even checked the price.

He paused under the awning of a closed shop, leaned his back to the cold brick, and carefully unfolded the receipt.

The paper crackled as he undid the folds, the strange shape unfurling like a flower or a tiny origami envelope. And there, scrawled just below the total in a familiar slanted hand:

“you look nice today… and always, but especially today :p”

Nick stared at the words.

His brain short-circuited for a moment.

Then: Oh.

Oh.

His heartbeat tripped a little. Then again. His cheeks flooded with heat so suddenly he had to physically shake his head, like that would somehow cool him down or at least reset whatever was happening in his chest.

He wasn’t sure what part got him the most— the fact Charlie wrote it where he knew Nick would find it later, or that stupid little “ :p ”, or maybe just the confirmation that Charlie really was flirting with him, openly now. That he was being bold, in his own soft and sideways kind of way. That he thought Nick looked nice. Not just nice— always , but especially today.

Nick looked down at his outfit, the plain jumper, the jeans, the old sneakers. He hadn’t tried. He hadn’t done anything special. But Charlie had noticed. Charlie had written it down.

The warmth in Nick’s chest surged and nearly took him off balance. He pressed the receipt flat against his chest for a second, gripping it like it might disappear.

And then came the spiral.

Should he text him right now? Would that be too eager? What would he say— “you look nice too”? No. That sounded lame. “Thank you”? Worse. A selfie captioned “you too”? Horrific.

His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again.

He folded the receipt back up slowly, reverently, and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat— somewhere it wouldn’t get crushed. Somewhere he could reach for it again, maybe tonight, maybe later, maybe when the world felt a little too heavy and he needed to remember this exact kind of joy.

A stupid grin pulled at his mouth, impossible to contain.

God, Charlie Spring was going to ruin him. And Nick Nelson would let him. Gladly.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick didn’t open the bouquet until he was home.

He’d placed it gently on the kitchen counter when he walked in, still half-floating from the receipt message and trying to pretend he wasn’t already thinking about texting Charlie a selfie with it. The warmth had followed him the whole walk, tucked under his ribs and curling like a cat behind his lungs, humming contentedly every time he glanced at the folded paper in his coat pocket.

But it was only after he made tea, fed Nellie, and calmed down enough to stop pacing in soft little circles, that he finally unwrapped the bouquet.

His fingers moved carefully, like he was undoing something sacred. The tissue paper fell back— blue and yellow and warm brown beneath his hands— and the flowers looked even more beautiful under the kitchen light. Full pink peonies, delicate red ranunculus, small white sprigs tucked between them like whispers. It was ridiculous. Charlie had picked out something that looked like it belonged in a film.

Nick was already smiling when he spotted the tag.

It was looped through a thin twine near the base of the stems, the same one Charlie had written “compassion and care” on at the shop. Nick had seen it and felt flustered then— but now, he tugged it free and turned it over.

More writing.

“I don’t really know what you did to me. You just showed up. And suddenly I couldn’t stop waiting for every Monday. I don’t get it. But I really, really like it. And I really, really like you.”

The words weren’t neat. A little rushed, maybe. Curves uneven. Like Charlie had been nervous writing it. Like he hadn’t let himself overthink it too much, or maybe he had, and this was the fifth version. But either way— Nick just stared.

The weight of it settled into his chest all at once. Not heavy in a bad way. Just full . Like every soft little detail in the shop had bloomed into this. Like every smile, every carefully chosen flower, every glance and wave and brush of fingers was leading to this message.

Nick sat down without meaning to, one hand still holding the tag, the other now tangled in his hair. He read it again.

“You just showed up.”

“I couldn’t stop waiting for every Monday.”

He let out a helpless sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, pressing the card to his chest like he’d done with the receipt. He didn’t know how to hold all of it— this affection, this stupid joy that wouldn’t stop buzzing in his throat.

And then, on the back of the tag, he saw them.

Two tiny doodles in black ink.

A round-eyed black cat. A scruffy golden retriever.

Charlie had drawn them smaller this time— careful, tucked into the corner like a shared secret. The cat sat with its tail curled neatly over its paws, calm and elegant. The dog was messy, smiling with its tongue lolling out, ears askew.

Nick stared.

Then he pressed his forehead to the countertop and groaned.

He was absolutely, catastrophically doomed.

And he’d never been happier about it.

Nick sat there for a few more minutes, just staring at the tag in his hand, running his thumb gently over the words like they might change if he blinked too long. The note. The doodles. The ribbon now slightly bent on the counter beside the bouquet. His chest was a mess of warmth and awe and maybe something that felt a little like falling in love, or at least tumbling headfirst into something dizzyingly close.

Eventually, with slow, careful fingers, he stood and crossed to the fridge.

The door was already a quiet collage— chaos in the best way. There was the very first tag Charlie ever gave him, still a bit crumpled, pinned under a magnet shaped like a bee. There were a few polaroids: one of Nellie curled on the couch, one of Tara and Darcy with ridiculous sunglasses, and another of Charlie mid-laugh in the park, blurry from motion but radiant anyway. Scattered between them were drawings from his Year 2 students— rainbows, oddly proportioned stick figures, one that was just labeled “Mr. N” with hearts all around it. A couple pressed wildflowers Charlie gave him ages ago. A wrinkled joke napkin Tori had scrawled on at lunch.

It was stupid, maybe, how special it all was.

With a gentle hand, Nick pinned the newest tag just beside the first one, overlapping it slightly. The doodled black cat and dog faced the bee magnet now, like they were in on the joke.

He stepped back and took a photo. No filters. Just the fridge, full and messy and very, very him .

Then he stared at the picture for a while, smiling to himself.

After a few more seconds of hovering, Nick finally tapped the photo, hit the little arrow, and sent it off to Charlie with no caption. It didn’t need one. The image said everything— how he’d kept them, how much it all mattered, how much Charlie mattered.

He didn’t even get a chance to lock his phone before it buzzed in his hand.

Charlie:

 You kept them???

Another buzz.

Charlie:

 You actually… kept all of them?

And then:

Charlie:

 Nick oh my god.

Nick smiled, flopping backwards onto his bed with a quiet laugh, his heart thudding unevenly. It was so Charlie— the soft disbelief, the tiny flood of typed thoughts, the lack of punctuation in his excitement. He could almost see the pink on Charlie’s cheeks, the way he probably had both hands pressed to his face before pulling them away to type again.

His phone buzzed once more.

Charlie:

 I’m never going to recover from this. I’m just. oh my god.

Nick stared at the screen, his grin stretching wider.

Then he replied:

Nick:

 of course I kept them.

 they're my favorite things.

He hesitated a second, then added:

Nick :

 You’re my favorite thing.

And waited. Heart racing. Fingers warm. Wondering if Charlie could feel this too— this soft, unfolding thing between them.

Charlie’s reply came in less than ten seconds.

Charlie:

 Nick.

 What the hell.

 You can’t just say things like that??

Nick barely had time to smile before another three messages came through like an avalanche.

Charlie:

 You’re my favorite too.

 You've been my favorite since before I even admitted it to myself.

 I’m gonna combust now okay?? hope you’re happy??

Nick made an actual noise— somewhere between a wheeze and a squeal— and flopped forward, face buried in his pillow.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled, voice muffled and disbelieving. “He’s gonna combust ? I’m gonna combust— what the hell .”

He rolled onto his back, pillow over his face, limbs flung wide like he didn’t know what to do with all the butterflies, all the everything . He was grinning so hard it hurt. Heart pounding. Feet kicking at nothing.

Then he peeked at his phone again, and saw Charlie had sent one more.

Charlie:

 I like you so much it’s actually stupid.

Nick made a noise no one would ever hear and immediately screamed into his pillow again.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Later that night, long after the bouquet had been placed in a vase and the tag pinned to the fridge with the little bee magnet, Nick lay in bed, phone resting on his chest, screen gone dark but warmth still radiating through him like sunlight through stained glass.

He thought about Charlie’s hands— calloused and soft all at once, the way they lingered in his. About the note on the receipt. The doodle of their sticker-selves. The way Charlie had looked at him like he was something good , something wanted .

And Nick— smiling, blushing, heart steady and full— let his eyes slip shut with one last thought:

He was starting to believe it, too.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave its usual gentle ring as Nick stepped inside, the sound swallowed quickly by the softness of the shop’s evening hush. The air was thick with the day’s remnants—earthy stems, traces of lavender, something faintly citrus. The overhead lights were dimmed now, and the glow from the low Edison bulbs made the petals across the counter look golden and bruised in equal measure.

Nick pushed back his hood, shaking out his curls a little. No teacher costume today—just baggy brown cords and a relaxed hoodie over a pale blue button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His shoulders dropped a little as he exhaled, the city weight easing off as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.

“Hey,” he said softly, more to the space than to anyone in particular.

From somewhere deeper in the shop came a rustling. A moment later, Nyx trotted out from behind a loose bucket of tulips and let out a sharp, dramatic meow at him, as if offended he hadn’t greeted her first.

Nick laughed under his breath. “Hi, Nyx.”

She bumped into his shin, her tail high, then strutted off again—mission accomplished. Nick watched her vanish, eyes sweeping around the shop.

Behind the main counter, Charlie stood with a clipboard in one hand and a roll of twine in the other. His curls were slightly tousled, a pencil behind one ear, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He didn’t look startled—he rarely did with Nick anymore—but his expression shifted the moment he looked up.

That little crinkle near his eyes. That smirk that ghosted onto his mouth like he was trying not to be fond.

Charlie flicked his fingers in greeting—two taps to his collarbone, the sign they’d decided would mean “hi”—then tilted his head toward the back room, wordlessly inviting him in. No hesitation.

Nick gave a tiny smile and a nod, already stepping over toward the doorway, passing the bundles of fading marigolds and the crate half-filled with unsold lilies. Charlie didn’t follow right away, but as Nick glanced back, he caught him watching. Just for a moment. A quick scan from his hood down to his cords, and then back to his face, where a smirk tugged again.

“What?” Nick asked, faintly amused.

Charlie shook his head. Nothing. But he was still smiling when he turned away to finish whatever note he was jotting down.

Nick followed Charlie into the back room, the low murmur of the city softening as the thick curtain fell shut behind them. The shop had been dim, quiet, tucked into the lull of early evening, but this room was warmer—golden, even. A portable heater whirred in the corner. The air smelled like old wood, steeping tea, and dried lavender.

As Nick stepped further in, Charlie trailed close behind him, and for a second, Nick felt fingers brush lightly down the back of his hoodie. He turned, eyebrows raised, catching Charlie just as he pulled his hand back. With a small, crooked smile, Charlie raised one hand and signed something simple: Nice. Soft.

Nick blinked, then let out a soft huff of laughter. “You’re soft,” he muttered under his breath, turning back around with a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

He shed the hoodie, folding it over one arm as he glanced around. The back room looked like a cross between an attic and a spellcaster’s den. There were milk crates overflowing with vinyls stacked near a dusty record player, dried herbs hanging in uneven bunches from ceiling hooks, tools laid out with uncanny precision on one long shelf. On another, an assortment of tiny objects—ribbons, buttons, pressed flowers in tiny frames, old matchboxes. It was cluttered, but in a carefully curated way. Like everything had a memory attached.

Nick crouched and sat down on the layered pillows surrounding the low wooden table. As he shifted, the hem of his shirt lifted briefly, revealing a line of toned skin across his lower stomach. He didn’t notice—at least not until he looked up and caught Charlie staring. Not overtly, but definitely caught.

Charlie blinked, cheeks coloring faintly, and turned away. He busied himself with the kettle like nothing had happened, placing it gently on the little counter by the wall and flicking it on.

Nick let his smirk settle, watching as Charlie moved—measured, quiet, self-contained in a way that somehow made Nick feel even more drawn in. There was something magnetic about the stillness.

The record player came to life with a low pop and crackle. Soft, meandering instrumental music spilled into the space like a hush. Charlie picked out two mugs—one yellow, one blue—and placed them on the table with a tiny clink.

Nick looked at the mugs, then up at Charlie, who was now leaning to grab a tin of loose-leaf tea.

“You’ve got a thing for yellow and blue, huh?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned to his notepad, scribbled something, and tilted it in Nick’s direction.

It’s a good combo. Don’t read into it.

Nick laughed, low and warm. “Too late.”

Charlie shook his head with an exasperated smile, setting the tin down. He poured the boiling water into the pot and placed it between them. The steam curled upward lazily, and they settled into a silence that didn’t feel awkward. The music crackled in the background, faint strings weaving between their breaths and the occasional clink of ceramic.

Nick glanced around again. There was a small corkboard on the shelf, pinned with photos—some of Charlie and a girl who looked like his sister, some with people Nick didn’t recognize. Friends, probably. But none with him.

He didn’t know why he noticed that. Maybe he just liked the idea of being in a moment that might matter later.

Their knees brushed under the table. Neither of them moved.

Nick sipped from the blue cup. The warmth pooled in his chest, the kind that wasn’t just from the tea.

He glanced over at Charlie, who was idly tapping his pen against the table edge, then scribbling something else in the notepad, then pausing again. His head was tilted slightly, lashes low, focus soft.

Nick didn’t know what this was supposed to be. But it was easy. It was still. And it made something in him unclench.

He let his eyes close for just a second, listening to the music, the heater, the quiet.

I don’t want to rush this , he thought.

And across from him, Charlie just sat there—warm light brushing the edges of his profile, legs folded under him, not saying a word. Not needing to.

Nick watched Charlie’s head bend over his notepad again, pen scratching slowly this time, like he wasn’t jotting something quick but thinking—composing. His brows were furrowed in concentration, lips slightly pursed, the tip of his tongue just barely poking out in that same unconscious way Nick was beginning to think might actually ruin him someday.

It was quiet between them. The record spun on, a gentle instrumental hum crackling from the player in the corner. The last of the daylight bled pale orange across the edges of the curtains, but the inside of the room already felt like nighttime—dim and golden and still.

Nick’s gaze lingered on Charlie’s fingers moving across the page, on the way his pinky dragged slightly behind his loops. Before Charlie closed the notebook, Nick just caught a glimpse of his own name in the top line.

He blinked, heart stuttering once in his chest. But before he could say anything, a soft alarm chimed from Charlie’s phone—a sound so gentle it didn’t break the atmosphere, only shifted it slightly. Charlie glanced down, then up at Nick, his expression all apology and promise. He tapped two fingers to his wrist in a "just a sec" motion, got up, and disappeared through the curtain to the front of the shop.

Nick let his body settle back into the pillows, staring at the now-closed notepad still lying on the floor. Something about the casual way Charlie had written his name like it belonged there made Nick's throat go a little tight.

From the other room came the soft click of switches being flipped, the latch of the door turning, the low mechanical whirl of the display stands being drawn in. The main lights blinked off one by one, and Nick could just barely see the faint flicker of the string lights that lined the front beams.

Everything felt hushed, not with tension but with a kind of calm.

He picked up his tea again. It had gone lukewarm, but he sipped it anyway, letting the warmth settle in his chest. The whole room smelled like dried lavender, steam, and something a little earthy—like the pages of a book left open too long.

Then Charlie returned.

His humming came first, a soft, tuneless bar of something that made Nick smile without knowing why. Then Charlie himself, slipping back through the curtain and into the low lamp-light, his face already softened again, the earlier quiet stress of locking up replaced by something lighter.

He flicked on the desk lamp near the heater, and golden light pooled gently across the floor. Charlie gave him a little wave, a silent check-in.

Nick nodded, still holding his tea, still feeling the ghost of his name on that page.

Charlie didn’t make a sound when he slid the notepad across the low wooden table, just tilted his head and gave Nick a look that was equal parts mischievous and shy. The sound of paper against wood was soft under the quiet crackle of the record player, something light and acoustic spinning in the corner. Nick reached out and flipped the notepad toward him, eyes catching the scrawled message in neat, looping pen:

“Haha. Secretly tricked you into date 2.”

Nick choked on his tea. Actually choked. He coughed once, setting the mug down quickly to keep from spilling, eyes darting up in disbelief. Charlie was already watching him, pink-cheeked and biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing.

“Wait—” Nick’s voice was ragged from surprise, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips. “Was this a date?”

Charlie didn’t answer in words. Just bit harder on his lip, nodded slowly—small, deliberate—and grinned like he couldn’t believe he was getting away with it.

Nick could not handle that.

The laugh that came out of him was slightly disbelieving, full of nerves and fondness. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, unable to hide the sheer joy that was radiating out of him now.

Charlie picked up the notepad again, flipped a page, scribbled something quickly, and pushed it forward.

“You get this soft look when you’re flustered.”

Nick let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh, and dropped his face dramatically into his hands.

Charlie shook with silent laughter, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He kicked Nick gently under the table, nudging him with the toe of his socked foot until Nick peeked through his fingers. When he finally looked up, Charlie gave him the most knowing look—smirking but affectionate, soft but full of teasing.

“You’re evil,” Nick said, and it only made Charlie’s grin grow wider.

The back-and-forth continued. Nick asked quiet questions in a hushed voice—“Did you really plan this?” “Do you always play matchmaker with your tea sets?” “Is the blue cup always for me?”—and Charlie answered mostly with nods, or little shy shrugs. Once or twice, he signed something simple and slow, like he was giving Nick a chance to keep learning.

He kept biting his bottom lip when Nick got flustered again, and his grin turned dimpled every time Nick looked at him like he was something magical. Which, frankly, Nick was starting to think he was .

Eventually, after a moment of quiet—just the music playing, tea half-finished, warmth in the small room—Charlie reached for the notebook again.

But this time, he flipped backward. Not to a new page, but to that page. The one he’d been writing earlier, the one Nick had only half-glimpsed before Charlie went to lock the door.

He hesitated for a second, eyes flicking up at Nick like he wasn’t sure, then tore it clean from the coil binding with careful precision.

And when he handed it to Nick, he did it with both palms stretched forward like an offering—like this was something sacred. Something he was letting go of but still wanted to keep close.

Nick took it gently, unfolding it.

Charlie looked down, busying himself with stacking the empty mugs, but Nick didn’t even glance away.

Because on the page, in the same careful writing, were words that made his chest ache in the best kind of way. The handwriting was neat and deliberate, curling a little at the edges like Charlie had rewritten each word in his head before letting it hit the page. There were doodles again—Nyx curled in a spiral near the corner, that scruffy dog poking its head over the lines, a vine of tangled forget-me-nots. But the words were what held him still, pulled the air from his lungs as he read:

“I was going to write you a poem, but that felt too far.
So I wrote a list instead. That’s less scary.”

Things I notice about you when you think I’m not looking:
– You always look up before you speak, like you’re checking the sky for permission.
– You roll your sleeves twice. Always twice.
– You touch the corners of things when you’re nervous—tables, buttons, your mug.
– You glance at me like you're still surprised I let you stay.

Things I like:
– You.
– Your laugh when it breaks out before you can stop it.
– That you talk to my cat like she’s a person.
– That you don’t ask me to explain every silence.
– The way you sit like you’re trying to make yourself smaller, even though you’re the safest person I know.
– The way your eyes go soft when you look at me, even when you’re pretending they don’t.

Things I’m afraid to say out loud yet:
– I was hoping you’d come back.
– I don’t know how to let myself hope.
– You feel like a maybe I want to believe in.”

Nick’s breath caught.

The room didn’t shift, didn’t sway—but it felt like something had cracked open inside him, like the warmth in this quiet, magical little space had curled its way under his ribs and burst. He blinked fast, once, then again, and still had to press his thumb to the corner of one eye.

He didn’t know what to do with the feeling blooming in his chest, big and bright and impossibly soft. He’d never had anyone look at him like this—let alone see him like this. See the awkwardness he tried to hide and love it anyway . See the care he kept tucked into small actions and reflect it back with reverence.

Charlie wasn’t even watching him now, busy fussing with their mugs, too shy to see what he’d unleashed.

Which made it worse. Or better. Or both.

Nick stared down at the page. And then— carefully , like it was something precious—folded it and tucked it deep into the inner pocket of his corduroy jacket.

He had no idea what he was going to do with this much appreciation.

Except keep it. Every word.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick lay back first.

It was a slow movement—unfolding himself from cross-legged into a long stretch across the pillows, one arm curling under his head, the other falling loose across his stomach. The teacup sat nearby on the floor, the record player still crackling in the background with a lazy, wordless melody. Outside, the shop had gone still. The lights had been dimmed, the world hushed.

He let out a quiet sigh. Not exhaustion. Not frustration. Just the kind that comes when your body realizes it doesn’t have to hold anything up anymore.

Above him, bundles of dried flowers hung like an inverted garden, suspended in careful bunches—lavender, rosemary, baby’s breath, strawflower. And in between them, tiny paper tags danced gently in the air stirred by the portable heater. He hadn’t noticed those before.

Charlie lowered himself beside him.

There was no announcement, no text, no question. Just a quiet shuffling sound and a subtle shift in the weight of the pillows. And then, Charlie was there. Close enough that their elbows might touch if either of them moved the wrong way. Or the right one.

Nick didn’t look at him, not yet. Just let the feeling settle—this easy, gravity-free quiet that only existed in this one strange little room. He kept his gaze up, toward the hand-written tags swinging above.

“Do those… say anything?” he asked softly, barely louder than the hum of the music.

Charlie didn’t answer out loud. A minute passed before the gentle buzz of a phone vibrated faintly on the wood of the low table, and Nick glanced down to see a message waiting.

“Little spells. For luck. Or comfort. I don’t always remember what they say.”

Nick smiled. “They’re beautiful.”

He didn’t ask more. Didn’t need to.

Another minute passed, maybe two. The music shifted tracks. A note cracked. The heater clicked. Charlie’s arm moved slightly.

And then—just a gentle touch—his pinky brushed against Nick’s.

It was nothing. And everything. Small. Quiet. Grounding.

Nick felt the breath catch in his throat, but didn’t let it show. He only shifted his hand, just enough so their fingers could link, loose and barely-there. The contact held steady. Charlie didn’t pull away.

From the corner of his eye, Nick could see Charlie’s face tipped toward the ceiling, soft in the lamplight. His lips moved slightly, barely—not words, just the shape of a hum trailing after the record. He wasn’t trying to be heard. Nick heard him anyway.

There was a tremor in the hum. A tiny twitch in Charlie’s hand.

Nick squeezed their fingers together—just once.

And then he let the silence wrap around them both again.

The dried flowers danced above them. The tea cooled on the floor. The music played on, slow and imperfect.

Nick closed his eyes and let the stillness fill his lungs.

I think this is what safety feels like, he thought.

Nick turned his head.

He did it slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the spell of the moment. Charlie was still looking up, his gaze lost somewhere among the ceiling herbs and soft shadows. His expression was calm in a way Nick rarely saw. Untensed. Unworried. The kind of peace you don’t even realize you’ve been missing until it’s right beside you, breathing quietly on a shared pillow.

Nick just watched him.

Let himself drink in every small detail—the way Charlie’s eyelashes caught the golden lamplight, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the corner of his mouth that twitched, just slightly, as if holding back the shape of a thought or a smile.

Then, as if sensing the weight of his gaze, Charlie turned his head.

Their eyes met.

And Charlie smiled—barely a curve, but warm and real and right there between them.

His hand shifted gently on the pillow. Then, without hesitation, his fingers slid beneath Nick’s, lacing them together fully this time. A simple, silent gesture. Certain. Sure.

Nick didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He just lay there, staring at Charlie’s face in the quiet hum of the shop, and tried to remember the last time something this small made him feel so much.

Maybe this isn’t a fancy date, he thought.
Maybe it’s something softer. Braver. Something I don’t have words for yet.

Their joined hands stilled between them.

And the moment held.

Chapter Text

The bell above the flower shop door jingled softly as Nick stepped inside, the late afternoon sun casting gold across the wooden floorboards. He was still in his work clothes—white button-up rumpled from the day, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair was a bit windswept from walking over, his satchel slung carelessly across one shoulder, and a faint hint of dry-erase marker smudged the edge of one hand.

He hadn’t even said anything yet when Charlie appeared behind the counter, eyes flicking up from some unseen task— and instantly lit up.

He raised his hand in a wave, quick and excited, the kind of gesture that made it look like he’d been waiting all day for Nick to walk through that door. His mouth curved into something wide and unguarded, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room or the way he smiled. The shop smelled like lavender and something faintly citrusy, and behind him the light filtering through the backroom curtain painted everything in honeyed tones.

Nick smiled back, breath catching slightly, something tight in his chest loosening. God. That look Charlie gave him— like he mattered just by being here.

Charlie gestured for him to come closer, waving him behind the counter as if he belonged there. Nick ducked under the swinging half-door and was immediately wrapped in the hum of the shop’s quiet— just the soft creak of the floor, a faint instrumental playing from the old record player, and the gentle brushing of wind against the glass storefront.

Then Charlie turned, reaching behind the counter and coming back with something cupped in both hands: a tiny glass jar, maybe the size of a plum, sealed with a cork and tied delicately with twine. Inside, soft bundles of dried lavender—neatly pressed, a deep purple-gray that caught the fading light.

Dangling from the twine was a tiny tag, handwritten in careful ink:

For your classroom.

Nick’s eyes widened a little, and for a moment he couldn’t quite find his words. He reached out instinctively, brushing his fingers against the tag first, like it might vanish if he touched it too directly. Then he took the jar gently from Charlie’s hands, cradling it with both palms.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice quiet, reverent. “They’re going to love this.”

Charlie just shrugged a little, a small motion that tried to brush it off, but the way his gaze lingered on Nick’s reaction betrayed how much he cared. His shoulders were pulled up like he was holding in excitement, or nerves, or maybe both.

Nick glanced back at the jar. “Did you dry these yourself?”

Charlie nodded once, then tilted his head to the side, as if to say of course I did . His curls bounced slightly with the movement.

Nick laughed softly under his breath, then carefully— deliberately— unzipped the front of his satchel and tucked the jar into the padded inner pouch, as though it were some kind of treasure. He did it slowly, reverently, and when he looked back up, Charlie’s eyes were still on him.

“I’m putting it somewhere safe,” Nick said, voice warm. “This is… seriously sweet of you.”

Charlie signed a little you’re welcome , paired with a tiny grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

For a long beat, they just stood there— close, not quite touching, the air between them warm with more than just the temperature of the room. Charlie’s arm brushed lightly against Nick’s as he stepped past to grab something from under the counter, and Nick watched him, heart stupidly full.

Nick cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Actually, I… uh.” He reached down and unzipped the other outer pocket of his satchel, hand fumbling for a moment before he pulled something out and held it between them, a bit sheepishly.

“I brought you something too.”

It was a small plush toy— maybe the size of Charlie’s palm. A soft, golden retriever, floppy ears and a tiny pink tongue stitched into a perpetual smile. It had a tiny blue and yellow ribbon tied carefully around its neck, the knot a little uneven but clearly done with intention.

Charlie blinked, caught off guard.

Nick rushed to explain, eyes darting down for a second before flicking up to Charlie again. “You, um. You said once that I was a golden retriever. And I figured, if I’m that, then you’re definitely the black cat in this situation. I thought it might… I don’t know— balance us out?”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s dumb. I just saw it and thought of you.”

Charlie was still staring at it, eyes wide— not with confusion, but with something else. Something warmer. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he just stepped forward, gaze flicking from the dog to Nick, then back again. And then, gently, he took it from Nick’s hands.

It fit perfectly between his fingers. The plush was soft, well-made, and the little ribbon— blue and yellow, like Nick’s winter coat, like Charlie’s favourite mug— was unmistakable.

Charlie pressed it against his chest.

Held it there, right over his heart.

He looked up at Nick with something wordless shining in his eyes. Not just amusement or surprise— but something grateful. Something touched. His smile bloomed slow and wide, the corners of his mouth curling, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

Nick nearly melted.

“You like it?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.

Charlie nodded. Then— because it felt necessary— he exaggerated the nod, cradling the plush in both hands like it was priceless. He mimed holding it up on a pedestal, then wrote a quick note on the pad that sat near the register:

He’s called Sunbeam. I love him.

Nick laughed, the sound a little breathless with relief. “Sunbeam. That’s perfect.”

Charlie just smiled again, eyes bright, and tucked the little dog carefully under his arm like he was never letting it go.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

A little while later, they were both seated on low stools behind the counter, Charlie still holding Sunbeam tucked under his arm like he was some ancient relic that needed to be guarded with devotion. The air smelled faintly of lavender and the earthy tones of eucalyptus from a nearby bunch. Nick kept glancing at the dried flower jar tucked carefully into the mesh pocket of his bag, but then something else occurred to him.

He shifted on his stool, letting out a tiny exhale and brushing his thumb against the edge of the counter. “Hey— would it be okay if I took a photo of the shop? For my class, I mean. We’re doing a unit on… environments and storytelling or something, and I thought—well, your shop’s kind of perfect for that.”

Charlie, seated nearby with his legs folded beneath him, immediately looked up. His expression lit like a struck match— small and quiet, but unmistakably thrilled. He nodded once, emphatic.

Then, instead of gesturing or pointing out angles, Charlie reached across with one palm outstretched, fingers wriggling.

Nick blinked, eyebrows rising. “Wait— you want to take them?”

A small nod, cheeky.

Nick handed the phone over without question, watching as Charlie stood and moved like he was navigating something sacred. He stepped backward slowly, angling the camera just slightly up and to the right.

First came the wide shot: the whole store stretched in a warm sweep, all low beams and bundled herbs and the soft chaos of color blooming from every shelf. Strings of fairy lights blinked above the rafters, tangled through sprigs of dried rosemary and baby’s breath. A chalkboard sat tilted in the corner, half-erased messages scribbled in messy white. The golden-hour light crept in through the display window and made everything look dipped in honey.

Charlie crouched next, steadying the phone for a close-up of the window display. Hypnos was draped like royalty over a stack of vintage books, fur perfectly groomed, while Nyx had curled herself into a loose ring beside him. Her tongue peeked slightly from her mouth in a sleepy blep. Charlie zoomed in carefully, taking a photo with meticulous quiet.

Then came a few more portraits— vertical shots of the corner with the old record player and the stack of poetry books beside a tea mug with dried petals floating in the bottom. He caught a slant of shadow across the counter, the dried flowers half-hiding a bundle of pale yellow notes hanging on thread.

Nick watched from behind him, awed at how easily Charlie found the softest angles of the space. It wasn’t just photos. He was capturing the feeling of it.

Then, without warning, Charlie turned the phone and swung the camera toward them both.

Nick startled slightly. “Wait— hang on, I—”

Click.

Nick was mid-word, eyes wide, a startled smile half-finished on his lips. But not awkward— more like caught in motion. Caught in ease.

Charlie was grinning now, adjusting the tilt. He nudged his head playfully into Nick’s shoulder and snapped another one.

Click.

This time, Nick relaxed into it, huffing a laugh as he leaned in, shoulder brushing against Charlie’s side. Charlie held the phone steady in front of them both, face flushed a soft pink, curls tucked behind one ear. His smile was wide and dimpled, eyes bright and glacier-blue under the lights. His head tipped slightly toward Nick’s arm, almost like he was leaning into him without realizing.

Nick glanced down at the preview on the screen.

The photo made something in his chest flutter.

He was laughing— genuine, open— and Charlie’s whole face was glowing, dimples like tiny commas, his lashes dark over pale cheeks. The image was framed so perfectly it looked like something out of a daydream. Like joy pressed into pixels.

Charlie lowered the phone slightly and scribbled quickly on the small notepad by the register.

You’re really photogenic. Like, unfairly.

Nick made a face. “Me? You literally look like you stepped out of a Studio Ghibli movie.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

Nick pointed. “No, seriously— look at that. Your face is all—” he gestured vaguely “—bright. And glowy. And your eyes do that sparkly thing. You can’t tell me you don’t know what I mean.”

Charlie’s smile widened just slightly. His pinky nudged against Nick’s hand again on the counter, but didn’t go further. The quiet between them bloomed.

Nick reached to take his phone back, but paused when Charlie looked at the screen once more, then turned it back toward him gently—just long enough for them both to see it again. That little frozen moment. That softness, etched into light.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

And then Charlie passed the phone back with a quiet, knowing look.

After the last photo, Nick tucked his phone into his pocket, still grinning to himself.

Charlie hadn’t moved from where he stood beside the counter, a tiny smile lingering on his lips like the scent of flowers that filled the shop. He glanced at Nick, then nodded slightly toward the back of the store.

Nick tilted his head. “What?”

Charlie didn’t answer— just raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching up at one side, and then turned to walk, slow and deliberate, toward the back hallway that led to the staff area.

Nick followed, heart skipping a little from the familiarity of it now. The soft wood beneath his feet, the smell of eucalyptus and bergamot clinging to the air, the way the lights above were dimmer back here, golden and hazy. It all felt safe. Like a secret place he got to keep returning to.

Charlie led him into the back room, which was more lived-in than the front— a little messier, more personal. A space clearly meant for him, not customers. A couple of crates were stacked near the wall beside a second-hand heater. A cozy old armchair in the corner, worn in but covered in a folded throw blanket. Cat beds tucked neatly near the radiator.

Nyx was already waiting for them, sitting tall near the food shelf with a judgmental air, like she’d been expecting them to take the hint and bring her snacks.

Charlie crouched with practiced ease, rummaging through a small plastic container until he found a little bag of crunchy treats. The moment it rustled, Nyx let out a chirrup— not a meow, exactly, but something inquisitive and mildly entitled.

Charlie glanced up at Nick and raised the bag slightly, brows lifting in a question.

Nick lit up. “Oh— can I?”

Charlie nodded, then stood and tipped a few into Nick’s palm, careful and slow. The warmth of Charlie’s fingers brushing against Nick’s sent a brief flutter up his spine.

Nyx’s attention was now laser-focused. Her tail flicked once, deliberately.

Charlie gestured for Nick to crouch, then pantomimed holding the treat just above Nyx’s eye level— fingers curled like a little hook— and then snapped once with his other hand.

“She’ll stand,” Nick said softly, already sounding delighted.

Charlie nodded again, eyes shining.

Nick did exactly as instructed. He held out his hand, fingers poised, and snapped gently. Nyx’s ears twitched. She hesitated. Then— with the dainty focus of a cat that knew exactly how impressive she was— she rose onto her hind legs.

Nick let out a quiet gasp, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Nyx wobbled slightly, one paw batting at the air before she caught the treat between her teeth and dropped back down with a little thump.

Nick burst out laughing. “She actually did it! She stood up like a little bear!”

Charlie let out a noise— quiet, high-pitched, a tiny involuntary squeak of joy that he quickly clapped a hand over. His eyes crinkled at the corners, trying to hide how utterly delighted he was.

“Did you just squeak?” Nick asked, grinning.

Charlie buried his face in his elbow, shaking his head furiously but laughing in that silent, shoulders-shaking kind of way.

“Charlie,” Nick said fondly. “That was adorable.”

Charlie didn’t argue— he just looked at Nyx again, then gestured for Nick to try once more.

They spent the next few minutes teaching her to do it again. Nick eventually tried using a gentler snap, then a little coaxing sound. Nyx remained highly suspicious of the whole ordeal but always performed. At one point, she sat down and crossed her paws like royalty, refusing to continue without what Nick called “a formal apology and bonus snacks.”

That’s when Hypnos arrived.

He sauntered in from wherever he’d been sleeping— tail high, eyes narrowed with the weariness of someone who had seen far too much for one evening. He stared at the scene before him: Nyx batting the air, Nick crouched on the floor giggling, Charlie leaning against the shelf with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

With all the regal judgment of a Roman emperor, Hypnos jumped onto the shelf beside them and simply stared.

“Okay, wow,” Nick whispered. “He’s giving me the you’re beneath me look.”

Charlie nodded solemnly, then tapped the bag of treats.

Nick pulled out a single one and held it in his palm, raising it slowly toward Hypnos like he was making an offering to a very unimpressed god.

Hypnos stared for a beat longer… and then, with a tiny sniff, he leaned forward and took it gently from Nick’s hand. His pink nose twitched against Nick’s skin.

Nick froze. “He did it. He didn’t even claw me. I feel like I’ve passed a test.”

Charlie looked quietly thrilled, scribbling on the pad he still kept tucked nearby:

They don’t do that for everyone.

Nick beamed. “You’re serious?”

Charlie nodded. Then, very softly, voice barely above the ambient hum of the heater, he spoke.

“They like you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t proud or dramatic or breathless.

It was gentle.

Like fact. Like truth he didn’t feel the need to hide.

Nick turned to him slowly, heart jumping a little too quickly in his chest. Charlie was still looking at the cats— Nyx curling around Nick’s knee, Hypnos now lying down beside his arm. But there was something in his eyes that wasn’t just about the cats. That same dimple at the corner of his mouth. That quiet little glow.

Nick didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to ruin it.

So he just reached out, bumped his shoulder gently against Charlie’s, and smiled.

The cats stayed curled beside them a little while longer. 

It was late when Nick finally pulled on his jacket. The flower shop had dimmed to its evening glow, the sky outside bruised with lilac and navy. The soft whir of the heater hummed in the background, and the cats had long since curled into their beds, Nyx flicking her tail sleepily and Hypnos already dozing with one ear turned toward the door.

Charlie walked him to the front, hands in his hoodie pockets, steps slow like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye either.

Nick turned once they reached the threshold, the bell above the door catching on the frame with a muted chime. He didn’t want to leave. He never did.

Charlie’s hand lifted slowly, deliberate in the way all his careful things were. He held his palm out, fingers curved slightly inward, then crossed his arms gently over his chest.

Hug.

Nick blinked, then his face broke open like sunlight— wide and unguarded and boyish.

“Oh! That’s— yeah! I remember that one.”

His own hands fumbled a little, mirroring the sign back— too fast, too floppy. But earnest.

Charlie didn’t laugh. He didn’t correct him.

He stepped in.

One fluid motion and he was closing the distance between them, arms curling up around Nick’s shoulders, his face pressed to the side of Nick’s neck like it was home.

Nick froze for a breath. Then melted.

Charlie fit. Like a thought Nick had been holding just under his tongue for too long. Like a favorite jumper he’d forgotten he’d missed.

Nick’s hands came up, gentle, one at Charlie’s back, one against the soft edge of his hoodie hood. He didn’t squeeze. He just held.

And Charlie stayed.

Tucked into the crook of Nick’s neck, nose brushing skin, his breath ghosted against Nick’s collarbone as he took a slow inhale. Like he needed it. Like it settled something inside him.

Nick’s eyes fluttered closed.

No one said anything. The shop didn’t make a sound but for the heater and the tiny rustle of the flower bundles shifting in the evening draft.

Nick didn’t think he’d ever been held like this. Not like a person being hugged. Like a place someone wanted to rest in.

And all he could think, stupidly, fiercely, with his heartbeat rising behind his ribs, was:

Please don’t let this be a one-time thing.

•─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•

Nick shut the front door behind him with a soft click. The house was quiet— his mum was likely upstairs, and the dog walkers hadn’t passed yet. Just the faint buzz of the heater kicking on, the creak of floorboards under his socked feet.

He dropped his bag by the wall, jacket on the hook, phone still in his hand.

He didn’t quite mean to look at it yet, but the lockscreen flared to life as he touched the side button, and there it was again.

That photo.

Charlie leaning into him slightly—just a fraction, but close enough that their shoulders touched. His smile was wide and unguarded, a little crooked like he’d been caught mid-laugh. His dimples were in full show, cheeks still a little pink from earlier. Curls framed his face, soft and messy, and his blue eyes sparkled with something Nick couldn’t name.

And Nick—caught mid-laugh too, teeth showing, eyes crinkled, clearly not ready for the picture and yet... it worked. It really worked. The joy on both their faces was so unfiltered, so warm, it made Nick’s throat tighten just looking at it.

He stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding unevenly.

Then, quietly, he tapped the “set as Home Screen” option.

The confirmation flashed.

There. It was his now.

A few seconds passed. Nick bit his lip. Then, on impulse, he hit “share” and sent the photo to his mum.

Nick:

Me and Charlie today :)

 Also his cats are ridiculous.

He set the phone down on the kitchen counter, filled a glass with water, and leaned there, the fridge humming faintly beside him.

The reply came a minute later. 

Mum:

Oh sweetheart.

 You look so happy. And he’s beautiful.

  He makes you shine. I’m really glad you have him.

   xx

Nick blinked down at the message.

His thumb hovered above the screen. Then he pressed it to his chest for a second—childish, maybe, but he didn’t care.

Charlie’s head in the crook of his neck.

The way he’d inhaled, slow and steady.

The weight of him, trusting, leaning in.

Nick didn’t know what this was yet— not properly. But he knew what it felt like.