Archive of Our Own ^beta

Morning always arrived gently at Altea Flowers.

The light didn’t barge in through the wide front windows so much as spill across the tiled floor in pale gold sheets, warming the rows of glass buckets that lined the shop. Dew clung to the petals like the flowers were still deciding whether they belonged to the night or the day.
The scent in the air was layered and soft, green stems, cool water, the faint spice of carnations, the honeyed sweetness of roses just beginning to open.

Lance loved that smell.

He always unlocked the door ten minutes early just so he could stand in it for a second, one hand curled around the brass handle, breathing in, feeling like he was stepping into something sacred.

At twenty-three, Lance McClain was deeply, hopelessly, incurably in love.

Not with a person.
With flowers.
He flicked on the lights, and the shop seemed to wake up around him. The refrigerator unit hummed. The tiny bell above the door gave a polite chime when he nudged it to make sure it worked. A few loose petals drifted from the worktable when he brushed past.
“Morning, ladies,” he murmured to the bouquets from yesterday’s arrangements, checking their water levels with practiced fingers. “You all behave overnight?”

He had been working at Altea Flowers for three years now. He started part-time during university because he needed rent money and had stayed because the first time he wrapped a bouquet for someone’s anniversary, he’d felt like he’d been entrusted with a fragile secret. There was something miraculous about flowers.
They were alive, but temporary. They were beauty with an expiration date. They demanded care. They carried meaning.
Lance adored that part most of all, the language.

Floriography.

Victorians had once used flowers as coded messages. Entire conversations hidden in petals and stems. Confessions tucked into ribbons. Apologies disguised as arrangements. Love letters that would wilt in a week but linger forever in memory.
He thought that was the most romantic thing in the world.
He shrugged out of his jacket and tied on his apron, the fabric already stained faintly green at the hem from stems and leaves. He ran his fingers through his hair, checked his reflection in the glass of the cooler door, and decided he looked presentable enough for an eight-thirty opening.

Not that flowers cared what he looked like.
People did, though.
And people were his favorite part.
Lance didn’t just sell bouquets. He collected stories.

He knew the woman who came every Thursday for daisies because they’d been her wife’s favorite. He knew the teenager who bought a single red rose every month for a girl in his chemistry class and was working up the courage to ask her out. He knew the elderly man who always requested white lilies on the anniversary of his son’s passing and insisted on trimming the stems himself.

Lance loved asking.
Who are they for? What did they do? What feeling are we trying to convey?
Sometimes customers would laugh. Sometimes they’d blush. Sometimes they’d look at him like he’d peeled back something tender inside them. But they always answered.

And Lance would build something beautiful from it.

He set about his morning routine with almost reverent care. He clipped stems at sharp angles. He refreshed water. He rotated stock so the freshest blooms faced forward. He adjusted the chalkboard outside the shop to read:

TODAY’S SPECIAL: PEONIES - SINCERITY & GOOD FORTUNE

He drew a tiny heart in the corner. Because of course he did.
By nine o'clock, the street outside had come fully alive. The café two doors down opened its patio. A woman walked her dog past the window, pausing so the dog could stare solemnly at a bucket of sunflowers.

The bell chimed.

Lance looked up immediately, smile already in place.
“Good morning! Welcome to Altea-”
It was Mrs. Ramirez.
He beamed. “Thursday daisies?”
She grinned right back. “You know me too well.”

He did.

While he gathered the daisies, white petals, bright yellow centers like little captured suns, he asked gently, “How’s she doing?”
Mrs. Ramirez’s eyes softened. “Better this week. She smiled yesterday.”
Lance’s chest warmed.
“Then we’ll add a little extra baby’s breath,” he said decisively. “For enduring love.”
Mrs. Ramirez reached across the counter to squeeze his hand. “You always know.”

He didn’t always know.
He just listened.
That was the trick.

By eleven o'clock, he’d wrapped three birthday bouquets, one apology arrangement involving an impressive amount of pink carnations, and a dramatic spray of red roses for someone who kept muttering, “It’s our third date, is that too much?”
“Is it too much?” Lance had echoed thoughtfully, circling the roses like a sommelier evaluating wine. “Well. Red roses do scream ‘I have already picked out china patterns in my head.’”

The customer had paled. Lance quickly swapped half the roses for peach ones instead. “Peach says appreciation,” he’d explained soothingly. “We’re excited, not proposing.”
The man left visibly relieved.

Lance leaned against the counter once the door shut, grinning to himself. He adored this. The translation. The nuance. The way something as simple as color could shift an entire meaning.
White roses were purity, yes, but also new beginnings. Yellow roses were friendship, unless paired with red, and then they suggested warmth growing into something deeper. Blue hyacinths meant regret. Sunflowers meant loyalty.

Forget-me-nots meant true love.
He loved that one most.

He’d once asked his coworker Hunk if anyone had ever brought him flowers.
Hunk had blinked at him. “You mean like a gift?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh. No?”
Lance had laughed it off.

Neither had he.

He’d given thousands of flowers away. Wrapped them carefully. Tied perfect bows. Pressed handwritten tags into trembling hands.

No one had ever brought him a bouquet.

It wasn’t that he expected it. It wasn’t like he had some tragic, unfulfilled romantic destiny. He dated occasionally. He flirted shamelessly. He had a smile that got him free coffee at least twice a week.

But flowers were different.
Flowers were intentional.
They said, I thought about you long enough to choose something delicate.

And no one had ever chosen that for him.
Sometimes, late at night when he closed up the shop alone, he would take a stray bloom that hadn’t sold, a slightly bent tulip, a rose just past its prime, and bring it home in a chipped mug. He’d set it on his windowsill and pretend, just for a moment, that someone had picked it with him in mind.

It was silly.
He knew it was silly.
But still.

The afternoon lull settled in around one-thirty. Sunlight filtered through the window and turned the petals translucent. Lance hummed softly as he rebuilt the display near the entrance, rearranging the ranunculus by shade.

The bell chimed again.

He glanced up automatically and paused.
A man stood just inside the doorway.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black boots. Faded jeans. A worn leather jacket that had clearly seen years of weather. A motorcycle helmet hung from his fingers, glossy and dark, reflecting the rows of color inside the shop like something out of place in a dream.

He didn’t look like he belonged among peonies.

He looked like he belonged on an open highway.

For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Lance did what Lance always did.
He smiled. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Welcome to Altea Flowers.”
The man’s eyes flicked up to meet his. They were sharp. Violet-blue. Assessing.
He looked… lost.

Not in a physical way. He clearly knew where he was. But like someone who had walked into a library without knowing how to read.

“Uh,” the man said.
Lance stepped around the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. He kept his tone gentle, never overwhelming. Some customers needed guidance. That was okay.
“What can I help you with?”

A pause.
“I need flowers.”

Lance resisted the urge to grin. Of course you do. That’s the whole point.

“Okay,” he said instead. “That’s a good start.”
The man’s fingers tightened slightly around his helmet.
“They’re not for me,” he added quickly, as if that might somehow be in question.
Lance’s smile softened.
“Most aren’t,” he said lightly.

He took in the details now. The scuffed boots. The faint scent of gasoline and wind. The way the man’s gaze kept drifting, not to Lance’s face, but to his hands. To the flowers.
Like he was trying to decipher something foreign.

“Who are they for?” Lance asked.
There it was. The question he loved most. The man hesitated.
“…Someone.”
Lance bit back a laugh. “I figured.”
A faint flicker of embarrassment crossed the man’s face.

Lance immediately adjusted his tone again, kind, not teasing.
“Okay,” he said gently. “What feeling are you trying to convey?”
The question hung between them, soft as petals.
The man blinked.
“…Feeling?”

“Yeah.” Lance gestured vaguely toward the buckets. “Flowers are basically emotions with stems. So what are we saying?”
The man looked at the rows of color like they were a puzzle. And Lance felt something curious spark in his chest.

He loved this part.

The moment before someone found the word they’d been carrying around.
He stepped closer, but not too close. Close enough to point out options.
“Are we apologizing?” he prompted. “Celebrating? Confessing? Making up? Saying thank you? Saying ‘please don’t break up with me’? That’s a popular one.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched.
“…Apologizing,” he said finally.
Lance nodded thoughtfully, heart immediately warming. Apologies were brave.
“Okay,” he murmured. “What kind of apology?” The man frowned slightly.
“Is there more than one kind?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Lance said, delighted. “There’s ‘I forgot your birthday.’ There’s ‘I messed up and I know it.’ There’s ‘I panicked because I care too much.’ And there’s ‘I don’t have the words.’”

Silence.

The man’s jaw tightened.
“…The last one,” he said quietly.
Lance’s chest did something strange.
He smiled softly.
“Okay,” he said again, more carefully this time. “Then we’ll let the flowers talk.”

Lance reached for the white lilies first.
He handled them the way some people handled fragile glass, two fingers at the stem, thumb steady beneath the bloom, careful not to bruise the petals. He brought them to the worktable and laid them out gently, their pale faces open and luminous beneath the overhead light.

“So,” he said, glancing up at the man, at the biker, at the stranger who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here and yet had still come. “The ‘I don’t have the words’ apology.”
He smiled, softer now. Less salesman, more conspirator.
“That one’s my favorite.”
The man blinked. “Your favorite?”

“Yeah.” Lance began trimming the stems at an angle, dropping them into fresh water. “Because it’s honest. It’s not dramatic. It’s not trying to cover something up with grand gestures. It’s just… admitting that sometimes feelings are bigger than vocabulary.”

The man went very still at that.

Lance continued, slipping easily into the rhythm he knew so well, the cadence of petals and meanings.
“White lilies,” he explained, lifting one slightly. “They’re about renewal. A kind of clean slate. Not pretending nothing happened, but saying, ‘I want to start again. I want to do better.’”
He added a few stems of blue hyacinths from a nearby bucket.

“These are for regret,” he said, brushing his thumb lightly along the tiny clustered blossoms. “Not guilt. Not self-pity. Just… acknowledgment. ‘I see what I did.’”
The man’s gaze followed every movement of Lance’s hands.

“And then,” Lance added, reaching for a cluster of pale pink roses, “pink roses are admiration. They soften the apology. They say, ‘I care about you. I don’t want to lose you.’”

He arranged them carefully, turning the bouquet slightly so the colors balanced, white, blue, blush.
He paused, head tilting as he considered.
“And maybe,” he murmured, grabbing a small sprig of baby’s breath, “a little of this. It’s for enduring love. Or enduring connection, if we’re keeping it less intense.”

The man huffed faintly. Almost a laugh.

Lance glanced up. “Too much?”
“No,” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, softer, “It’s fine.”
Lance nodded and began wrapping the stems in brown kraft paper, folding the edges neatly, tying them with a length of soft white ribbon.
As he worked, he realized he didn’t know something.

He looked up again.
“I’m Lance, by the way.”

The introduction came easy, warm and bright as sunlight through glass. The man hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering.
“Keith.”
It fit him.
Short. Sharp. Unembellished.

“Keith,” Lance repeated, tasting the name like he was testing how it felt. “Nice to meet you.”
Keith gave a small nod.
Lance gestured to the bouquet in progress. “So, Keith. Is this your first time buying apology flowers?”
Keith’s jaw shifted slightly. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Lance smiled gently. “You’re doing great.”

That earned him an actual look, direct this time. Keith’s eyes were striking up close. Dark lashes. Intense focus. Like he was always braced for something. Lance cleared his throat lightly, suddenly aware of how close they were standing across the worktable.

“So,” he said, businesslike but still kind, “what’s your budget?”
Keith blinked.
“My what?”
“Your budget,” Lance repeated. “How much are we working with? That way I don’t accidentally build you a ‘sell your motorcycle’ bouquet.”

Keith glanced down at the flowers, then back at Lance. “Don’t worry about that,” he said.
Lance paused mid-fold. Keith shifted his weight slightly, fingers tightening around the helmet he still hadn’t set down.
“Just…” He looked back at the bouquet. “Make them special.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t flowery. But something about the way he said them, like he was bracing himself, made Lance’s chest ache. Not because of the money. Because of the intent.

He wasn’t asking for flashy. He wasn’t asking for biggest or most expensive.
He was asking for meaningful.
Lance felt warmth bloom low and slow beneath his ribs.

Whoever was on the receiving end of this was incredibly lucky. Because Keith clearly wasn’t someone who did things halfway.
He didn’t look like someone who bought flowers casually. He looked like someone who would wrestle with his own pride for days before walking into a shop like this. Someone who would stand in the doorway rehearsing what to say. Someone who would mean it.

Lance swallowed down the soft smile threatening to take over his face and nodded.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Special it is.”
He added a few more touches, nothing excessive. Just thoughtful. A sprig of eucalyptus for protection. A deeper pink rose nestled slightly forward in the arrangement so it caught the eye first.

He wrapped the ribbon more carefully this time, fingers precise. As he worked, he asked lightly, “Do you want to include a card?”
Keith went rigid.
“…What would it say?”
Lance glanced up, amused and fond all at once.
“Well, that depends,” he said. “Do you actually have the words, or are we still letting the flowers do the heavy lifting?”

A pause.

Keith’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“…Just my name,” he said finally.
Lance’s heart did something embarrassingly soft at that. No excuses. No long explanations. No defensive justifications.
Just: Keith.
“Okay,” Lance murmured.

He pulled a small cream-colored card from the drawer and, in careful, looping handwriting, wrote

-Keith

He let the ink dry for a moment before sliding the card into the bouquet, tucking it between the lilies so it peeked out but didn’t overwhelm the arrangement. When he finally lifted the bouquet and held it out across the counter, it looked… gentle. Honest. Vulnerable in a way that felt almost sacred.

“There,” Lance said softly. “An apology that says, ‘I don’t have the right words yet, but I’m trying.’” Keith didn’t take it immediately.
He looked at it like it weighed more than it should. Then he reached out. Their fingers brushed briefly as the bouquet changed hands.

Keith’s skin was warm. Rougher than Lance expected. Steady. Lance felt a tiny, inexplicable jolt. He ignored it.
“Good luck,” Lance said, offering him an encouraging smile. “I’m rooting for you.”
Keith met his gaze.
Something flickered there, something unreadable. Almost conflicted.
“…Thanks,” he said.

He pulled out his wallet and paid without flinching at the total. Didn’t even glance at it.
Lance noticed. Of course he did. Because this wasn’t about cost. It was about effort.
When Keith turned to leave, the bell above the door chimed again. A gust of cool air followed him out, carrying the faint scent of leather and the sharper hint of gasoline.

Lance stepped around the counter without thinking, watching through the front window as Keith crossed the street toward a sleek black motorcycle parked at the curb.

He secured the bouquet carefully inside a saddlebag, like it was something fragile.

Precious.

Then he swung one leg over the bike, pulled on his helmet, and with a low growl of the engine, disappeared down the road.
Lance stood there for a long moment after the sound faded.

____

It was almost exactly a month later when Keith came back.

Lance only realized it because he had just finished rearranging the front display, rotating the early spring stock forward, misting the ferns, re-tying a ribbon that had come loose on one of the sample bouquets, when the bell above the door chimed with that same bright, delicate sound.

He glanced up automatically.

Black leather. Dark jeans. Heavy boots that carried a faint echo on the tiled floor. Motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm like it had grown there.

Lance knew him instantly.

It wasn’t just the clothes. It wasn’t even the sharp, windswept look of him, like he had been carved out of motion and highway air.

It was the pause.

Keith stepped into the shop the same way he had the first time, like someone crossing a threshold into unfamiliar territory. Shoulders squared, jaw set, gaze sweeping once over the bright explosion of color around him as though bracing for impact.

Lance felt a quiet spark of recognition settle warm and sure in his chest. He smiled without thinking. “Hey,” he called, lowering the mist bottle in his hand. “Keith, wasn’t it?”
Keith’s head snapped up.
There was a fraction of a second where surprise flickered plainly across his face.
“Oh,” he said, clearly thrown. “You remember me.”

Lance laughed softly, stepping out from behind the ferns and wiping his damp hands on the front of his apron. “I remember most of my regulars.”
He let the word linger there gently. Not accusatory. Not presumptuous. Just… hopeful.
Keith shifted his weight slightly, helmet tightening under his grip. “I've only been here once.” He says quietly. Lance felt a small laugh bubbled out of him.
“But you're back, so we're hopeful.” Lance watches the other man's lip quirk up at that a little and nods.

“It was, uh…” He frowned faintly, like he was replaying something in his head. “Lance?”
“Yeah.” Lance grinned. “That’s me.”
Something in Keith’s expression eased at that, just a fraction, like he’d passed a test he hadn’t meant to be taking. They stood there for a moment, suspended in that familiar-but-not-familiar space.

“How’ve you been?” Lance asked, casual and bright.
“Fine,” Keith answered, then, after a beat, added, “Busy.”
“With?” Lance prompted lightly.
Keith shrugged one shoulder. “Work.”
“And work is…?” Lance tilted his head, curious but not intrusive.
“Mechanic.”

Lance’s eyes lit up. “That makes sense.”
Keith blinked. “How.”
“You’ve got that… grease-under-the-fingernails energy.”
Keith looked down at his hands instinctively, as if checking.
Lance laughed. “I mean that as a compliment.”

Keith huffed under his breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. It warmed something small and pleased in Lance’s chest anyway.
“How’d the flowers go?” Lance asked gently.
Keith went still.
“…Hopefully well.”
The answer was the same shape as last time, careful, a little guarded, not entirely confident.

Hopefully.

Lance tipped his head slightly, studying him without making it obvious. “Hopefully?” he echoed.
Keith’s jaw shifted. “I mean. They were received.”
That was not exactly a glowing review.

Lance felt curiosity prickle faintly under his ribs, but he didn’t push. He never pushed. Flowers were about offering, not interrogating.
“Well,” he said lightly, “received is a good start.” Keith didn’t argue with that.
There was another small pause, the kind that felt like it could either stretch into awkwardness or fold into something easier.

Lance rescued it.

“So,” he said, brightening, “back for more?”
Keith nodded once. He crossed the shop with slow, deliberate steps and crouched near the wall by the entrance. This time, instead of hovering uncertainly, he set his helmet down carefully in the corner, leaning it upright so it wouldn’t tip.

It was a small thing. But it felt like an admission. Like he planned to stay a minute.

Lance noticed.

He finished misting the hydrangeas and set the spray bottle aside, wiping his hands more thoroughly on his apron before approaching Keith again. There was a faint flush of anticipation humming under his skin.
He liked that Keith came in with a purpose and no vocabulary for it.

It made Lance feel useful in a way that was hard to explain.

“What are we feeling this time?” he asked, voice warm with curiosity. Keith hesitated, then glanced at him sideways.
“Do I need to tell you a feeling again?”
There was something almost reluctant in the question. Like he wasn’t sure if this was part of the ritual or if he could skip it now that he’d been through it once.

Lance smiled, softer this time. “You don’t have to,” he said. “But it’s usually the easiest way to figure out what you need. Especially if you don’t want to tell me the whole story.”
Keith studied him for a long moment, searching for something, judgment, maybe. Or expectation.
He wouldn’t find either.

After a beat, he nodded.
“…Hopeful.”
Lance’s eyebrows lifted immediately, delight flickering across his face. “Oh,” he breathed. “I love hopeful.”
Keith’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Something that says…” He paused, searching, gaze drifting briefly over the rows of flowers as if the answer might be written there. “…Turning a new leaf.”

The phrase landed gently between them.
Turning a new leaf.

Lance felt the idea bloom in his mind instantly, petals unfolding one by one. “That’s good,” he said softly, already moving. “That’s really good.” He gestured for Keith to follow him into the aisle of buckets.
“Hopeful isn’t loud,” Lance mused aloud, fingers hovering thoughtfully over stems. “It’s not red roses and fireworks. It’s quieter than that. It’s deliberate.”

He reached first for a sunflower. Keith blinked at the sudden burst of gold. “Sunflowers are loyalty,” Lance explained, lifting it so the petals caught the light. “They turn toward the sun. They’re about choosing warmth, even when it’s hard.”

Keith watched the way Lance adjusted the angle of the stem, thoughtful.
“Yellow tulips,” Lance continued, selecting a handful, “are for cheerful hope. They say, ‘This can get better.’ They’re optimistic without being overwhelming.”
He began layering them together, his movements fluid and instinctive.

Keith watched the flower tilt in Lance’s hands.
“You just… know that?” he asked.

Lance glanced at him. “Know what?”
“What they all mean.” Keith gestured vaguely to the rows of flowers. “How do you remember all of it?”

Lance smiled, pleased by the question.
“I just love it,” he said simply. “I fell in love with the language of it. Floriography. It’s like this secret code that’s been around for centuries.”
Keith’s brow furrowed slightly. “People actually used to send messages like that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance said, delighted. “Victorian era especially. Entire conversations hidden in bouquets. You could say ‘I’m devoted to you but your aunt scares me’ with the right combination.”

Keith stared at him.
“…You’re joking.”
“Only a little.”

Keith shook his head faintly, but there was a hint of reluctant amusement in it.

“I read loads about it when I first started working here,” Lance continued, selecting yellow tulips and layering them beside the sunflower. “I mean loads. Books, articles, weird historical blogs at three in the morning.”

“And you just memorized it all?”
“Eventually.” Lance shrugged. “It’s second nature now. But at the start?”
He leaned closer conspiratorially. “I had flash cards.”
Keith blinked, amused. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Lance grinned. “Color-coded. I’d stand behind the counter during slow hours flipping through them like I was studying for a final exam. ‘Blue hyacinth: regret.’ ‘Pink carnation: gratitude.’ ‘Red rose: don’t need flash card for that one.’”

Keith actually laughed this time, a quiet, surprised sound that made Lance feel absurdly accomplished. “You made flash cards for flowers,” Keith repeated.
“Hey,” Lance protested lightly. “Respect the craft.”

Keith shook his head, but his expression had softened. “It makes sense,” he muttered.
“What does?”
“That you’d do that.”
Lance paused mid-reach for a sprig of greenery. “…Is that good?”

Keith shrugged slightly. “You seem like the type who commits.” Lance felt a faint, unexpected warmth bloom under his collarbone.

“Well,” he said, a little flustered now, “if you’re going to translate people’s feelings for a living, you should probably know what you’re saying.”

Keith’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary before shifting back to the bouquet taking shape, and leaned one shoulder against the shelf, arms folding loosely across his chest as he watched. “You really like this, don’t you?” he asked suddenly.

Lance looked up, startled.
“Like what?”
“This.” Keith gestured vaguely at the flowers, the shop, Lance himself in the middle of it all. “Working here.”

The answer came without hesitation.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
It wasn’t just yes.
It was bright and immediate and certain.

“I love it,” Lance said, and there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. “I get to talk to people about feelings all day and then translate them into something beautiful. That’s… kind of amazing.”

Keith hummed quietly at that. “It suits you,” he said.
Lance blinked. “What does?”
“This.” Keith gestured again, more subtly this time. “The shop. The flowers.”

Lance waited for him to elaborate.
Keith didn’t.

He just looked at Lance for a moment longer than necessary, then glanced away first.
Lance felt heat creep faintly up his neck and quickly focused back on the bouquet.
He added sprigs of fresh greenery, ruscus, eucalyptus, delicate fern fronds.

“Green is important for this one,” he said, recovering. “Literal new leaves. Growth. It balances the yellow.” He hesitated, then reached for a peony that was only half-open, its blush petals still unfolding.
“And this,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is sincerity. It’s in-between. Not fully there yet. But trying.”

Keith’s gaze lingered on that one.
“…Yeah, I like that,” he said quietly.
Lance arranged everything carefully at the worktable, stepping back, tilting the bouquet slightly, adjusting heights until it felt right, sunlight and promise wrapped in cream paper.
When he finally tied it off with a soft green ribbon, it looked like the beginning of something.

“There,” he said, lifting it. “Hopeful. Intentional. Turning toward something better.”
Keith took it gently. Their fingers brushed again. This time, neither of them pulled away immediately.
“Card again?” Lance asked, softer now.
Keith’s thumb traced the edge of the paper wrapping.
“…Just my name.”

Again.

Something warm and complicated settled in Lance’s chest. He nodded, reached for the small cream card, and wrote carefully:
- Keith

When he handed it back, he offered a small, earnest smile. “I hope it goes well,” he said.
Keith looked at him, really looked at him.
There was less uncertainty in his expression this time. Less confusion. More… intention.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. A beat passed.
Then, almost under his breath, “I think it will.”

___

The third time Keith came in, Lance was ready for him.

Not in an obvious way. Not like he’d been watching the clock or hovering near the door or anything ridiculous like that.

But he had, purely coincidentally, noticed that it had been almost exactly a month.

Again.

The afternoon was slow, golden light stretching lazily across the tiled floor. Lance was behind the counter rearranging ribbon spools when the bell above the door chimed.
He didn’t even need to look up.
He knew.

Still- he did look. Black leather. Dark jeans. Helmet tucked under one arm. Keith. And this time, the pause inside the doorway was shorter. Not gone. Just… smaller. Like the space didn’t feel quite so foreign anymore.
Lance’s entire face lit up before he could stop it.

“Hey!” he called, already stepping out from behind the counter. “You’re just in time.”
Keith blinked slightly at the enthusiasm.
“In time for…?”
“I’ve got the kettle brewing,” Lance said, gesturing vaguely toward the small back counter near the sink. “But I’ll be with you in a second. Do you want tea?”

The question seemed to short-circuit something. Keith stared at him.
“Uh-”
Lance tilted his head. “It’s freezing out there. I’m not letting you stand in my shop smelling like winter without warming up.”

Keith glanced down at himself, then back at Lance, clearly unsure how this had escalated from flowers to hospitality. “Uh, sure,” he blurted finally. “Yeah. Sure.”

The agreement sounded surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say yes but didn’t know how to say no. Lance grinned, triumphant. “Excellent choice.”

Keith stood there for a second, looking faintly stunned, before moving automatically toward his now-familiar corner and setting his helmet down carefully against the wall. He straightened and looked around the shop.

It felt different this time.
Less like an intruder.
More like… a guest.

Lance disappeared briefly behind the counter, pouring hot water into two mismatched ceramic mugs. One was pale blue with tiny painted forget-me-nots around the rim. The other was plain white, slightly chipped at the handle.

He returned with both, holding one out.
“Careful,” he warned. “It’s hot.”
Keith took it cautiously, like it might explode.
“…Thanks.”

They stood awkwardly for a second, both holding steaming mugs in a flower shop that smelled like eucalyptus and chamomile. Keith took a tentative sip. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

Lance noticed.

“So,” Lance said lightly, leaning one hip against the counter. “Third month in a row. All around the same time too. I’m starting to think this isn’t a coincidence.”
Keith glanced at him over the rim of the mug.
“…Maybe it’s not.”

The answer was quiet. Measured. Lance felt something warm settle low in his chest.
He pushed off the counter and gestured loosely to the shop. “You look less overwhelmed this time.”

Keith huffed faintly. “I wasn’t overwhelmed.”
“You absolutely were.”
Keith didn’t deny it. Instead, he took another sip of tea and let his gaze wander over the rows of flowers.

“It’s just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Not my usual environment.”
“Really?” Lance gasped dramatically. “You don’t frequent floral boutiques in your spare time?”
Keith shot him a flat look. Lance grinned.
“But you keep coming back,” Lance added gently.

Keith didn’t answer that.

Instead, he asked, “You always offer tea to customers?”
“Only the special ones.”
The words slipped out easily, teasing and light. Keith stilled.
Lance realized what he’d said and quickly added, “I mean- regulars. It’s a regular thing. Hospitality. Customer retention. Very professional.”

Keith’s mouth twitched. “Right.”
They fell into a softer quiet this time, not awkward, just… shared. Lance studied him openly now. Keith did look different. Still in black. Still in leather. Still carrying the faint scent of wind and engine oil.

But there was less tension in the line of his shoulders. Less stiffness in the way he stood.
He wasn’t hovering near the door anymore. He was in the middle of the shop. Holding tea. Lance felt absurdly pleased.

They lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, both holding their mugs like anchors. The shop was warm, the windows faintly fogged from the kettle. Outside, a bus roared past, rattling the glass briefly before the quiet settled again, soft and scented with chamomile and greenery.

Lance blew lightly across the surface of his tea and smiled over the rim of his mug.
“So,” he began brightly, falling into familiar rhythm, “what are we feeling toda-”
“How have you been?”
The interruption was so unexpected that Lance actually stopped mid-word.

He blinked.

Keith looked just as startled as Lance felt, like the question had slipped out before he’d properly approved it. There was the faintest dusting of red creeping along Keith’s cheekbones. Lance stared at him.
“Uh.”

He instinctively lifted his mug higher, half-hiding behind it as though that would buy him processing time. That was new.

Lance swallowed a sip of tea he hadn’t meant to take and cleared his throat softly.
“I-” He let out a small, breathy laugh. “I’ve been good.”
Keith nodded, gaze flicking briefly away and then back again, like he wasn’t sure what to do with eye contact now that he’d initiated something personal.

“Yeah?” he asked, quieter.
“Yeah,” Lance said, lowering the mug a little. “Actually, really good.”

He shifted his weight, settling more comfortably into the conversation now that his brain had caught up. “It’s been a great few months for the shop. We just started getting more wedding bookings.”
Keith’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Weddings.”

“Weddings,” Lance confirmed, and there was no disguising the glow in his voice now. “They’re magical to organize. Stressful, yes. But magical.” He leaned against the counter, animated again.
“You have to think about everything. The palette, the season, the venue lighting. The bouquet shape. The symbolism.” His hands moved unconsciously as he talked. “Some couples want traditional white roses. Some want wildflowers because that’s where they met. One bride cried because we matched the ribbon to her grandmother’s handkerchief.”

Keith watched him carefully, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. “And you like that?” he observed.
“I love that,” Lance corrected. “It’s not just flowers. It’s… moments. Big ones.”
Keith hummed, taking that in.

After a second, he asked, almost casually, “Are you a hopeless romantic?”
Lance scoffed immediately. “Obviously.”
There wasn’t even a second of hesitation.

Keith smiled properly at that, small, but real, and shook his head. “Of course you are.”
Lance narrowed his eyes playfully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Keith said quickly, though the smile lingered.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to say it like that and then pretend it’s nothing,” Lance shot back, pointing his mug accusingly. “Explain.”
Keith shrugged one shoulder, gaze dipping toward the steam rising from his tea. “You just… talk about it like it matters.”
“It does matter,” Lance said, mock-offended. “Love matters. Weddings matter. Symbolism definitely matters.”
Keith huffed quietly. “Yeah.”

Lance tilted his head, studying him.
“You can’t judge me for being a romantic,” he said. “You’re the one buying flowers every month.”

Keith stilled. There it was again, that faint hint of red along his face.
“I’m not judging,” Keith muttered.
“Mhm.” Lance rolled his eyes dramatically. “You can’t hide behind the whole bad boy leather jacket thing.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Bad boy?”
“Yeah,” Lance said, gesturing vaguely at him. “All broody and mysterious. Meanwhile, you’re out here carefully selecting emotionally nuanced bouquets on a monthly schedule.”

Keith stared at him.
“…I’m not broody.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am not.”

“You stand like you’re perpetually about to lean against a brick wall in a music video.”
Keith’s lips twitched despite himself.
“And,” Lance continued triumphantly, “you drink chamomile tea when offered.”
“You offered.”
“And you accepted.”

Keith shook his head, but there was no real protest behind it. Lance softened a little, his tone gentler now.
“You don’t get to pretend you’re not sentimental,” he added quietly. “Not when you’re this committed to whoever’s on the receiving end of those bouquets.”

Keith’s gaze flickered up to meet his.
Something unreadable passed through his expression, brief but intense. Lance held it for a second, then smiled lightly, defusing the weight before it could settle too deep.

“So,” he said, nudging the conversation back toward safer territory, “now that we’ve established I’m a hopeless romantic and you’re secretly one too-”
“I’m not,” Keith muttered automatically.
“-what are we feeling today?”
He took another sip of tea, eyes bright with curiosity.

Keith didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned slowly where he stood, tea cradled between both hands, and looked out across the shop.

The late afternoon light caught in the glass buckets, turning the water golden. Petals glowed softly. The place hummed with quiet life, the low refrigerator motor, the faint tick of the wall clock, the whisper of leaves shifting when someone walked too close.

Keith’s gaze moved over all of it like he was trying to translate it.
“An emotion, right?” he asked finally. Lance hummed in confirmation, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Or a statement,” he added gently. “Whatever you want to convey.” Keith nodded once, eyes still scanning the shop like the answer might be written somewhere between the peonies and the roses.

“Maybe… like…” He trailed off, jaw tightening faintly. Lance waited.
Keith sighed. “I don’t know.”
Lance’s eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“As in,” he clarified carefully, “you don’t know? Or like-you actually don’t know what you want to say?”
Keith snorted quietly at that.
“I don’t know what I want to say,” he admitted.

There it was.

Not confusion about flowers.

Confusion about feeling.

Lance paused, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said softly. “That’s fair.” He took a small sip of tea, thinking.
“I mean… if you told me a little bit about this person you’re getting the flowers for, I might be able to help narrow it down.”

Keith’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
He bit his lip for a fraction of a second, an unconscious movement, and shook his head. Lance saw it immediately. He backed off just as fast.
“Okay, okay,” he said lightly, lifting one hand in surrender. “New plan.”

Keith relaxed a fraction. Lance set his mug down and crossed his arms loosely, thinking out loud. “Let’s review. The first bouquet was an apology. The second was hopeful. Turning a new leaf.”

He tilted his head. “What happened next?”
Keith stared at him.
“You remembered them?” he asked, confusion flickering across his face.
Lance felt heat creep up his neck.

Of course he remembered them.

He remembered the way Keith had hovered by the doorway. The way he’d said hopefully like it was a fragile thing. The exact shade of tulips he’d chosen.

But he absolutely could not say that.

He scoffed instead, feigning offense. “I’m good at my job,” he said breezily. “Now answer the question.”
Unfortunately, the blush gave him away.
Keith’s eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary. He took another awkward sip of his tea, like he needed something to do with his hands.

Then he sighed. “Apology,” he said slowly. “Hopeful. And now it’s like…” His gaze dropped to the steam curling from his mug. “…I don’t know. Thinking of them, but not in the same way.”

Lance’s heart squeezed faintly.
“Like acceptance,” Keith added quietly.

Oh.

Lance’s expression softened immediately.
He had deduced two possibilities in the span of a heartbeat.

Breakup.

Or shut down.

Neither felt good. “Oh,” Lance said before he could stop himself.
Keith’s eyebrow lifted.
“That doesn’t sound… good,” Lance added, gentler now.

Keith rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much bite in it. “It is good,” he said. “It’s a good acceptance.”
Lance studied him carefully.
The set of his shoulders wasn’t slumped. His jaw wasn’t clenched in anger. He didn’t look wrecked.

He looked… thoughtful. Still, Lance raised an eyebrow. “Keith, you’re killing me here,” he said lightly. “Is this for like- a girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Something dramatic I need to emotionally prepare for?”

Keith snorted. “That’s none of your business.”
“I just need to know if I’m nursing you through a breakup right now,” Lance replied defensively.

Keith actually chuckled at that, shaking his head. “No,” he said gently. “You’re not.”
The relief that flooded Lance was embarrassingly immediate.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, good. Because if you were about to send your ex-girlfriend flowers, we would’ve had to have a serious talk about playing hard to get versus hard to get rid of.”

Keith’s eyes widened slightly. “Lance-”
“I’m just saying!” Keith shook his head, fighting a smile.
“You talk too much.”
“And yet,” Lance shot back, “you keep coming here.”

Keith went quiet at that. The air shifted slightly, lighter, but with something deeper threaded through it. Lance softened again, nudging the conversation back toward the actual problem.

“So,” he said gently, “good acceptance.”
Keith nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Like… letting something be what it is?”
“…Yeah.”
“Not trying to change it anymore?”

Keith hesitated, then nodded again. Lance hummed thoughtfully. “Okay,” he murmured. “That’s not sad.”
“No,” Keith agreed. “It’s not.” There was something steady in his voice now. Something resolved.

Lance tilted his head, studying him. “You’re sure?” Keith met his gaze fully this time.
“I’m sure.”
And whatever Lance saw there, whatever quiet certainty, made him believe it.

“Okay,” Lance said softly, smiling just a little. “Good.” He straightened, energy returning in a gentler form.

“Acceptance,” he mused aloud. “That’s… peaceful. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… honest.” Keith’s shoulders loosened.
“Yeah,” he said. “That.” Lance tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, mind already spinning with possibilities.

“White roses could work,” he murmured. “They’re for honesty and new beginnings. Not starting over. Just… acknowledging.”
Keith listened carefully.
“Maybe some lavender,” Lance continued. “Serenity. Calm.”

Keith’s lips curved faintly. “You really do have an answer for everything.”
Lance grinned. “I told you. Flash cards.”

Keith shook his head again, but this time there was no reluctance in the smile that followed.
And as Lance began moving toward the buckets, already envisioning pale blooms and soft greens, he couldn’t help the strange little thought that flickered at the back of his mind:

Whatever this acceptance was, It didn’t look like heartbreak. It looked like clarity. And Lance already had the perfect idea.
He set his mug aside and turned back to the counter, rolling his shoulders slightly as he slipped into that gentle, focused rhythm Keith had come to recognise.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Acceptance. Clarity.”
He didn’t reach for anything immediately this time. He just stood there, scanning the buckets, head tilted, like he was listening for something. “Acceptance isn’t loud,” he murmured. “It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t accuse. It just… is.”

He reached first for three white roses, selecting them with care, checking each bloom before bringing them to the counter.
“White roses,” he explained, stripping the lower leaves from the stems. “People assume they’re about innocence or weddings. But more broadly? They’re about honesty. A kind of emotional transparency. No games. No hidden undertones.”

He angled them into a loose triangle.
“Clarity starts with that,” he added. “You can’t accept something if you’re still pretending it’s something else.”

Keith leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching Lance’s hands. He reached for pale lavender stock next, the scent soft and clean.

“Stock is for lasting bonds,” he said. “Affection that doesn’t vanish just because circumstances change. And the lavender tone leans into calm. Emotional steadiness.”
He layered it between the roses, building outward.

“Acceptance isn’t indifference,” Lance continued. “It’s saying, ‘This mattered. It still matters. It’s just… different now.’”
Keith’s jaw shifted slightly at that.
Lance reached for blue delphinium next, long stems of cool, quiet colour.

“Blue delphinium is for openness. Clear communication. Speaking plainly.”
He tucked a few stems in, the blue weaving gently through the white and lavender.

“Clarity isn’t just understanding your own feelings,” he said softly. “It’s expressing them without trying to control the outcome.”
Keith watched him for a long moment.
“You make it sound easy,” he said.
Lance snorted lightly. “Oh, it’s not. It’s just easier to say with flowers.”

He added eucalyptus for softness, letting the silvery green frame the bouquet without overwhelming it. Then he paused, looking at Keith.

“Do you have a favourite flower?” he asked.

Keith frowned faintly. “…I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t really have strong feelings about them,” Keith admitted. “I just… pick what feels right when you explain it.”

Lance studied him for a moment, something thoughtful flickering in his expression.
“If this is about acceptance,” he said slowly, “then maybe you should pick one.”
Keith blinked. “Pick one?”

“Yeah. Add something of yours. No decoding. No pressure. Just… what you like.”
Keith looked immediately wary. “I don’t know what I like.”
“That’s fine,” Lance said easily. “Then go look.” Keith didn’t move.
Lance pointed toward the displays. “Shoo. I’ll wait.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but there was less resistance in it than usual. He pushed off the counter and wandered into the shop.
He moved slowly, scanning the buckets. Sunflowers first. Too bright. Carnations, he lingered, then shook his head. His hand hovered over a cluster of daisies before drifting away.

Lance pretended to fuss with the stems he’d already chosen, though he was watching carefully from the corner of his eye.
Keith eventually stopped near the window display.

He stood there longer than anywhere else.
Lance glanced up.

Irises.

Deep purple, velvety petals edged faintly in gold. Dramatic, but not loud. Structured. Intentional. Keith reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over one bloom like he was testing whether it would bruise.
“That one?” Lance asked gently.

Keith glanced back at him, caught.
“…Maybe.”
“Maybe’s good enough.”

Keith carefully pulled a single stem from the bucket and brought it back, holding it a little awkwardly. Lance took it from him, turning it thoughtfully in his hands.
“Irises,” he said softly.
Keith’s shoulders tensed slightly. “You said meaning didn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t,” Lance reassured. “But I’ll tell you anyway. You can decide if it fits.”
He slid the stem into the bouquet, adjusting the angle so the purple cut through the softer tones.
“Irises traditionally symbolise faith,” he said. “Hope. And wisdom.”
Keith’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Wisdom?” he repeated.
“Not in a patronising way,” Lance said quickly. “More like… lessons learned. Growth. The kind that comes from actually sitting with something instead of running from it.”

Keith was very still now.

“In some flower traditions,” Lance continued more gently, “purple irises can also represent respect. Admiration that doesn’t demand possession.”

The words settled between them.

Lance adjusted the bouquet again, stepping back to assess the balance.
“So,” he said quietly, glancing up at Keith. “White roses for honesty. Stock for lasting affection. Blue delphinium for clear communication. And an iris for faith and learned understanding.”

He hesitated just slightly.
“It fits,” he decided. “If this is a good acceptance. The kind where you’re not angry. Just… aware.”

Keith stared at the arrangement. The iris did change it. The deep purple grounded the softness of the whites and blues, made it feel less fragile.
“Does it look like that?” Keith asked quietly. “Acceptance?”

Lance studied it again.
“It looks like someone who cared,” he said. “And still does. But isn’t trying to bend things back into what they were.”

Keith’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“That’s… annoyingly accurate,” he muttered.

Lance smiled faintly.
“Does it fit?” he asked gently.
Keith looked at the iris again, at the way it stood steady among the others.
After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It fits.”

Lance adjusted the iris one last time, fingers careful as he turned the bouquet just slightly so the deep purple caught the light and broke through the white and blue in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental. He stepped back, studying it.

Then he looked at Keith.

“You know,” Lance said gently, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “you clearly knew what you were trying to say.”
Keith frowned faintly. “Did I?”
“Yeah.” Lance nodded toward the bouquet. “You just didn’t want to say it out loud.”
Keith huffed under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

“And,” Lance added, lifting the arrangement carefully and bringing it to the counter, “I’m fairly certain the iris picked you.”
Keith gave him a look. “That’s not how flowers work.”
Lance shrugged, tying the ribbon neatly around the stems. “You walked past everything else. You didn’t hesitate with that one.”

Keith didn’t respond to that, but his shoulders shifted slightly like something had landed.
Lance reached for one of the small cream cards, already uncapping his pen.

He didn’t ask what to write. He wrote Keith. Just the name. Clean. Simple. He tucked the card carefully into the ribbon so it sat just beneath the iris, visible but understated. He smiled at it for a second before glancing up.

Keith was watching him like he always did, quietly, attentively, like the act of arranging flowers was something far more significant than it probably should have been.
Lance rang him up, the till chiming softly.

Keith paid without fuss, then reached out and took the bouquet. This time, he held it easily. Like it belonged in his hands. He looked down at it, studying the white roses, the lavender stock, the blue delphinium, and the iris.

“This is my favourite one,” he mumbled.
Lance lit up instantly. “Really?”
Keith nodded. “Yeah. It just… feels right.”

Warmth bloomed in Lance’s chest.
“I’m really glad,” he sighed, and he meant it.
Keith looked up at him then, and the smile he gave him was different. Not guarded. Not dry or teasing.

Warm.
Fond.

“Thank you, Lance,” he said quietly. “You always seem to help me say what I want to.”
He shifted his weight, clearly a little uncomfortable with the sincerity of it.
“I’m not a… big word guy,” he added awkwardly.

Lance waved him off immediately. “It’s okay.”
He leaned lightly against the counter, smiling softly.
“You’re sweet,” he said easily. “I’m glad I can help you find your words. For whoever you’re trying to express them to.”

Keith’s smile lingered. He nodded once and turned toward the door, bouquet in hand.
Lance watched him go, already bracing himself for that small, familiar drop in his chest that always followed.

Keith reached the door.
Then stopped.
He stood there for a beat, like he was arguing with himself internally.

Then he turned back around.
“So,” he said.
Lance blinked. “So?”
“What’s your favourite flower?”
Lance froze.
“…What?”
“You asked me mine,” Keith said, gesturing vaguely with the bouquet. “Seems fair.”

For a second, Lance was genuinely speechless. He talked about flowers constantly, meanings, history, symbolism. But his favourite? It felt oddly personal. He cleared his throat softly.

“Forget-me-nots,” he said.

Keith tilted his head. “Which ones are those?”
Lance’s face brightened instantly. He stepped out from behind the counter and pointed toward a low ceramic bucket near the window.
“Those,” he said.

Keith followed his gesture. Tiny clusters of soft blue flowers with bright yellow centers, delicate and almost fragile-looking against their thin green stems.

Keith walked closer, bending slightly to look at them properly. “They’re really pretty,” he said, quieter than usual. Lance smiled, something fond and almost shy in it.
“They’re small,” he said. “Easy to overlook if you’re not paying attention. But they mean remembrance. Steadfastness. A kind of enduring connection.”

He stepped up beside Keith, though he kept a careful inch of space between them.
“They’re about not being forgotten,” he added softly. “About staying present in someone’s memory, even if you’re not… right there.”

Keith looked at the flowers for a long moment.
“That fits,” he said quietly.
Lance glanced at him. “The meaning?”
Keith shook his head faintly.
“You.”

Lance’s breath caught before he could stop it.
He laughed lightly, trying to brush it off. “You can’t assign me my own flower.”
Keith’s mouth twitched.
“Seems like I can.”

There was a small, charged pause between them. The shop felt very still. Keith straightened, adjusting the bouquet in his arms. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “And for sharing.”
Lance nodded, still smiling.
“Anytime.”

Keith hesitated just slightly before heading back to the door. He glanced over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you next month.”

Lance’s heart did that ridiculous, hopeful little leap again.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “See you next month.”
The bell chimed as Keith stepped out into the evening. Lance stood there for a long moment afterward, staring at the forget-me-nots by the window.

They were small.

Easy to overlook.

But they lasted.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe someone had been paying attention to them all along.

___

The bell above the door chimed softly for the fourth time in four months.

Lance glanced up from the counter, expecting his usual familiar expression. But what he saw made him pause.

Keith was there, still in his black jacket, still carrying the faint scent of engine oil and wind, but something had changed. His eyes looked heavy. His jaw was tight. There was a stiffness to his shoulders that Lance didn’t remember from before.

“You okay?” Lance asked gently, stepping closer. Keith’s hand went to the edge of his jacket pocket. He hesitated, then shook his head slightly.
“I’m fine,” he said, but it sounded clipped, closed-off.

Lance softened his tone immediately. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said quietly, letting the words hang in the warm, flower-scented air.
Keith exhaled and nodded, relaxing a fraction.
Instead, he asked, “How’s your month been?”

The question caught Lance off guard. Keith didn’t usually ask about him right off the bat.

“Oh,” Lance said, blinking. “Um… it’s been… busy. Good busy, though.” He leaned against the counter, folding his arms loosely. “I did a funeral this month. Full arrangements- casket spray, standing wreaths, table pieces, the whole lot.”

Keith’s jaw stiffened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It was hard,” Lance admitted. “The family came in together, three generations. They were very particular about the colours, pale blues and whites, apparently those were his favourites. And, well…” He hesitated, glancing down at his hands, “…when I was putting together the casket spray, I cried. Not loudly or anything, just quietly. The flowers were so sad… but also beautiful. Heavy, but meaningful.”

Keith’s hands flexed at his sides. His shoulders tensed. Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. “Sounds nice,” he muttered, in that quiet, restrained way of his.

Lance studied him for a moment, a soft weight in his chest. He remembered the last visit, the tentative conversation, the awkward “hopeful” bouquet. He realized slowly, quietly, that Keith had been holding back then. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to admit it, but this… this felt like a continuation. A story unspoken.

Lance leaned back lightly, letting the thought settle. “Okay,” he said gently. “What’s on the agenda today?”

Keith nodded once, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He handed it over without meeting Lance’s eyes.

Lance unfolded it carefully. His eyebrows shot up almost immediately.

Three words. Three small, neat words:
Ache. Regret. Longing.

No explicit explanation. No confession. But enough. Lance looked up at Keith. He was staring at the opposite wall, anywhere but him. “Are you okay?” Lance asked softly.
Keith offered a tight, almost forced smile. “Yeah… yeah. I just… thought I’d write it down today since I- well, I normally struggle.”

Lance’s chest tightened slightly. The words on the paper, the way Keith avoided his gaze… it clicked. He remembered the last bouquet, the hesitant “acceptance” comment, the subtle tension he’d seen in Keith’s eyes.

This was it.

Keith had been going through a breakup then, hadn’t wanted to admit it, and now he was letting it surface, slowly, carefully.

Lance tried not to let the pang in his chest show on his face. Keith was trusting him to hold this for him right now.

Lance’s gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get it.” Keith let out a small, almost imperceptible breath.
“Okay,” Lance continued, stepping closer, careful not to crowd him. “We can work with this. We’ll build something that holds all of it. Ache, regret, longing… we’ll translate it into something that’s honest, without being overwhelming.”

Keith nodded, still looking at the floor.
“And,” Lance added gently, “we’ll take our time. No rush. Just… step by step.”
Keith’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, and for the first time since he’d walked in, he let out a tiny, almost invisible exhale.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
Lance gave him a small, reassuring smile, already thinking about how to turn words into blooms. This was going to be delicate work, but he could do it delicately. He always did.

Lance set Keith’s small piece of paper carefully to the side, letting the words, Ache, Regret, Longing, settle between them in the quiet, warm air of the shop. The familiar smell of earth and petals seemed heavier today, almost like it had absorbed some of the tension from Keith’s posture.

He rubbed his hands together lightly, glanced up at Keith, and asked softly, “Alright… do you want me to talk you through it like normal, or… would you rather just quietly watch while I work?”
Keith hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor for a second, then lifted his gaze and nodded.

“No, I… I like it when you talk it through,” he admitted quietly, a small, hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I like seeing you work.”

Lance felt his chest heat. He looked down at the stems in his hands for a moment, pretending to fuss with the lisianthus, but the flush in his face betrayed him.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice gentle. “We’ll do it the usual way. You know… dramatic floristry with a side of bad jokes. Brace yourself.”
He picked up the first stems, delicate dark purple lisianthus.
“Lisianthus,” he murmured as he stripped the lower leaves, “represents grief and emotional pain… an ache that lingers. Perfect for today. Although, side note: they don’t scream at you when you mess up like some people I know.” He shot a quick glance at Keith, who just gave the tiniest smirk.

Next came deep burgundy carnations, their ruffled edges dramatic and heavy. “These are for regret,” Lance continued, slipping the stems carefully into the bouquet. “They’re the color of old wine and late-night thoughts you can’t unthink. Also, fun fact, they are the only flower that makes you feel bad and classy at the same time.”

Keith snorted quietly. Small, almost involuntary. Lance’s chest flipped at the sound.

Lance picked up pale blue delphinium. “And these, my friend, are for longing. That ache for what you can’t have, the wistfulness… or, if you prefer, pining like a teen in a bad rom-com. No judgment.”
Keith’s eyebrows lifted faintly at the joke. He didn’t laugh, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little.

Lance added soft gray-green eucalyptus, brushing the leaves carefully. “Eucalyptus, for patience. Because grieving isn’t a race. It’s more like… slowly untangling headphones that somehow tied themselves into knots overnight.” Keith gave the faintest laugh, almost imperceptible, but it hit Lance like sunlight.

“And lavender,” Lance continued, tucking sprigs between the darker stems, “for serenity. Emotional steadiness. Because you gotta have a little calm if you’re going to survive the rest.”

The bouquet was starting to take shape: the dark lisianthus and burgundy carnations weighted the arrangement, the blue delphinium lifted it, and the gray-green and lavender framed it with softness. Lance stepped back, studying it. Balanced. Heavy, honest, beautiful.

He looked at Keith, who was watching quietly, a small, tentative smile on his lips.
“You okay?” Lance asked softly.
Keith nodded once. “Yeah… I… yeah. This helps.”

Lance’s chest tightened. He adjusted the ribbon around the stems, tying it loosely but neatly, and slipped the small card with Keith’s name into the fold.

“Good,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, looking up at Keith, he added with a soft smile, “I’m not prying. But… is this going to be given to someone by you?”

Keith’s gaze flicked down for a moment, then he nodded.

Lance hummed, a thoughtful sound. “Okay, you know the drill.” He gestured toward the display of blooms near the window. “Go pick a flower.”
Keith rolled his eyes fondly, lips twitching with the smallest smirk.

“Lance,” he said, just a little exasperated.
“Go, go,” Lance urged, grinning. “You’ll know which one it needs.”

Keith’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he moved toward the buckets of flowers, and Lance turned back to the arrangement, already thinking about how to tuck in the perfect bloom. Slipping jokes and gentle guidance in between careful placements, it was delicate work, but Lance had done it before.
And he could see that, for just a little while, Keith was letting it reach him.

Keith lingered in front of the window display, fingers hovering over the clusters of blooms, hesitating. Lance watched quietly, giving him space but keeping an eye on his movements.

After a moment, Keith’s hand settled on a single pale pink camellia. He picked it up carefully, turning it over in his hands, inspecting the soft, rounded petals as if seeing the flower for the first time.

“Camellia,” Lance said softly, stepping closer. “Good choice. Beautiful lines. Nice color.”
Keith looked up at him briefly, shrugging. “It… looked right.”

Lance smiled gently, letting his eyes drift over the flower before meeting Keith’s again. “I’ll tell you the meaning,” he said softly, as he began tucking it carefully into the bouquet. “Camellias… specifically pink ones… they’re about maternal love. Devotion, care… a steady, nurturing kind of affection.”

Keith froze for a heartbeat. He swallowed, the motion small but noticeable. His eyes flicked down to the bouquet, then back at Lance.

“I… okay,” he murmured quietly, not moving his hands.
Lance’s voice was soft, encouraging. “It might not fit exactly with ache, regret, and longing.” He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “But it’s beautiful. And it’s yours. Adding something that’s yours… it gives the bouquet a touch of you.”

Keith nodded slowly, still holding the camellia in place, a small weight seeming to shift off his shoulders. He didn’t speak, but the slight exhale he let out was enough.
“See?” Lance said, brushing his fingers over the ribbon, tying it gently around the stems. “Even grief needs a little personal touch. Makes it… human.”

Keith’s eyes flicked up again, meeting Lance’s briefly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Lance rang up the bouquet with the same soft routine he had perfected over the past months. His hands moved with ease, scanning the stems and adjusting the register while slipping a small cream card into the arrangement.

-Keith.

He tucked it neatly into the ribbon, letting it rest just beneath the pale pink camellia, the iris, and the other stems, a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of Keith’s presence in the shop, in the bouquet, in the rhythm of their little ritual.

When he held the finished arrangement out to Keith, the man took it carefully, as always, his fingers brushing Lance’s for just a fraction of a second. Keith started toward the door, bouquet held gently in front of him, but then paused.

He turned back, hesitant. His hands flexed around the stems.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Then he trailed off, unsure.

Lance tilted his head, giving him the space, the gentle quiet that said it was okay to take his time.

Keith swallowed and tried again. “I… You don’t realize how much this actually means to me. I know… I know it’s your job, but… I just wanted you to know.”

Lance felt his chest melt, his heart tightening in a way that made his fingers itch to reach out, but he stayed still. He gave a small, soft smile and a nod.

“I really appreciate you saying that,” he said gently. “I look forward to when you come in. So make sure you come back next month, okay?”
Keith’s lips twitched faintly at the corner, the smallest hint of a smile.

“And look after yourself,” Lance added, glancing at the bouquet as if the flowers themselves might carry the care with him.
Keith nodded again, a little more firmly this time, and turned toward the door. He walked out slowly, but with a little less weight in his shoulders than before.

Lance watched him go, the bell chiming softly above, and exhaled. He looked down at the bouquet, still resting on the counter, and ran a hand lightly over the ribbon.

___

Lance had been waiting for him all morning, really. The last few days he’d found himself glancing at the door more than usual, wondering if Keith would come in today, if he’d be… different. If the grief from last month had softened at all.

And then the bell chimed.

Lance looked up immediately.

Keith stepped inside, and Lance almost froze. He wasn’t in black. Not the usual dark jacket, not the biker look he’d grown accustomed to seeing. Instead, Keith wore a soft red jumper and burgundy cargos, the colors warm, earthy, approachable. He looked… soft. Less guarded.

Lance couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. He stepped out from behind the counter, letting the day’s watering and arranging wait.

“Hey!” he greeted, voice bright, as though he’d been holding it in. “You- wow, you’re not in black. I like this. It’s good. Really suits you.”
Keith gave a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he said, brushing a hand over the sleeve of his jumper. “Thought it was about time I shed the black.”

Lance didn’t push. He just nodded, letting the compliment stand. “Good look,” he said simply, warmth in his tone.

Keith leaned against the counter slightly, hands tucked loosely, and asked, “How’s your month been?”

Lance groaned dramatically, dragging a hand over his face. Keith blinked, surprised, before a small laugh escaped him. “Oh,” he said softly, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “Oh, where do I even start? Disaster of a date last week.”
Keith’s ears perked up immediately. “Oh? What happened?”

Lance leaned on the counter, gesturing wildly with his hands. “So, I went on this date with- total hottie, gorgeous, all that. And, well… I told him what I do here, flowers, and he just… he was super rude. Said flowers just die anyway, asked if it was a part-time thing until I found a ‘real’ job. Can you believe that?”

Keith’s eyebrows went up, his lips pressing into a straight line. “What a dick,” he muttered, and Lance snorted, laughing.
“Honestly, I normally just date girls, I'm quite picky with guys” Lance said, shaking his head, “but I was like… you know what? I’ll try. Terrible plan.”

Keith’s shoulders shifted slightly, a faint flicker of relief, or something else, passing through his posture, but Lance couldn’t quite read it. He waved a hand.
“Anyway,” he said, smirking now, “we’re not here to dissect my absolutely shit-show dating life. How are you?”

Keith took a slow breath, posture relaxing a fraction. “Actually… good. Really good.”
Lance’s heart lifted. He smiled fully, and there was no pretense in it. “I’m glad,” he said, voice soft but warm. He meant it. He really did.

He’d grown attached to this regular, the quiet, stubborn, surprisingly gentle man who came in month after month, who somehow let him in just enough to be part of his words, his grief, his small moments.

“And you look… different,” Lance added, nodding toward the red jumper again. “It’s good.” Keith’s lips curved faintly, a small, almost shy smile.
“Thanks,” he said, and the sound was soft, easy.

Lance felt that flutter in his chest, the same one he always did when Keith smiled at him. And today… it felt a little brighter. A little lighter.

Lance clapped his hands together, bright and energetic as always, though inside he’d been holding his breath all morning.
“So!” he said, smiling wide, “what are we doing today?”

Keith looked up at him, and this time the smile that returned was completely unguarded. Warm. Happy. Not tense, not closed-off. Lance felt a small, delighted flutter in his chest.

“Well…” Keith trailed off, hesitating slightly. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “I want to buy some more flowers.”
Lance snorted softly. “Yeah, I got that, Keith,” he said, waving a hand with a teasing lilt. “But- what are we wanting to say?”
Keith’s smile deepened faintly, almost shyly, and he nodded. “I want to buy flowers for my mom.”

Lance froze mid-step, his hand still in the air from the clap. He blinked. Repeated the words in his head. For his mom.
“Oh.” His breath came out shaky, a little dumbstruck. “You… actually told me.”
Keith shrugged, chuckling softly. “Well, I trust you. I want flowers to tell her I appreciate her. That she was a great mom. And that I miss her… but I’m glad she’s at peace. And I’ve… made my peace.”

Lance felt his eyes prick, warmth gathering unbidden. He quickly glanced down, pretending to fuss with the counter, adjust a vase, anything to hide the sting of sudden tears.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice almost breaking. Keith furrowed his eyebrows, confused.
“What?”
“Thank you,” Lance repeated, fumbling slightly. “For… actually telling me. For letting me help you. For trusting me with… all of it. It… I just- I really appreciate that.”

Keith’s smile didn’t falter. He just kept that quiet warmth, that little light in his eyes, like he was letting Lance in but not letting him take anything heavy on himself.
Then he added softly, “It’s actually been… all the flowers. They were for her.”

Lance felt his heart stop for a moment, then hammer all at once. His mind started running, trying to build the narrative in the quiet corners of his head. It wasn’t a breakup. Not heartbreak or rejection. Not someone shutting Keith down.

It was grief. Real, awful grief. The kind that pulls the chest tight, makes the nights longer than they should be, leaves a hollow ache in your stomach. And through it all, Keith had come to him, month after month, letting Lance help him translate that grief into blooms. Every ache, every regret, every longing… all for his mom.

Lance’s chest tightened further. He felt tears threaten, a lump rising in his throat. Slowly, carefully, he absorbed the weight of it all. The ache. The regret. The longing. And now the love. The devotion. The mourning. The release.

Lance swallowed hard, voice thick when it came. “Keith… wow. I… I-” He shook his head slightly, blinking rapidly, trying to gather himself. “I mean, that’s- that’s beautiful. And so brave. You… you trusted me to help you with this. All of it.”

Keith just nodded, hands resting casually at his sides, eyes soft. He didn’t need to say more. The quiet dignity of his presence, the honesty in the small smile he offered, said everything.

Lance’s hands flew up instinctively, waving around as he shook his head, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, then laughed shakily, shaking his head again. “Okay, okay, I need to stop. Come on- come on. Let’s make your mom the best bouquet yet. Come on.”

He gently ushered Keith toward the workspace, his movements energetic but careful, almost like he didn’t want to startle him.

Keith’s eyes followed him, soft and warm, and Lance felt the tug in his chest at the sight.
“Thank you, Lance,” Keith said quietly, the words full of honesty, full of weight.

Lance waved him off with a little laugh, brushing his hands on his apron. “Keith, you need to stop, or I’ll cry,” he warned, voice light but with a tremor betraying the tightness in his chest.

Keith let out a genuine laugh this time, one that rang through the shop and made Lance grin despite himself.
“Come on,” Lance said, giving him a little nudge toward the flowers. “Let’s make something beautiful.”

Lance gathered the soft pink camellias first, his fingers brushing over the delicate petals. When Keith’s gaze lingered on them, Lance’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Those ones from last time?” he asked, voice gentle, letting a smile tug at his lips. “The maternal ones?”
Keith nodded, a small pleased curl forming at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Can we… use them again?”

“That’s a great idea,” Lance said warmly, his chest tightening at the small trust Keith was showing. He tucked the first stems into the vase with careful, deliberate movements, letting his fingers linger over the soft, rounded petals.

Keith leaned slightly closer, peering over Lance’s shoulder at the arrangement forming before them. “She… she always helped me out when I needed it,” he said quietly. “Never said no. Even when she was busy, even when she had her own things to worry about.”

Lance felt a lump rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, nodding as he picked up pale blue delphinium next. “These are for longing,” he explained, placing the stems into the bouquet with deliberate care. “They reach upward, like yearning. They stretch for something just out of reach, perfect for someone you miss, someone you… wish you could talk to one more time.”

Keith’s eyes softened. “She… she would’ve felt that,” he murmured. “She always felt guilty for the little things she couldn’t fix, even when she tried her hardest.”

Lance’s throat tightened, and he pressed a hand lightly to his chest, blinking rapidly to keep his eyes from pricking. He reached for deep burgundy carnations, letting the rich, ruffled edges settle into the arrangement. “And these,” he said softly, “are for regret. Heavy, but meaningful. They’re that ache you carry with you, the kind that sticks with you but also shapes you.”

Keith nodded, his gaze never leaving the flowers. “Yeah… she would understand that too. She was always aware of what she couldn’t change, but she never stopped trying.”

Lance reached for sprigs of lavender, their soft fragrance filling the space between them. “Lavender is for serenity,” he explained. “Emotional steadiness. Calm, peace, something gentle to rest against. Even when grief hits, it’s nice to have a little calm, right?”
“She loved calm,” Keith said quietly. “Her garden… that was her peace. Flowers, quiet mornings, the sun just right. She’d love this. She'll know what I'm trying to say.”

Lance added soft gray-green eucalyptus for patience, letting the leaves fan gently over the blooms. “Patience,” he said softly, “because grief isn’t something you rush. You feel it in pieces, in moments. You have to let it settle… slowly, carefully.”

Keith’s smile flickered faintly, small but warm. “She… she’d understand that too,” he said. “She was never in a rush to fix everything. She let things… just be sometimes.”

Lance swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat as he picked up the final stems, tucking each one into the arrangement with care. “You’re adding something of your own too, right?” he asked gently, glancing at Keith with a small, encouraging smile.

Keith stepped back slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then finally asked, voice soft and tentative, “Do I… get to add one of my own?”

Lance’s grin widened, a mixture of pride and relief. “Absolutely,” he said warmly. “Go ahead. Pick what feels right.”
Keith’s eyes flicked to the small basket of blooms near the window. Without pause, he reached for a handful of tiny blue flowers.

“Forget-me-nots,” he said automatically, almost without thinking.

Lance’s chest clenched, and he whispered, “Perfect.” He guided the small, delicate stems into the bouquet, slipping them among the larger flowers so that they seemed to float above the soft pink camellias, the burgundy carnations, the pale blue delphinium, the lavender, and the eucalyptus.

He stepped back for a moment, letting both of them look at it fully. Every stem carried meaning, every color and curve a reflection of Keith’s memories and feelings. The camellias for maternal love, the carnations for regret, the delphinium for longing, the lavender for serenity, eucalyptus for patience, and finally, the forget-me-nots for remembrance, for a connection that lived on.

Keith watched Lance carefully inspect the bouquet, his warm gaze soft but direct. Lance felt a lump in his throat, his chest tightening at the weight and beauty of the moment. “It’s… it’s beautiful,” he said softly, voice thick, almost breaking. “Really beautiful.”

Keith’s lips curved into a faint smile, a warmth in his eyes that made Lance’s heart swell. “It’s perfect,” Keith whispered.

And Lance knew, without needing to say anything more, that this bouquet wasn’t just about flowers, it was trust, memory, love, grief, and connection, all intertwined. It was Keith’s heart in blooms. And Lance couldn't help but feel like he could see into Keith's soul here.

Lance rang up the bouquet like he always did, the familiar rhythm grounding him despite the weight of the moment.

Keith’s eyes were wide, a huge, almost boyish smile lighting up his face as he looked down at the arrangement. The camellias, the delphinium, the carnations, the lavender, the eucalyptus, and of course the tiny forget-me-nots, looked more perfect than Lance could have imagined, a reflection of everything Keith had entrusted him with.

Keith glanced up at Lance, who was bent over the counter, carefully writing Keith’s name on the small card. His pen hovered a moment before he started writing, lips pressed in concentration.

“Uh… can I put ‘Love, Keith’ this time?” Keith asked softly, a small hopeful lilt in his voice.

Lance’s heart caught violently in his chest, the pen freezing mid-stroke. He felt his chest tighten, his throat constrict, and his hands tremble ever so slightly. He put down the pen and pressed a hand to his eyes, trying not to let the tears spill.

Keith’s face cringed. “Oh- sorry, did you already write it?” he asked apologetically, stepping back a little.

Lance let out a small breathy laugh, the sound wet and uneven. “No, no… I just… I… God, this is so emotional,” he admitted, wiping at his eyes. His voice wavered, but the laughter in it was real.

Keith snorted softly. “Such a crybaby,” he teased, but it was fond, gentle. Lance snapped his head up, catching the amused smile on Keith’s face, and pointed a finger at him.

“No teasing. I’ve seen you work through grief, Keith. We’re like… emotionally bonded now. I am just… proud of you, that’s all. I know that’s weird- I’m your florist.” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly before letting out a soft sigh. “It’s just… been nice to see you grow, one day a month.”

Keith’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving into a gentle smile. A little chuckle slipped out, quiet but warm.
“Thank you, Lance,” Keith said, voice sincere. “You’ve actually helped more than you realize.”

Lance swallowed hard, wiping at his eyes again. “Yeah… well, you’re welcome. I am pretty great,” he teased lightly, letting a small laugh escape.
Keith snorted. “You are,” he said, smiling.

Lance picked up the pen again, exhaling softly, and carefully wrote out the card:
Love, Keith

He tucked it gently into the ribbon, the last touch to the bouquet. When he handed it off to Keith, the young man’s hands closed around it with care, eyes soft and appreciative.

Lance waved him off with a playful sigh. “Leave me alone so I can relish in my emotions without a judgy man here.”

Keith chuckled softly, a nod, and turned toward the door. “See you next month?” he asked over his shoulder, the bouquet cradled carefully in his arms.
Lance grinned, his heart full. “Of course. You better.”

As the bell chimed and Keith walked out, Lance lingered behind the counter for a moment, letting the quiet of the shop settle around him.

___

Lance’s chest lifted the moment he saw Keith step through the door. The bell chimed, the familiar sound making his heart do a little happy flip.

“Happy anniversary!” Lance called out immediately, a grin stretching across his face.
Keith paused mid-step, brow furrowed in confusion. “Uh… what?”

Lance rolled his eyes dramatically, hands on his hips. “Six months!” he exclaimed, voice full of mock exasperation. “Come on, Keith. We’ve been friends for six months now. That’s an anniversary, okay?”

Keith’s lips twitched, then he laughed softly, shaking his head. “Happy anniversary,” he repeated, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Lance beamed, a little glow of pride and happiness filling him. “Exactly! Six months of regular visits, awkward chats, and me bossing you around about flowers. That deserves celebration!”

He spun on his heel and headed toward the back of the shop. “I’m making tea!” he shouted, the clatter of cups and kettle following. From the front desk, he could hear Keith hum softly, a sound that made Lance grin even wider.

He returned a few minutes later with cups in hand, tea bags steeping gently in the warm liquid. When he emerged, Keith was standing by the counter, hunched slightly over a small sheet of paper, scribbles and notes clearly visible.

Lance raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “Prepared this time?”
Keith rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yeah, I… uh… I need a pretty important arrangement, so I wanted to not mess this one up,” he admitted, voice quiet but earnest.

Lance handed him one of the steaming cups, the aroma of tea filling the small space between them. Keith accepted it with a small, grateful nod and took a tentative sip, eyes flicking back to Lance.

“Good,” Lance said with a small smile, moving toward the workbench. “Then let’s make sure this one’s perfect.”
Keith just hummed again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Lance’s chest warmed. Six months. Six months of these little moments, and he felt just as excited as the first time Keith had walked into his shop.

Lance leaned against the counter, steam curling up from his cup of tea, and smiled warmly at Keith. “So… how’s your month been?”

Keith’s smile was soft, easy this time. “Really good,” he said quietly. “I’ve been visiting my mom, like normal. It’s… been nice. Actually, I planted some flowers around her grave, some of the pink ones we had last time.”

Lance’s eyes widened, and a soft, breathless “Oh…” escaped him. His chest tightened in that familiar way, a little tug of awe and tenderness. Keith shrugged, looking slightly pleased with himself. “Not normally my thing, uh… gardening. But my mom loved it. So I… wanted to do that,” he said, voice warm, eyes distant but soft.

“That… sounds perfect,” Lance said gently, smiling. His gaze lingered on Keith for a beat before shifting back to the counter. “So… is this bouquet today for… her?”

Keith hesitated, a fraction of a second, then shook his head with a small, mysterious smile.
Lance’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooo, exciting! Who is it for?”
Keith rolled his eyes, leaning casually on the counter. “That’s none of your business.”

Lance gasped, mock-offended. “Keith! You told me all the last ones!”
Keith laughed, warm and amused. “This one is private. You’ll see why.”

Lance raised a skeptical eyebrow, not letting it drop. Keith sighs, “But first, how was your month? Any… more dates?”
Lance groaned dramatically, popping the ‘p’. “Nope. Didn’t even dare,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head.

Keith snorted softly. “Well, maybe that’s for the best. Can’t have any more assholes who don’t like flowers,” he said, voice amused, teasing but gentle.
Lance let out a small laugh, shaking his head.

“I guess not. But I’m just a lowly flower boy!- there’s only so many romance novels I can read before I go insane.”
Keith shook his head, snorting again. “Fair enough. What are you reading currently?”

Lance tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “The book?” he said, glancing down at his cup of tea. “It’s The Great Escape.”

Keith’s eyebrows shot up, eyes widening slightly. “Susan Elizabeth Phillips?” he asked, incredulous.
Lance blinked. Wait… what? “Wait… how do you know that?” he exclaimed, hands flying up in surprise.

Keith smirked, tilting his head with the faintest shrug, eyes glinting like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Is it… illegal to read her books?” he asked lightly, the teasing in his voice just subtle enough to make Lance pause.

Lance laughed, rolling his eyes. “No, Keith, it’s not illegal! But I’m shocked that you know her work. Six months of secret visits, quiet contemplation, and now you’ve got the literary knowledge to match your mysterious flower-giving ways? I knew you were a secret romantic!”

Keith chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Maybe I am,” he said, leaning casually on the counter.

Lance shook his head, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, Keith… this explains so much! All those carefully picked bouquets, the words you couldn’t say, the thoughtfulness… it all fits now! Secret romantic, huh? My florist’s heart is positively melting.”

Keith just laughed, a warm, easy sound that made Lance’s chest feel lighter, brighter. “Don’t get too dramatic,” Keith teased, though the smile on his face betrayed him.

Lance shook his head fondly, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips as he leaned over the counter and grabbed the sheet of paper Keith had left. “Fine,” he said with a dramatic sigh, tapping the edge of the paper. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me today.”

He unfolded the sheet and blinked, eyebrows shooting straight up. There weren’t any words about emotions this time. Just a neat, handwritten list of flowers. And… there were at least twenty names.

Lance looked up at Keith, who was watching him with a small, proud smile. “Before you say anything,” Keith laughed softly, a little nervous, “I don’t need all of them. I was hoping you’d be able to see what you have in stock and make a bouquet out of some of them.”

Lance nodded slowly, glancing back down at the list. His eyes traced over each flower name, and his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. They’re all… love flowers.

“You searched all these up?” Lance asked curiously, trying to keep his voice even, though his stomach did a small, unexpected flip at the thought.

Keith bit his lip, nodding slightly, eyes flicking away from Lance’s. “Yeah… I wanted to know what they meant so I could pick the ones that were the best… fit. I don’t know.”

Lance tried not to let the thought of Keith being in love make his chest tighten too much. He pushed the feeling away almost instantly, focusing instead on the bright, cheerful energy of the shop, the flowers in front of him, and Keith standing there with that small, earnest smile.

“Well,” Lance said finally, voice teasing, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Keith is in love. Wow.”
Keith’s face flushed immediately, pink creeping up his neck. “Love is a strong word,” he said, quickly, almost defensively, though the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “More like… pining. Or… possibility of love.”

Lance couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Mhm,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Okay, pining it is. But don’t think I didn’t notice. You’re way too organized to just be casually curious about twenty love flowers.”

Keith rolled his eyes, still red-faced, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. Lance felt a warm pulse of affection, thinking how far Keith had come, careful, private, just letting himself be a little more vulnerable with each visit.

“Alright, love- or pining- expert,” Lance said, tucking the list in his apron pocket, “let’s see if we can make a bouquet that speaks for you better than words ever could.”

Keith’s grin softened, a little shy, a little excited. “I… trust you,” he said quietly.
Lance’s heart gave a little flutter. “Good,” he said, smiling widely. “Then let’s make some magic.”

Lance flipped through the list of flowers, tapping a few names with his finger, then looked up at Keith with a small, encouraging smile. “Okay… just help me out a little. Easy. Tell me about her. What do you like about her?”

Keith raised a confused eyebrow, clearly not used to talking about this kind of thing out loud. But after a moment, he hummed thoughtfully and started. “Well… she’s smart,” he said simply.

Lance nodded, keeping his expression gentle, trying not to let the familiar pang in his chest, that ugly, jealous little feeling, rise. He pushed it down almost instinctively.

Keith continued, his voice softening, growing warmer. “She’s… ridiculously kind. Feels everything for everyone. Even when she doesn’t have to.”

He looked away for a moment, as if gathering courage, then back at Lance. His eyes were calm, steady. Lance couldn’t take his gaze off him.

“She’s gorgeous,” Keith said quietly, voice low but full of reverence. “Inside and out. Finds beauty in everything. Even the sad stuff.”

Lance felt a fond smile tug at his lips. Love, he thought, love is beautiful. It made people feel complete, made hearts ache and swell all at once. Even if he hadn’t yet felt this kind of love, he knew he would eventually, but right now… right now he would have given anything for someone to look at him and speak about him like that.

“That’s perfect,” Lance said quietly, his voice low and full of warmth. “She’s lucky you see so much greatness in her.” He paused for a moment, turning toward the shelves to begin selecting blooms. “We’ll have to make sure she likes them,” he added, almost to himself, carefully picking the flowers with renewed focus, letting the quiet magic of the shop and Keith’s words guide him.

Keith stayed close, a small, satisfied smile on his face, as Lance moved among the flowers, letting his hands and his heart translate Keith’s admiration and affection into blooms.

His hands hovered over the vases, fingers brushing the soft petals as he started pulling blooms from the shelves, carefully selecting from Keith’s list. Cream roses, pale pink peonies, and soft blue delphinium, the colors merging gently, like a soft sunrise, each one chosen to reflect the feelings Keith had just shared.

He began with the cream roses, letting their elegant petals form the base of the arrangement. “These are for admiration,” Lance murmured to himself softly, almost as if Keith could hear him. “Strong, steady, and warm. Perfect for someone who inspires you.” He tucked them in, adjusting the stems so they leaned naturally together, forming a foundation for the bouquet.

Next, he picked up the pale pink peonies, letting their soft blush shades fan outward. “Pink peonies… gentle affection, appreciation, and the kind of admiration that makes your heart swell,” he explained quietly, glancing toward Keith, who was watching the process with a small, pleased smile. Lance let himself think of Keith speaking about her, the way his voice softened, the reverence in his eyes, and his chest tightened, a warm ache that felt strangely comforting.

Finally, he added the soft blue delphinium, its delicate spires rising like tiny towers above the cream and pink. “These are longing… hope… a desire for connection,” Lance whispered, arranging them carefully so they seemed to reach outwards. “Perfect for someone who inspires admiration and affection, someone you… notice in ways words can’t fully capture.”

He stepped back for a moment, hands resting lightly on the counter, and let his eyes roam over the arrangement. The cream, pink, and blue flowed together beautifully, soft yet expressive, understated yet full of feeling. Every stem reflected Keith’s words, her intelligence, her kindness, her beauty inside and out, and Lance felt a lump in his throat.

“She's going to love this,” he murmured gently, almost to himself; when he turned to Keith, the boy’s eyes were wide, a soft, warm smile tugging at his lips.

Lance was just stepping back, admiring the bouquet he’d started with Keith’s chosen flowers, when Keith tilted his head, frowning slightly.

“Think we could… add a few more?” Keith asked quietly.

Lance raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “A few more? Really, Keith… isn’t this enough for you already?” Keith’s cheeks warmed, and he rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched in a shy smile.

Lance chuckled, shaking his head. “I know, I know. But we still need to add your pick too. Go at ’em, soldier,” he said, stepping aside with mock ceremonious flair.

Keith grinned softly and started wandering around the table, eyes scanning the blooms. He paused now and then, pointing at a flower. “What’s this one?” he asked, curiosity in his voice.

Lance leaned in, brushing his fingers over the petals as he explained. “That’s a pale lavender rose. Loyalty, devotion, subtle admiration.” Keith nodded thoughtfully and continued, stopping finally on a small, delicate baby pink flower. He tapped it gently with a finger and looked up at Lance.
“That one,” he said simply.

Lance walked over, smiling as he added it to the bouquet. “Excellent choice,” he said softly.
Keith glanced around and then pointed toward the greenery Lance always raved about. “We need some of these too,” he said.

Lance laughed softly. “Of course! Can’t forget the greenery. Adds life, balance… structure.” He grabbed a handful of soft, leafy sprigs and tucked them carefully into the bouquet, letting them fan out naturally.

Keith bit his lip, hesitating, and Lance raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Done now?” he asked, rocking slightly on his heels.

Keith shifted on his ankles, glancing back at the bucket of tiny blue flowers near the window, forget-me-nots. Lance’s heart clenched instantly.

Cruel. Here he was, putting his favorite flower into a bouquet meant for someone else. And yet… he smiled softly, nodding as Keith picked them up and gently tucked them into the arrangement.

Stepping back, Lance studied the completed bouquet. Cream, pink, blue, soft greenery, all blended together seamlessly. It radiated something quiet but intense: overwhelming admiration, gentle curiosity, love that didn’t need to shout.

“This,” Lance said softly, looking at Keith, “this bouquet… it’s perfect. It says everything you just told me… admiration, curiosity, affection… love, even.”

Keith’s soft smile met his eyes, warm and gentle. “Perfect,” he said quietly, and Lance felt his chest swell with a mix of pride, affection, and that inevitable, tender ache.

Lance rang up the bouquet like he always did, the familiar rhythm of scanning stems and tucking ribbons into place somehow grounding him even as he kept an eye on Keith.

“So… what do you want in the note for this one?” Lance asked, a gentle smile on his face.
Keith hummed thoughtfully for a moment, tapping a finger against the edge of the counter. “Can I… write it?” he asked finally, a little shy.

Lance’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly nodded. “Of course,” he said, sliding the card and a pen across the counter. “Go ahead. Your words, your rules.”
Keith took the pen and carefully scribbled on the card, holding it close to his chest so Lance couldn’t peek. Once he was finished, he closed it carefully and handed it back, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Can I look?” Lance asked, trying to keep his tone light but curiosity tugging at him.
Keith shook his head, still smiling softly. “Nope,” he said, amusement in his eyes.
Lance let out a soft, exasperated sigh. “You’re so cruel,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Keith chuckled at the comment, that quiet, warm laugh that made Lance’s chest tighten in the best possible way.

Lance tucked the card gently into the bouquet and held it out to Keith. The young man took it with a soft sigh, cradling it like it was fragile, priceless. He looked down at the flowers for a long moment, eyes softening, before glancing up at Lance.

“This is… my favorite one,” Keith said quietly.
Lance’s eyebrows lifted, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, curious.
“Yeah,” Keith confirmed, voice soft, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s… a beautiful confession,” Lance said quietly, shaking his head in awe. “Anybody would be stupid not to accept that. Best of luck, Keith. You have to let me know how it goes next time, okay?”
Keith bit his lip, nodding. “That’s the plan,” he said softly.

Lance tucked the remaining ribbon in carefully, smiling warmly. “Alright, then… see you next month, Keith.”
Keith paused at the door, giving a small, amused smile. “See you later,” he repeated, and instead of his usual “see you next month,” there was something softer, more fleeting in his tone.

Lance nodded, waving as Keith left, and didn’t think too much of it.

…

Lance was finishing up the last few tasks of the night, misting the flowers one final time, the soft spray catching the warm shop lights. The clock ticked toward closing, five minutes left, and he was already imagining locking the door, putting his feet up, and finally letting the quiet settle around him.

The bell above the door chimed sharply, and Lance froze mid-spray.
“Ah, sorry- I’m about to close for the night,” he said, turning quickly, expecting maybe a late customer or delivery.

But there was Keith, standing in the doorway, the bouquet in his hands. His soft red jumper looked even warmer in the dim light of the shop, and for a moment, Lance just blinked.

“Hey… are you okay?” Lance asked, his voice catching slightly, surprised. He had already been resigning himself to not seeing Keith for another month, to the usual waiting period between visits.

Keith just nodded, eyes calm but unreadable.
Lance’s gaze flicked down, and his heart dropped. The flowers in Keith’s hands. Carefully arranged, perfect, and yet… somehow still in Keith’s grip instead of with whoever they were meant for.

“Oh… did they… did they not want the flowers?” Lance asked, panic and worry rushing into his chest. “Oh shit, Keith- okay, wait. I can get you some tea. Come put them down.” He gestured frantically toward the counter.

Keith just smiled, soft and small, and walked forward, setting the bouquet carefully on the counter. A small gift rested beside it, neat and understated.

Lance felt his stomach drop. Keith had spent so much time and care on that arrangement, and someone had just… blown them off. Didn’t even take them.

Anger bubbled up in Lance’s chest, hot and sharp. He shook his head, scowling slightly. But beneath it, a small, selfish thought rose: Good. They didn’t deserve him anyway.

He hurried to the back, boiling water and fetching tea, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Moments later, he returned, carrying a steaming cup, and found Keith standing by the counter, gazing down at the flowers. His posture was quiet, reflective, almost fragile, and Lance’s chest tightened at the sight.

“Hey… here,” Lance said gently, setting the cup down in front of Keith.
Keith’s lips curled into a soft, grateful smile. He picked up the cup carefully, cradling it for a moment. “Thanks, Lance,” he said quietly, the words gentle but full of warmth.

Lance nodded, watching him, feeling a swirl of pride, concern, and affection. He lingered just a moment, letting Keith sip his tea, the soft hum of the shop around them, and the unspoken connection between them stronger than ever.

Lance slowly locked the door to the front of the shop, the soft click echoing in the quiet space. He turned back toward Keith, eyes gentle but full of concern. “So… what happened?” he asked softly.

Keith raised an eyebrow, taking a careful sip of his tea as if savoring the warmth before answering. Lance let his gaze wander to the bouquet sitting on the counter, then back to Keith, and noticed the way Keith’s eyes followed his line of sight.

Keith’s expression softened, a small, almost amused twitch at the corner of his lips. “Oh,” he said, strangely calm, almost serene. “I… haven’t given them yet.”

Lance’s chest unclenched in an instant, relief washing over him like a wave. “Holy shit. Thank god. Keith, my man… I thought you got rejected.” He let out a long, shaky sigh, the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding evaporating.

Keith laughed softly, shaking his head, the sound warm and easy. “I mean… there’s still time,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

Lance grinned, feeling lighter than he had all day. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said easily, brushing off the worry as if it had never been.
Keith tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No?”

Lance shook his head firmly, smiling. “No. She’ll love them, I promise. Anyone would.”
Keith tapped the rim of his cup lightly, his gaze locking onto Lance’s in a way that made the florist’s chest skip a beat. There was something in Keith’s eyes, direct, unflinching, quietly probing.

“Wait…” Lance said, raising an eyebrow, the teasing tone creeping in despite the warmth in his chest. “You’re great. Love your company. But… why are you here instead of with… her?”

Keith’s smile softened, a tiny, almost secretive curve of his lips, and he tilted his head, as if weighing how much to reveal. Lance leaned slightly forward, curious, heart skipping in that familiar way.

Keith hummed quietly, lost in thought, eyes drifting away from Lance. The soft hum seemed like a shield, a way to process whatever was churning in his mind.

Lance frowned slightly, leaning against the counter, arms loosely crossed. “Yeah… I’m pretty confused,” he admitted, voice gentle but tinged with curiosity. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on.”

Keith finally looked back at the flowers, gaze softening as it landed on the bouquet they’d carefully arranged together. “They… weren’t for a girl,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “They were for a guy.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up, and his chest tightened ever so slightly. “Oh,” he said carefully, letting the words hang. He paused, his expression softening with apology. “I… I didn’t know you were- wait- hey, I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t be honest about that,” he said, the lines of worry and regret evident on his face.

Keith chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “You didn’t… I just didn’t correct you when you said girl. So…” His voice trailed off, a shrug carrying the rest of the explanation.

Lance nodded slowly, accepting that, trying to keep his thoughts clear. “Fair enough… so, lucky guy then?” he said, forcing a small smile, even as a twinge of bitterness curled in his gut at the knowledge that Keith wasn’t straight. He didn’t linger on that thought too long, though; the moment wasn’t about him.

Keith’s gaze met his, soft and a little reflective. “I’m lucky to know him,” he said gently, a small laugh escaping. “I wouldn’t consider him very lucky.”

Lance rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Come on, Keith. Look at that,” he said, gesturing toward the bouquet. “I know how much thought went into that. You didn’t just come with a feeling, you came with flowers you learnt the feeling of. I know not everyone is a florist but that’s… that’s some deep stuff, man. He’s lucky. Very lucky. And he’ll love them.”

Keith let out a small, breathy sigh, shoulders relaxing just slightly. “I hope so,” he murmured, rocking on his feet a little as his eyes lingered on the flowers.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself finally, almost as if affirming it, determination threading through the quiet reverence in his tone.

Keith set the warm cup of tea down carefully on the small shelf near the vases, taking a slow breath as he lifted the bouquet, cradling it under one arm. Lance assumed he’d come by to drop in, say a few words, maybe grab some tea, normal friend stuff. He stepped forward, unlocking the door with a soft smile, already thinking of the months of trust and quiet confessions they’d shared, feeling grateful that Keith let him in like this.

But Keith didn’t move toward the door. He stopped right in front of Lance.
Lance froze, a frown forming as he tilted his head. “Was there… something else?” he asked gently, still smiling, but sensing something in Keith’s posture that made him pause.

Keith just nodded, silent, eyes flicking down for a moment before returning to Lance. The bouquet under his arm seemed heavier now, carrying more than just flowers.

Then Keith did something Lance didn’t expect.

Slowly, hesitantly, he held out the bouquet toward Lance.

Lance blinked. His smile faltered. His brows shot up. “Wait… what?” he stammered, taking a small step back. His heart skipped. He stared at Keith, at the flowers, at the way Keith’s hand lingered in midair. Confusion shot through him like lightning.

“Keith…” Lance said, his voice cracking slightly in surprise. “Are… are you-”
Keith just held out the flowers, silent, letting them speak. And Lance’s mind raced, his chest tightening, his stomach flipping. He’d never expected this. Not from Keith. Not now.

Shock, confusion, disbelief, every thought collided in Lance’s head, and all he could do was stare at Keith, mouth slightly open, trying to process the gesture, trying to understand what it meant.

Lance froze completely, eyes locked on the bouquet in Keith’s hands, his mouth opening and closing like he might say something, but no words would come. He was utterly, completely speechless.

Keith bit his lip, gaze flicking away for a moment, but he kept his arms outstretched, the flowers held carefully between them. The silence stretched, thick and electric, broken only by Lance’s shallow breaths.

“I- are you sure?” Lance finally managed to choke out, his voice low, almost a whisper. It sounded ridiculous even to him, like the words were too small for the enormity of what was happening.

Keith let out a soft snort, almost a laugh, and looked back at him, nodding nervously. His eyes met Lance’s, vulnerability clear in their depth, and something warm and relentless bloomed in Lance’s chest.

His heart thudded fast, a storm of heat and disbelief spreading through him. Was he being serious? This isn’t a joke, right? Lance’s thoughts scattered wildly. The possibility, no, the reality, of it hit him full force.

They were… actually for him.

Lance swallowed hard, his mind blank except for the thrum of his own pulse, his gaze fixed on Keith’s nervous smile and the delicate bouquet that somehow carried all of Keith’s trust, affection, and courage. Warmth flooded him, bright and uncontainable, leaving him dumbstruck, breathless, and entirely unprepared.

Lance reached out slowly, like the bouquet might disappear if he moved too fast. His fingers trembled as they closed around the stems, brushing Keith’s for the briefest second.

His eyes burned instantly.

“But I… I don’t understand,” Lance whispered, staring down at the flowers in his arms.
They were all there. The cream, the soft pink, the touches of blue. Every bloom they’d chosen together. Every meaning he’d explained. Admiration. Honesty. Curiosity. Devotion. The quiet depth behind the greenery he’d insisted on.

The bouquet spoke fluently. It said everything.

It said you see me.
It said I know you.
It said I chose this carefully.

Keith wasn’t a words guy. Lance knew that better than anyone. And yet this- this was eloquent. This was intentional. This was loud in the softest way possible. Lance lifted his gaze slowly.

Keith looked like he was about to be sick.

His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight, eyes wide but determined. Like he’d braced himself for impact. Lance swallowed dryly and looked back down at the flowers, his chest tight.
“You promise?” he whispered.
Keith inhaled deeply and nodded. No jokes. No deflection. Just a small, honest nod.

Warmth flooded Lance so fast it almost hurt. He nodded back, a shaky smile breaking through as he hugged the bouquet to his chest.

“God, I- I don’t know what to say, I just-” His face burned hot; he knew it was bright red. He felt exposed in the best and worst way.

Keith lifted a hand quickly. “You- you don’t have to say anything. I get it’s a little sudden. Maybe a lot a bit weird-”
Panic shot through Lance.

No. No, no, no.

“NO!” he blurted.

Keith jumped back slightly, eyes wide.
Lance winced immediately. “Sorry- no, I mean- don’t take it back. If you mean it. Please don’t.”

Keith stared at him, swallowing hard. Hope flickered, tentative and fragile, in his eyes.
“I won’t take it back,” he said softly.
Lance nodded quickly. “Good. Good. Because I meant it. Anyone would be stupid not to accept these.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d be stupid.”

Keith bit his lip, trying not to smile too much, like he was afraid of jinxing it. Lance glanced down at the small card tucked into the bouquet. His fingers shook as he carefully pulled it free. He opened it slowly.
There was only one line.

Are you free after work?

And beneath it, in small, polite handwriting, a phone number. Lance let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh. His vision blurred again as he pressed his lips together.
He looked up at Keith, heart racing, smile soft and luminous.
“I close now,” he said quietly. “I’m very free.”

Keith let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face like he’d just survived something catastrophic.

Lance stared at him for half a second before a bright, disbelieving smile broke across his face. He stepped forward and shoved Keith lightly in the shoulder.
“Asshole!” he laughed, eyes still shining.

Keith blinked, genuinely startled. “What?”
“You made me put my favourite flower in a bouquet to help you confess to some random!” Lance accused, laughing harder now, his voice wobbling at the edges.
Keith’s shock melted into a small, breathy laugh. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, though the curve of his mouth made it very clear he was not sorry at all.

Lance just shook his head, looking down at the flowers again, cradled between them.
His voice softened. “I’ve never been given flowers before.”
Keith’s head snapped up. “What?” he said, frowning in confusion. Lance smiled at him, a little sheepish, a little overwhelmed.

“You’re lying?” Keith pressed, brows knitting together.
Lance shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “No. Never.” He sniffed quietly.
Keith stared at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
“I don’t believe that for a second. You- your whole thing is flowers,” Keith said, gesturing vaguely around the shop.

Lance let out a wet snort. “Yeah, well. I’ve always been a giver of flowers. Never a, uh… receiver of them.” He huffed a shaky laugh. “So… this is kind of a big deal for me.”
Keith looked completely stunned now. “Oh,” he whispered.

Lance shook his head, glancing back down at the bouquet. “And it’s not even just flowers. It’s like… an actual hand-picked bouquet. Thoughtful. Intentional. I just-” He scrunched his face, overwhelmed. “Ugh. I’m a mess.”

Keith hesitated only a second before gently taking the bouquet from Lance’s arms and setting it carefully back on the counter.
“Can I… can I hug you?” Keith asked softly.
Lance laughed through the tears and didn’t even answer, he just stepped forward and pulled Keith into him.

Keith’s arms wrapped securely around Lance’s waist. Lance gripped onto the back of Keith’s neck like he was afraid he might vanish if he let go.

They fit.

“You deserve, like… everyday ones,” Keith mumbled into Lance’s shoulder. “Special ones.”
Lance choked out a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck. This is crazy,” he breathed, shaking his head against Keith.

Keith smiled faintly and pulled back just enough to rub a hand gently up and down Lance’s back.
“I’m sorry if it was… a bit out of nowhere,” he admitted quietly.
Lance looked up at him, eyes still damp but shining, and shook his head.

“Out of nowhere?” he echoed softly. “Keith, you’ve been coming in here every month for half a year. You asked about meanings. You memorised what flowers feel like.” His voice warmed. “You just finally caught up to what I’ve been hoping for. I thought you were in a relationship for half of it. So you were off limits.”

Keith blinked. Lance smiled, smaller now. Tender. “It’s not out of nowhere,” he said gently. “It’s right on time.”

Keith smiled softly, the nervous edge still lingering in his posture. He reached for the small gift sitting beside the bouquet and picked it up carefully.
“I, uh… this is a thank you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “For, you know… all the flowers.”

Lance let out a dramatic groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop. I can’t deal with this. You got me a book.”
Keith frowned immediately. “You can’t guess it before you open it, asshole. That’s not fair,” he grumbled.

Lance huffed a laugh and grabbed it from him. The brown paper crinkled softly as he unwrapped it, revealing the cover.

He blinked.
Then sniffed once.
He flipped it over quickly to read the back.

Pansies by Alexis Hall.

A romance.
About a florist actually.
Lance snorted loudly.

Keith immediately looked away. “Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath.
“Fuck, you’re a sappy guy,” Lance laughed, eyes shining again.
Keith’s face went bright red as he reached forward. “Give it back.”

Lance shot the book up over his head instantly. “Nope! Absolutely not. It was a gift. It’s mine. I love it. You are not getting it back.”
Keith groaned, mortified, shaking his head as Lance grinned victoriously.

Lance lowered the book carefully and placed it beside the bouquet on the counter, right next to the flowers like they belonged together. He stared at them for a long moment.
The bouquet. The book. The meaning of both. Then he looked back at Keith, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.

His voice softened.
“Keith… can I kiss you?”

Keith’s breath caught. His eyes widened slightly, shoulders going stiff as he stared at Lance like he was trying to make sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Are… are you sure?” Keith asked, voice quieter now. Careful. Almost fragile.

Lance sniffled once, eyes still glassy, but he was smiling, open and warm and certain.
“Yeah,” he nodded, stepping a fraction closer. “Please.”

Keith searched his face for a second longer, like he was bracing for the ground to shift beneath him. Then he nodded too, small, almost numb, like his body was still catching up to what was happening.

Lance didn’t give himself time to overthink it.

He closed the distance in two quick steps.
His hands came up immediately, cupping Keith’s face, fingers warm against his jaw. Keith barely had time to inhale before Lance pulled him in. The kiss was soft. Gentle.

A little clumsy at first, noses brushing, breath mixing, but then it settled. Warm and sweet and real. Keith made a small, startled sound against Lance’s mouth before melting into it, hands hesitantly finding Lance’s waist like he needed something solid to hold onto.

It wasn’t rushed. It was careful. Intentional.
When Lance finally pulled back, just a little, his thumbs were still resting along Keith’s cheeks. His smile was bright and shaky and completely unguarded.

“Okay,” he breathed, almost to himself.
Keith blinked at him, dazed. “Okay?” he echoed softly. Lance laughed under his breath, leaning their foreheads together.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay.”

For a moment, they just stood there.

Foreheads pressed together. Breathing the same air. Letting it settle. Then Lance leaned back slowly, like he needed the space just to look at him properly. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jumper, sniffing once more, half laughing at himself.

“Jesus,” he muttered fondly.
He reached behind his neck and tugged the strings of his apron loose. It slipped off his shoulders and he chucked it vaguely toward the corner of the shop without even looking. It landed somewhere near a stack of empty boxes.

Not his problem anymore.

He turned back to the counter, scooping up the bouquet carefully in one arm and grabbing the book with the other hand, holding both like they were precious, because they were.

Then he looked at Keith.
Really looked at him.
And broke into the biggest, brightest smile Keith had ever seen.

“Where are we going?” Lance asked, like this had always been the plan.
Keith blinked at him, still a little stunned, but something steady had replaced the nerves now. Something warm. Certain.

“Uh,” he breathed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “There’s a place a few streets over. Open late. I thought maybe… dessert?”
Lance’s grin widened. “A date?” he teased.
Keith rolled his eyes, but his ears went pink. “Yeah. A date.”

Lance adjusted the flowers in his arm and nudged the book against his chest.
“Lead the way,” he said softly.

Keith stepped toward the door, unlocking it this time for both of them. The bell chimed overhead as they walked out together, side by side.

Lance shifted the bouquet in his arms, glancing down at it.

His flowers.

He smiled at the flowers, soft and fond, like they’d personally done him a favour tonight.

Then he looked up.

Keith was a few steps ahead, already pulling his phone out, brow furrowed in concentration as he opened Google Maps. He turned slightly away from Lance, thumb moving quickly over the screen.

“Okay, okay,” Keith muttered under his breath. “It’s like… eight minutes. I think. Unless we- no, wait that’s the wrong- ”
Lance just stood there for a second, watching him. Biting his lip to stop the grin from getting even wider.

Keith, who had orchestrated an entire floral confession because he couldn’t find the words.

Keith, who’d bought him a romance novel about a florist.

Keith, who was now nervously triple-checking directions like the fate of the universe depended on dessert. Lance shook his head slowly, warmth blooming all over again.

He stepped up beside him and nudged their shoulders together.
“You good there, soldier?” he teased lightly.
Keith glanced at him, pretending to glare, but his mouth betrayed him with a small smile.
“Shut up,” he muttered.

Lance laughed softly and leaned a little closer, bouquet tucked safely against his chest, book under his arm, heart completely and utterly full.

Yeah.

It was worth the wait.