Chapter Text
It was like he was in that strange dream all over again.
Thomas remembered it as clear as day, really. It hadn’t let him go since he had come back from the war. He hadn’t been the same since, as though he left his soul buried somewhere beneath the mud and bodies of France.
During the war, in one of the tunnels, Thomas and his men were digging, a support beam collapsed, knocking him unconscious.
He had a dream then, something he had put off as stupid nonsense his head had made up back then to escape the reality he was in.
But now? He felt like he was exactly in that dream.
He was back in Small Heath, walking down a quiet street, the sun was still out. A flower shop stood there, familiar, he had seen it before, but it hadn’t been open in a while.
Outside, a girl stood, arranging flowers.
She placed a pot of forget-me-nots onto a small wooden stool, which caused a bag of soil that was leaned against it to topple over.
Crash.
Soil spilled over his polished leather shoes and Thomas went still.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze, he blinked a few times, as if once again he had woken up from that dream he had. But now it was… real.
You let out a soft gasp as you turned, eyes widening when you saw the mess you’d made.
“Oh god– ” you breathed. “I’m so sorry!”
You grabbed a broom instantly, kneeling down to sweep the soul off his shoes.
Thomas didn’t move for a moment, stood frozen, not in anger but in … confusion? He couldn’t quite name the feeling.
Slowly his gaze turned to watch you kneel there, finger curls falling over one shoulder as you swept frantically, apologising under your breath.
Slowly, he lifted his hand, stopping the broom mid-sweep, which caused you to look up, half expecting to be shouted at by the man.
“I– I’m really very sorry, sir.” you said as you stood up again. “I can clean your shoes properly, no trouble at all. I really am sorry.”
Your eyes locked onto his, bright and sincere, he didn’t release the broom, nor did he say anything.
He just looked at you.
At the way the sun kissed your cheeks and caught that spark in your eyes.
Then, quietly, his voice broke the silence, low and rough.
“…Don’t be sorry.”
After a moment, his fingers loosened, letting go of the broom.
You let out a small, apologetic huff, a gentle smile returning to your lips.
“Were you hoping to buy something?” you asked. “I’ll give you flowers for free. Roses for your wife maybe?” You finished sweeping off his shoes, brushing your hands off on your apron before looking back up at him.
“…I don’t have a wife,” he said simply.
“Oh… I’m sorry,” you replied softly, quickly gesturing toward the shop. Today did not seem to be your best day. “Please, come in. I’m sure I can find something for you anyway.”
You opened up the door, pushing inside. Thomas hesitated a moment at the threshold of your shop.
With slow steps, careful, as if afraid he might break something he stepped inside.
The bell above the door chimed softly as it swung shut behind him.
His sharp blue eyes swept over rows of blooms, shelves crowded with colour and life, before settling on you. You were already busy among the pots and freshly cut stems, sleeves dusted with soil, expression warm as you turned toward him.
“What colours do you like?” you asked easily. “Would you prefer a bouquet, or a potted plant?”
He usually didn’t do flowers.
Has never bought any. Never felt the need.
The question struck him as… strangely intimate. Despite the fact that it was a rather simple question.
“…Blue.” he answered after a moment.
Not because it was really his favourite, he hadn’t thought about favourite colors in a while, but because blue reminded him of forget-me-nots.
And suddenly, they were all he could think about.
You hummed thoughtfully, pulling out a bundle of blue chicory before pausing. You tilted your head, studying them, then shook it with a quiet sigh.
“No… too much.” you mumbled, returning them to their place. “Just blue?” you asked again, leaning toward a cluster of hydrangeas.
Something almost like amusement flickered behind Thomas’s eyes when your nose scrunched in mild disapproval. It was gone as quickly as it came.
At your question, he nodded once, short and decisive.
His gaze followed your hands as you selected a hydrangea, its blue deep and calm. You turned it gently in your palms, considering it, then set three aside with a small nod of approval.
“Are you in Birmingham often?” you asked casually as you clip a few stems of pale blue delphinium.
Thomas looked a bit at the flowers around him, before answering in that low, steady voice of his.
“I live here. Small Heath. Born there.”
You glanced up, smiling. “Oh, that’s nice. I live just down the street from the shop, very convenient, really.”
You laughed softly to yourself, clearly more comfortable with conversation than he was.
“Hm… you’re really putting me to the test with all this blue,” you added with a chuckle as you dug through more options, adding blue salvia and poppies to the growing arrangement.
Thomas absorbed everything about you, your smile, the sound of your laugh, how easily you spoke to him like he was just another man off the street.
You added a few periwinkles, then paused.
“I’m sorry again about the soil,” you said, glancing up. “I still don’t know how that happened. Clumsy of me…”
You tilted your head, studying him and the bouquet like you were trying to decide if they belong together. Thomas stood perfectly still, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
“Hm… one last thing, I think,” you hummed.
You returned with a small bunch of forget-me-nots, tucking them carefully between the other flowers. Then you wrapped the bouquet in soft pastel-blue tissue paper and tied it neatly, adding a small card.
“May I ask your name?” you asked.
Thomas stiffened just a fraction.
“…Thomas.” he said after a moment. No surname. Just Thomas.
He watched your face as you wrote it on the card, wondering if your name will sound as pretty as you look when he finally asks for it.
You smiled. “Thomas,” you repeated, handwriting quick and neat. Then you held the bouquet out to him.
“And again – I’m really sorry about your shoes, Thomas.”
Thomas took the bouquet carefully. The tissue paper felt tender against his fingers, and the scent of blue flowers rose between them.
He lowered his gaze to the bundle in his hands: hydrangeas, delphiniums, salvia… poppies.
And right at the center, forget-me-nots.
Something tightened painfully in his throat.
Your smile didn’t falter, but your brows knit slightly as you studied his silence.
“Is it… missing something?” you asked carefully, clearly unsure how to read the quiet man in front of you.
Too late, Thomas realized his stillness had unsettled you.
“…No,” he said quietly.
“It’s perfect.”
Your smile softened instantly, a faint blush blooming across your cheeks.
“I’m glad,” you said, relief clear in your tone. “I hope that makes up for the earlier mishap…”
“…More than enough,” he murmured. Then, after a beat of hesitation, “What’s your name?”
“I’m y/n,” you said with a smile, also leaving out your surname, you weren’t one for formalities anyway. “It’s nice to meet you, Thomas.”
You offered your hand.
Thomas set the bouquet down on the counter and reached for you.
His hand was big and rough, but his grip was careful, almost gentle, as though afraid to bruise something precious.
“…Nice to meet you.” he said gruffly, and this time, he meant it.
You shook his hand, smiling.
“I hope you enjoy the flowers! If you keep them in a vase with water by the window, they should last about a week.”
Then you laughed softly.
“And if you ever need more… well, you know where my shop is now.”
Thomas nodded, absorbing your instructions. Keeping flowers alive for a week was the most domestic thought he’d had in years, he was certain of that.
He picked the bouquet back up and tucked it against his side, suddenly aware that he didn’t want to leave yet.
“…I’ll come back.” he said simply.
You let out a small, amused huff.
“I hope so,” you replied, moving back behind the counter to the pot you’d been cleaning earlier. “Have a good day, Thomas.”
He gave one last nod and turned toward the door. The bouquet rested securely against his arm, its blue hues catching the light.
The bell chimed softly as he stepped back into the streets of Small Heath.