Chapter Text
The line never looks right the first time.
Alysa knows that. It’s part of the process. Sketch, erase, redraw, repeat until the shape feels earned. Usually, it settles eventually. This one doesn’t.
She’s been at it longer than she wants to admit, pencil tapping repeatedly against the page before she drags it back through the same petal again. Too stiff. Too clean. It looks like a symbol of a flower, not something that ever actually grew.
Her phone sits beside her, reference photo pulled up. She zooms in. It falls apart, blurred edges, no depth, no weight.
“Not helpful,” she mutters.
She leans back in her chair, eyes drifting out of habit more than intention toward the front window of her shop.
Across the street, the flower shop is open.
It always is around this time. She knows their hours without ever trying to memorize them. Knows when the lights flick on in the morning, when the sidewalk display changes, when the door stays propped open just a little in good weather.
She’s owned the tattoo shop for a couple years now. Long enough that the rhythm of the street has settled into her bones.
Long enough that the florist across the street isn’t a stranger, just someone she’s never actually spoken to.
They’ve passed each other before. Quick, passing moments. A nod once, maybe twice. That quiet, mutual recognition of you exist in my orbit. That’s it.
Alysa leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the counter as she looks out.
Inside the shop, the florist moves between arrangements, unhurried. Blonde hair catching the light when she turns, sleeves pushed up, hands busy with stems and leaves. There’s something steady about the way she works. Familiar, even from a distance.
Alysa watches for a second longer than she needs to.
Then exhales, straightens, and reaches for her jacket.
The bell above the flower shop door chimes when she steps in.
It’s the first time she’s heard it from this side.
The space feels different up close, warmer than it looks from the street, filled with the quiet kind of scent that doesn’t ask for attention but lingers anyway.
“Hey there, feel free to look around.”
Alysa looks up.
The florist is already looking at her.
There’s a flicker of recognition, subtle, but there. Not surprise exactly. More like confirmation.
Oh. You.
Up close, the details are clearer. Bright blue eyes, a softness to her expression that doesn’t feel forced. Taller than Alysa by just enough to notice. The sweater, the jeans, effortless in a way Alysa doesn’t think about until she suddenly does.
Alysa nods, a little delayed.
“Thanks.”
There’s a half second where it feels like one of them might say something else. Hey, you’re across the street, right? But neither of them does.
Instead, Alysa turns to the nearest display.
The flowers are messier than the photos. Real in a way that’s harder to translate. Petals uneven, stems slightly curved, everything just imperfect enough to feel right.
She leans in, studying one bloom closely.
“Looking for something specific?”
Closer now.
Alysa glances over, then back to the flower.
“Yeah. I-” She pauses. “Do you know how this one grows?”
There’s a small beat.
And then, just at the edge of her vision, she catches it.
A hint of a smile.
“Like… structurally?” the florist asks.
Alysa nods. “Yeah.”
There’s that flicker again. Recognition layered with curiosity now.
The florist steps beside her, picking up the flower with practiced ease.
“It changes a lot,” she says, turning it slightly. “These open wider in the afternoon. And the stem-” her fingers trace along it “it’s not really straight unless you force it.”
Alysa watches. Not just the flower.
There’s something different about being this close. About hearing her voice without the filter of distance or glass or passing traffic. It’s quieter. Warmer.
“You probably don’t need all that,” she adds, glancing up.
“I do,” Alysa says, a little too quick.
Their eyes meet. This time, the smile is clearer. Small. Amused.
“Okay.”
When it’s over, the moment lingers slightly, like it doesn’t quite know how to end.
Alysa nods once.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime,” the florist says, and there’s something in it now, something more aware.
Alysa turns, heading for the door.
The bell chimes again as she steps back out onto the street she knows so well.
Only now it feels a little different.
Inside, the florist watches the door for a second after it closes.
Recognition settles into something more thoughtful.
“Huh,” she murmurs.
Not a stranger. Not anymore.
The second time, Alysa tells herself it’s intentional.
She actually looks up the flower name this time. Writes it down once, like she might forget, then doesn’t need to check it again.
The design is better already, closer to something real. But not quite there.
Close enough that she could stop. Not close enough that she does.
Across the street, the shop is open again.
Of course it is.
Alysa notices without trying to. She always does. The door’s propped slightly today, letting in the early afternoon air. A small display has been moved outside, different from yesterday. She registers it automatically, like she does everything else out there.
Then she realizes she’s standing at the window again.
“Right,” she says to absolutely nobody.
This time, she grabs her jacket immediately, like if she hesitates she won’t go.
The bell chimes when she steps inside.
It sounds more familiar now. Less sharp. Like something she’s already placed in her routine.
“Hi, welcome, just one second.”
It’s Amber’s voice, not directed at her, and that lands first.
Alysa pauses just inside the door.
Amber is across the shop, mid conversation with a customer. There’s a bouquet half wrapped on the counter, brown paper folded neatly under her hands. She’s smiling easily, practiced, but not fake. Listening, nodding, offering small suggestions.
She looks busy.
Alysa nods to no one in particular and steps further in, hands slipping into her pockets.
She doesn’t interrupt.
Instead, she drifts toward the same section as before. The flower is there.
Now that she knows the name, ranunculus, it feels different. More specific. Like it belongs somewhere instead of just existing as a shape she’s trying to copy.
She leans in slightly, studying the layers of petals. The way they fold inward, almost too many to keep track of.
From across the shop, “and these will last about a week, as long as you keep the water fresh.”
Amber’s voice carries, soft but clear.
Alysa glances over before she can stop herself.
Amber doesn’t look at her.
Not yet.
She’s focused on the customer, finishing the wrap with a small, efficient twist of twine.
“Perfect, thank you,” the customer says.
“Of course,” Amber replies, handing it over.
There’s a brief exchange, payment, a polite goodbye, the usual rhythm.
The bell chimes as the customer leaves.
And then, finally, Amber looks up.
Her eyes land on Alysa almost immediately.
There’s no surprise this time.
Just recognition. And something lighter, like she’s been expecting this without fully admitting it.
“Hey,” she says, stepping out from behind the counter. “You made it back.”
There’s a hint of something in it, teasing but soft.
Alysa shifts her weight slightly.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I… uh.” She gestures toward the flowers, more specific this time. “It’s a ranunculus, right?”
Amber’s eyebrows lift just slightly.
“Look at that,” she says, walking closer. “You did homework.”
Alysa huffs a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
“Just the name.”
“Still counts.”
Amber stops beside her, close again but not as close as last time. There’s a fraction more space, like something about this visit is different. Or maybe just more aware.
Alysa nods toward the flower.
“I need to get the layers right,” she says. “Last time it looked too… flat.”
Amber picks one up, turning it slowly between her fingers.
“They’re kind of like that,” she says. “They trick you.”
Alysa glances at her. “Yeah?”
She tilts the flower slightly, exposing another set of petals tucked inside.
“Yeah. You think you understand the shape, and then you look again and there’s more of it.”
Alysa leans in, following the motion.
She tilts the flower slightly, exposing another set of petals tucked inside.
Alysa leans in, following the motion, and that’s when she notices it.
Not the flower. Amber.
It’s subtle. Not overpowering, not something that fills the room. Just there when she’s close enough. Warm vanilla, softened by something lighter, citrus maybe. Clean, but not sharp.
It catches Alysa off guard in a way she doesn’t expect.
“…That’s annoying,” she says, quiet but genuine.
Amber smiles.
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
There’s a pause but it’s easier now. Less fragile.
Alysa doesn’t rush to fill it.
Instead, she watches the way Amber handles the flower again, careful, but confident. Like she trusts it not to fall apart.
“Are you actually going to buy one this time?” Amber asks, lightly.
It lands softer than it could have. Curious more than calling her out.
Alysa exhales through her nose, glancing down.
“Probably not.”
Amber laughs, quiet, under her breath.
“Bold.”
Alysa shrugs, just a little.
“I don’t need to take it with me.”
Amber tilts her head slightly.
“No?”
Alysa hesitates for half a second.
Then, honest before she can overthink it.
“I just need to see it.”
The words hang there, more open than anything she said the first time.
Amber studies her for a moment.
Not confused.
Just interested.
“Okay,” she says finally, softer now. “Then look.”
She doesn’t step away.
She stays right there beside her, flower in hand, letting the moment stretch a little longer than necessary.
This time, when Alysa leaves she almost says something else.But she doesn’t.
The bell chimes as she steps back out onto the street.
And behind her, Amber’s gaze lingers just a second longer than before.
By the third visit, it wasn't accidental anymore.
Alysa doesn’t even pretend it is.
The appointment is tomorrow. The stencil needs to be finalized tonight, which means the drawing needs to be right, not close, not good enough.
She’s redrawn it three times already.
This time, she grabs her sketchbook before she can overthink it.
Across the street, the flower shop glows warm against the late afternoon light. The door is closed, but she can see movement inside. Steady and familiar.
She’s already halfway out the door before she can second guess it.
The bell chimes as she steps in.
“Hey, give me one second.” Amber calls, not looking up yet.
Then she does and there it is, that small shift of recognition, softer now. Like this is expected.
“Oh,” she says, a smile forming. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Alysa lifts her sketchbook slightly, like it explains everything.
“I have the tattoo tomorrow,” she says. “I need to get it right.”
Amber leans her elbows lightly on the counter, interest immediate.
“High stakes.”
“Yeah.”
Alysa gestures toward the flowers, a little hesitant.
“Do you mind if I… draw it here?”
Amber glances at the sketchbook, then back at her, amused.
“You’re setting up a studio in my shop now?”
“Just for today.”
Amber pretends to think about it, then shrugs.
“I mean… you could just buy one.”
Alysa is already moving toward the ranunculus.
“I won’t take care of it.”
Amber follows a step behind, smiling.
“Wow. Honest and responsible. That’s rare.”
There’s an ease to it now. Familiar in a way neither of them has acknowledged out loud.
Alysa settles near the display, flipping open her sketchbook. Pages filled with the same flower, attempts layered over attempts.
She glances up once. Amber is still there.
“Don’t let me distract you,” Amber says, softer. “I’ll be over there.”
Alysa nods.
“Okay.”
And then she starts drawing.
Slower this time. More deliberate. She looks up, studies the flower, then back down. The way the petals fold into each other, tighter toward the center, almost impossibly layered.
It’s frustrating.
It’s better.
The shop hums quietly around her.
The door chimes.
“Hey,” Amber says. “What can I help you with?”
“I need flowers,” a man replies.
“You’re in the right place,” Amber says lightly.
Alysa keeps drawing but she’s listening.
“They’re for my wife.”
“Okay. What’s the occasion?”
A pause.
“I messed up.”
Alysa’s pencil pauses for just a second.
Amber doesn’t react much.
“Alright,” she says calmly. “What kind of messed up?”
Another pause.
“I cheated,” he admits. “It was a mistake. I just… need something that says I’m sorry.”
Alysa glances up.
The man looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to be standing here but doesn’t know where else to go.
Amber just nods once.
“Okay.”
She steps toward the flowers, thoughtful.
“There’s no bouquet that fixes that.”
The man winces.
Alysa’s mouth twitches slightly.
“But,” Amber continues, selecting a few stems, “there are flowers that say you’re trying to be honest now.”
She moves with quiet precision, building something simple.
“White leans toward apology. Keep it understated, if it’s too big, it feels like you’re overcompensating.”
The man nods slowly.
“Yeah… yeah, that makes sense.”
A beat.
Then, a little awkwardly. “Are you married?”
Amber glances up.
There’s a split second where it looks like she’s deciding how to answer then she laughs. Soft, easy.
“Happily single.”
It’s light, but certain.
The man lets out a small, embarrassed breath of a laugh.
“Yeah. Probably better.”
“Less complicated,” Amber agrees, tying the bouquet neatly. “But what do I know?”
Alysa looks down at her sketchbook again, but something about that answer lingers.
Happily single.
Her lines shift slightly. Loosen.
“Then what would you do?” the man asks, half joking, half serious.
Amber hands him the bouquet.
“I’d start with being better,” she says simply.
He nods.
“Fair enough.”
He pays, thanks her, and leaves.
The bell chimes again.
The shop settles back into quiet.
Alysa looks up.
Amber is already looking at her.
There’s a shared awareness there now of the conversation, of the moment.
“Good advice,” Alysa says.
Amber leans lightly against the counter.
“I try my hardest.”
A small pause.
Then she nods toward the sketchbook.
“How’s it going?”
Alysa looks down.
For the first time, it’s close.
“Better,” she says.
And she means it.
Alysa doesn’t leave.
She means to.
She even shifts her weight like she might close the sketchbook, say something brief, and head back across the street.
Instead, she adjusts the page. Looks at the flower again. Stays.
Amber notices.
She doesn’t say anything about it, just moves back behind the counter, giving Alysa space in a way that feels intentional. Not distant. Just aware.
The shop quiets around them.
No customers now. Just the low hum of the cooler, the soft rustle of leaves when Amber shifts something, the faint scratch of pencil against paper.
Alysa draws.
This time, it comes easier.
Not effortless, but closer. The petals don’t feel forced anymore. They fall into place, layering the way they should, folding inward with a kind of logic she can finally follow.
She glances up.
Amber is a few steps away, trimming stems. Sleeves pushed up, movements steady, familiar.
Alysa looks back down.
Adds another line.
“You always work this quiet?”
The question slips out before she can stop it.
Amber looks up.
“Only when I’m being observed,” she says lightly.
Alysa exhales a quiet almost laugh.
“What? I’m not-”
She stops herself before she can continue.
Amber’s smile lingers.
“You kind of are.”
Alysa shakes her head, but there’s no real resistance in it.
The silence settles again but softer now. Easier.
“Do people usually ask you that?” Alysa asks after a moment. “About the flowers.”
Amber considers.
“Not like you do.”
Alysa glances up. “How do I ask?”
Amber shrugs, but there’s something thoughtful in it.
“Like it matters.”
Alysa looks down at the page again.
“It does,” she says, quieter. “Someone’s going to have it forever.”
There’s a small shift in the air.
Amber sets the stems aside.
Steps a little closer, not intruding. Just enough.
“Can I?” she asks, nodding toward the sketchbook.
Alysa hesitates for a second.
Then turns it slightly toward her.
Amber leans in.
Close enough that Alysa catches it again, that soft scent. Vanilla, warm and steady, with something citrus underneath. Familiar now.
Grounding.
Amber studies the drawing.
“You got the movement,” she says.
Alysa glances at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t feel flat anymore.”
Alysa follows where she’s looking.
She hadn’t noticed that herself.
“Huh.”
A small pause.
“Thanks.”
Amber straightens, but doesn’t step away completely.
Alysa looks back down.
Adds one last line.
Then another.
She stops. Nothing feels off.
Alysa leans back slightly, exhaling.
“Okay.”
Amber tilts her head just a little.
“That sounded final.”
Alysa nods.
“I think it is.”
She closes the sketchbook carefully, like she doesn’t want to rush past the moment.
For a second, neither of them moves.
The shop is quiet.
Alysa shifts the sketchbook under her arm but doesn’t step away.
Instead, “I’ve seen you out here,” she says, a little more tentative now. “Before. I just never… came in.”
Amber watches her, expression softening in recognition.
“Yeah,” she says. “I figured.”
A small beat.
“I’ve seen you too.”
It lands gently. Mutual.
Alysa nods once, like that confirms something she hadn’t fully named.
Another pause. Not awkward.
Intentional.
Alysa exhales, quieter this time.
“I’m glad I did,” she says.
It’s simple. Not overthought.
But it’s the most open she’s been.
Amber doesn’t rush to respond.
She just smiles, small and real.
“Me too.”
The moment lingers.
Neither of them looks away right away.
And when Alysa finally turns toward the door she doesn’t rush this time.
The bell chimes softly as she steps back out onto the street.
But something about it feels different now.
Less like leaving.
More like knowing she’ll be back.
That night, the shop feels different.
It’s the same space, same clean lines, same soft lighting, same low music playing in the background but there’s something underneath it now. A kind of restlessness that wasn’t there before.
Alysa sits at her station, sketchbook open in front of her.
The finished drawing looks back at her. It’s right. She knows it is.
The lines are confident, the petals layered in a way that finally makes sense. It looks like something real now, something that grew, not something that was constructed.
She traces the edge of the page lightly with her finger.
Usually, this is the part she likes.
The quiet after. The moment where the work is done and she can sit in it, satisfied, before moving on to the next thing.
But she doesn’t move on.
Instead, her mind drifts.
Across the street.
Without thinking, she glances up toward the window.
The flower shop is darker now. Closed. Lights off except for a faint glow in the back, just enough to outline shapes through the glass.
She watches it for a second.
Then looks back down. Then back up again.
“Okay,” she mutters softly, like she’s calling herself out.
She closes the sketchbook halfway, then opens it again.
Her pencil taps once against the page.
Still restless.
It’s not the tattoo. That part feels settled.
It’s everything around it.
The way Amber had said “like it matters.”
The way she’d looked at the drawing, really looked at it.
Happily single.
Alysa exhales slowly, leaning back in her chair.
“Not relevant,” she says under her breath.
It doesn’t sound convincing.
She spins the pencil between her fingers, gaze drifting again. This time not to the shop, but somewhere just past it. Like she’s replaying something she didn’t realize she was holding onto.
The scent comes back to her, unexpectedly.
Vanilla. Something citrus.
Subtle, but distinct.
She frowns slightly, like she’s trying to place why that stuck.
“Weird,” she murmurs.
But she doesn’t push it away.
Instead, she leans forward again, pulling the sketchbook closer.
Her fingers pause on the edge of the page, then flip it.
A blank sheet.
She hesitates.
Then, almost without thinking, she starts drawing again.
Not the tattoo.
Not exactly.
The lines are looser this time. Less structured. She sketches the flower again, but it shifts softer, less precise, like it’s more about the feeling than getting it perfect.
Her pencil slows.
Stops.
Then moves again, adding something new, a hand.
Not detailed. The way fingers might hold the stem, careful but sure.
Alysa stares at it for a second after she finishes the line.
Then lets out a quiet breath.
She leans back, closing the sketchbook gently.
This time, she doesn’t open it again.
The shop settles around her.
Outside, the street is quieter now. The occasional car passing, distant voices fading in and out.
Across the street, the flower shop stays dark.
But it doesn’t feel distant.
Alysa stands, stretching slightly, then moves to turn off the lights one by one.
When she reaches the front, she pauses. Just for a second.
Her gaze flicks across the street again.
Not lingering this time.
Then she flips the sign to Closed.
The click of the lock echoes softly in the quiet.
And as she steps away there’s something new sitting under everything else.
Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just steady.
Something she hasn’t named yet but doesn’t ignore, either.
Alysa’s apartment is warmer than her shop.
The lighting comes from a few scattered lamps instead of anything overhead, warm toned and low, leaving parts of the room in a kind of comfortable shadow. It makes everything feel slower. Quieter.
The walls are covered.
Not messy, but lived-in.
Paintings layered next to posters, some framed, some taped, a few slightly crooked like they were adjusted once and left alone after that. Clean linework next to abstract color, older prints mixed with newer ones. Nothing matches perfectly, but it all fits.
Alysa drops her keys into a ceramic dish by the door.
The soft clink carries into the apartment.
“Hey,” Isabeau calls from the kitchen. “You’re back.”
“Yeah.”
Alysa toes off her shoes and steps further in, the faint smell of something cooking reaching her before she even turns the corner.
The kitchen light is brighter than the rest of the apartment, but still warm. Isabeau stands at the stove, stirring something in a pan, hair tied back loosely, dressed comfortably, completely off work mode.
“You’re late,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
“Lost track of time.”
“Mm,” Isabeau hums. “That usually means something.”
Alysa leans against the counter, arms folding loosely.
“It was just work.”
“Yeah,” Isabeau replies easily. “And I just casually decided to cook an actual meal instead of ordering takeout.”
Alysa huffs a quiet breath, almost a smile.
“Okay, fair.”
Isabeau turns the heat down slightly, then faces her more fully, leaning back against the counter.
“So,” she says. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not convincing.”
Alysa looks past her for a second, then back.
“There’s this flower shop,” she says.
Isabeau doesn’t even blink.
“The one across the street from your shop.”
“Yeah.”
“The one you’ve worked across from for years and never once stepped into?”
Alysa tilts her head slightly.
“I stepped into it.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Isabeau says. “You’re talking about it.”
A beat.
“Do you even know the owner’s name?” she adds.
Alysa hesitates.
That lands.
Isabeau’s eyebrows lift.
“You don’t know her name.”
Alysa shakes her head slightly.
“She didn’t say it.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
Alysa exhales.
“No.”
A pause.
“That’s kind of incredible.”
Alysa looks down at the counter.
“I needed a reference,” she says. “For a tattoo.”
“Of course you did.”
“I did.”
Isabeau gives her a look that says sure.
“And you just kept going back for… research?” she asks.
Alysa doesn’t answer right away.
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
Isabeau turns back to the stove, stirring again, a small smile forming.
“You know,” she adds casually, “you’ve never kept a plant alive in your entire life.”
Alysa lets out a quiet breath of a laugh.
“That’s not relevant.”
“It feels relevant.”
“I’m not buying one.”
“Obviously,” Isabeau says. “That would be irresponsible.”
Alysa shakes her head, but she’s smiling now.
“She helped me with the design,” she says instead. “Like… actually helped.”
Isabeau glances back.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“What’s she like?”
Alysa thinks about it.
“Easy,” she says.
“Easy how?”
Alysa shifts slightly.
“Like I don’t have to think about what I’m saying all the time.”
Isabeau nods.
“That’s rare.”
“Yeah.”
Another small pause.
Alysa looks down, fingers tracing lightly along the counter.
“She notices things,” she adds.
Isabeau smiles faintly.
“Good things or everything things?”
“Everything things.”
That earns a quiet laugh.
Alysa exhales.
“She smells like vanilla.”
Isabeau freezes for half a second.
Then slowly turns to look at her.
“…Oh.”
Alysa immediately looks away.
“It’s not like that.”
“You noticed how she smells.”
“It was just…she was close.”
“Yeah,” Isabeau says. “That’s usually how that works.”
Alysa presses her lips together, trying not to smile.
“She said she’s happily single,” she adds, quieter.
Isabeau leans back against the counter again, fully invested now.
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Even better.”
A small pause settles between them.
“She said she’s seen me too,” Alysa says.
That shifts something.
“Across the street?” Isabeau asks.
Alysa nods.
“Yeah.”
Isabeau studies her for a second, not teasing now. Just reading.
“Okay,” she says finally. “So this is a mutual awareness situation.”
Alysa huffs a quiet breath.
“I don’t know what it is.”
“You don’t have to,” Isabeau replies, turning back to the stove. “You just have to keep going back.”
Alysa doesn’t argue.
She just nods slightly, gaze drifting toward the living room. The soft lighting, the layered walls, the familiar space.
It still feels like hers.
Steady.
But underneath it something has shifted.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
Just enough that she knows tomorrow morning she’s going to look across the street first.