Chapter Text
The bell above Mars in Bloom let out its soft chime as the first customer of the morning left, the bouquet wrapped in brown paper and tied with cream ribbon. The door closed behind them with a gentle click, leaving Seonghwa in the comfortable hush of the shop.
This was the part of the day he loved best.
The air inside smelled like eucalyptus and stock flowers, with an undercurrent of soil from the repotting Yunho had started in the back room. Sunlight slanted in through the front windows, catching in the pale green glass vases on the display tables. The sound of water trickling into buckets mixed with the faint scrape of ribbon spools on the counter. Every sense was busy here, and for Seonghwa, that was grounding.
Mars in Bloom wasn’t big. Three arrangement tables, a refrigerated display case humming quietly at the back, and wall shelves lined with potted plants that reached toward the ceiling. Ivy trailed from hooks overhead, casting leafy shadows against the cream walls. In one corner sat a small espresso machine and an assortment of mismatched mugs, the unofficial “staff perk” station.
Yeosang was perched on a stool near the front, unwrapping a pastry.
“Those marigolds again?” he said around a mouthful, watching Seonghwa pluck one from the bucket and twirl it in his fingers.
“They’re good for people,” Seonghwa replied, trimming the stem with a neat snip. “Creativity. Warmth. Resilience. Tell me someone who doesn’t need at least one of those right now.”
“Pretty sure you like them because they match your apron,” Yeosang countered, gesturing to the deep gold fabric tied around Seonghwa’s waist.
From the back, Yunho’s voice floated out, followed by the dull thump of a bag of soil hitting the floor. “Or maybe he just likes the drama of giving them away for free. Last week he handed one to that accountant who comes in for two carnations at a time.”
“She was having a bad day,” Seonghwa defended, setting the marigold in a small vase beside the register. “And it worked. She smiled when she left.”
The hours passed easily. A regular stopped in for her weekly bouquet (“something that says I’m sorry, but I’m still right,” she told Seonghwa, earning a snort from Yeosang). Yunho repotted the peace lily by the front door, dirt under his fingernails by the end of it. Seonghwa restocked the front display with a fresh mix of roses and freesia, tying each arrangement with new ribbons.
Outside, the street was busy in that small-neighborhood way. A couple argued softly over an umbrella, the mail carrier made their rounds, and the occasional customer darted from a coffee shop into the grocery next door. Across the road, No. 1 Ink sat with its blinds half-closed, the black lettering on the window stark against the glass. Seonghwa had never been inside, but he’d glanced through enough times to notice the dark wood counters, the framed flash sheets on the walls, and sometimes, the person behind them. Fiery red hair bent over a sketchpad, posture intent.
He didn’t know the guy’s name. Just that No. 1 Ink had opened a month ago, and everyone on the block had an opinion about it. Too edgy for the street, Yeosang had said. Too cool to make small talk, according to the grocery manager. Seonghwa didn’t care one way or the other, as long as the guy wasn’t stealing his parking spot.
By early afternoon, the clouds rolled in.
It started as a soft patter against the awning, then deepened into a steady curtain of rain. The light shifted, dulling to a silvery gray that made the flower colors seem even richer. The smell of damp earth crept in with every swing of the front door.
Seonghwa was tying twine around a small bouquet when the bell chimed again.
The man who stepped inside was all sharp edges against the softness of the shop. Black leather jacket, collar turned up, water sliding in rivulets down the sleeves. His hair was vivid, a fiery red that seemed even brighter under the warm light. Ink curled in dark lines from his wrists toward his elbows before vanishing under his sleeves.
It took Seonghwa half a second to place him.
Oh.
The guy from across the street. No. 1 Ink.
The man lingered just inside the doorway, letting the rain drip from his jacket onto the mat. His gaze slid across the space in a quick sweep, pausing only long enough to take in the rows of potted greenery, the bursts of color from half-finished bouquets on the tables.
“Sorry,” he said after a beat, his voice low and a little rough, like someone unused to speaking over noise. “Just waiting it out.”
Yeosang, who had been halfway through sipping his coffee, froze behind the counter. His eyes flicked to Seonghwa and then back to the man, taking in every detail like he was filing it away for later gossip.
“It’s fine,” Seonghwa said easily, setting his scissors down. “Stay as long as you need.”
He bent to pull a towel from the shelf beneath the counter and held it out across the display. The man’s eyes met his for just a second before he reached for it, cool, damp fingers brushing Seonghwa’s in the handoff.
“Thanks.” He spoke like the word cost him something.
Up close, the red in his hair was even more striking. Not the muted kind that came from sunlight fading over time, but a deliberate, almost impossible shade, as if the color had been stolen from autumn leaves at peak. It made the black of his jacket sharper, the ink on his skin bolder.
Seonghwa tried not to stare. Instead, he busied himself with trimming the stems from a small bundle of dandelions, though his attention kept tugging back to where the man stood near the door. He didn’t touch anything, didn’t move toward the displays like most people did. His gaze lingered here and there, on the refrigerated case, the hanging plants overhead, the marigolds in their bucket near the register, with an expression Seonghwa couldn’t quite read.
Yeosang had gone still again, clearly enjoying the novelty of someone from across the street stepping into Mars in Bloom.
Outside, the rain deepened, steady and unyielding. The man stayed put.
“Caught without an umbrella?” Seonghwa asked after a moment, not really expecting an answer.
A faint pull at the corner of the man’s mouth, not quite a smile. “Didn’t think I’d need one.”
There was something about the way he said it that made it sound like he never really planned for the weather at all.
Seonghwa thought about letting the silence settle again, but something in him, maybe the same impulse that made him tuck extra flowers into someone’s bouquet for free, decided otherwise. He reached for the marigold he’d set aside earlier that morning. The petals were still bright and full, drops of water from the earlier bucket soaking the green of the stem.
When the man shifted, clearly about to head back out into the downpour, Seonghwa called softly, “Here.”
The man stopped mid-step. Seonghwa held the marigold out across the counter.
He frowned slightly. “I didn’t—”
“It’s a marigold,” Seonghwa said before he could finish. “Creativity. Warmth. Resilience. For when the weather tries to ruin your day.”
The pause stretched for a moment. Then, with a kind of careful slowness, the man stepped forward and took it. The orange petals looked strange but vivid against the ink winding up his wrist.
“…Thanks,” he said again, quieter this time.
Seonghwa didn’t miss the way his fingers lingered on the stem for just a beat before he turned toward the door. The bell chimed, the air shifted, and he was gone, swallowed by the curtain of rain outside.
From the window, Seonghwa caught one last glimpse: fiery red hair under the dull gray sky, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a single marigold like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
“Do you think he knows what you meant?” Yeosang asked, his tone somewhere between amused and curious.
Seonghwa smiled faintly, picking his scissors back up. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
But as the rain kept humming against the awning, Seonghwa found himself hoping the man from No. 1 Ink would get caught without an umbrella again.
The shop felt a little quieter after he left.
Not literally. The rain was still steady against the awning, Yeosang was still tapping his pen against the counter in time with whatever song he was humming, and Yunho was making far too much noise in the back while stacking bags of potting soil. But something about the air had shifted.
Seonghwa finished tying twine around the bouquet on the counter, his fingers moving on autopilot. His mind, annoyingly, kept replaying that flicker of bright hair against the gray outside, the way the marigold looked in his hand like it didn’t quite belong there but he wasn’t about to give it back.
He’d seen him before, sure, usually from across the street when Seonghwa was sweeping the front step or changing out the display in the window. But up close was different. The kind of different you couldn’t unnotice.
“You’re thinking about him,” Yeosang said flatly, not even looking up from the pastry bag he was folding into a perfect little square.
“I’m thinking about how you should be cleaning the tools in the sink,” Seonghwa replied, straightening the bouquet and setting it into the refrigerated case.
“Mmhmm,” Yeosang said, which was his way of saying I know I’m right, but I’m letting you pretend otherwise.
A gust of wind rattled the glass in the door. The rain didn’t look like it was stopping any time soon. Outside, the street had thinned. Fewer people were braving the weather, the usual chatter from the café across the way reduced to a muffled hum. Through the streaked window, Seonghwa could see the faint glow of No. 1 Ink’s sign, half-hidden by the condensation.
“Is that guy the only one who works there?” Yunho asked, emerging from the back with his sleeves rolled up and a streak of soil across his cheek.
“Dunno,” Seonghwa said. “Haven’t exactly gone in to check.”
Yunho glanced toward the window, squinting. “Bet his shop smells like rubbing alcohol and danger.”
Yeosang snorted. “Bet he’s the type who listens to angry music while doing really delicate work.”
Seonghwa ignored them both, though he couldn’t stop the small curve of his mouth as he reached for another set of stems. Work filled the next hour. A call from a bride wanting to reschedule a pickup, Yunho unpacking a shipment of new ceramic planters, Yeosang redoing the display in the window for the third time because the “color balance was wrong.”
By the time the rain finally thinned to a drizzle, it was edging into late afternoon. The street outside was slick and shining, puddles collecting at the edges of the curb. Across the way, No. 1 Ink’s blinds were half-drawn, but Seonghwa caught movement. A silhouette passed near the window, bent slightly forward like he was sketching or setting something down.
For reasons he didn’t examine too closely, Seonghwa lingered by the front counter longer than necessary, organizing the order forms, smoothing the stray ribbon tails.
“Lock up in ten?” Yeosang asked, glancing at the clock.
“Yeah,” Seonghwa said. His gaze flicked once more to the shop across the street before he turned toward the back to grab his coat.
The back room was dimmer now, the light from the front windows fading to a cool bluish gray. He pulled his coat from the hook, shaking out the faint dusting of leaves clinging to the sleeves. Somewhere in the corner, Yunho was humming under his breath while arranging a cluster of potted ferns that had been sitting in their delivery boxes all day.
“You heading out right after?” Yunho asked without looking up.
“Probably,” Seonghwa said, tugging the coat on. “If I stay too long, I’ll just find something else to fix.”
“That’s the point of closing,” Yunho said, grinning. “So you can stop fixing things.”
Back out front, Yeosang was already wiping down the counter with slow, deliberate circles, like he had all the time in the world. The rain had thinned to a fine mist, enough to turn the street into a stretch of reflected light from the shop signs and streetlamps flickering on.
Through the window, No. 1 Ink was still lit. The blinds were half-drawn, but from this angle Seonghwa caught just the faintest glimpse of movement. The red-haired man was shifting between the counter and the back wall. Even blurred by distance and glass, his posture was precise. Focused.
“Still staring?” Yeosang said without looking up from the cloth in his hand.
“I’m checking the weather,” Seonghwa replied, which was true in the loosest possible sense.
He turned the sign on the door to Closed, then took one last slow walk through the shop, checking the buckets, flicking off the display lights, making sure the front arrangements wouldn’t wilt overnight. He paused by the marigolds, fingers brushing over one of the blooms. A few drops of water from earlier still clung to the petals.
When he finally stepped outside, the air was cool and damp, the mist clinging just enough to his coat to leave a sheen in the glow of the streetlamps. He locked the door behind him and started toward the corner, boots clicking softly on the wet pavement.
Halfway across the street, he glanced again toward No. 1 Ink. The blinds shifted slightly, maybe just the breeze from the open door, but for the briefest second, he thought he caught a flash of red hair angled toward the window, as if someone inside was watching the street too.
He kept walking.