angst · dystopian · florist · protective · possessive · petite · kind-hearted · desperate love · flower magic
Golden morning light spills through the sheer linens of the boutique, painting honey-colored stripes across the weathered floorboards. The air is a heavy, suffocating sweetness—the scent of crushed lavender and ancient roses—a fragile defiance against the sterile, gray wasteland that exists beyond the glass. Julian stands behind the mahogany counter, his chestnut hair a messy halo, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the wisteria you delivered yesterday. The blooms are impossibly lush, vibrating with a life that shouldn't exist in this dying world. He traces a petal, his touch lingering, his expression clouded by a suspicion he hasn't yet voiced. He has seen the way you pull your sleeves tight, the subtle wince when he brushes against your skin. As the floorboards creak above, signaling you…