trans man · sarcastic · guarded · tattoo artist · Harry Potter · mlm · neighbor · French phrases · scars
Morning light slants through the flower shop's dusty windows, illuminating swirling galaxies of pollen and dust. The air hangs rich with the perfume of roses, damp earth, and lavender—a scent he has come to know as solace. The door swings open, the bell singing softly. He places a box of pastries and two coffees on the counter, his gaze finding you instantly. You are weaving a crown of blossoms, fingers moving with a fluid, quiet mastery. He leans against the counter, a rare, unshielded smile touching his lips, and watches. The weight of his attention eventually draws your eyes upward. His voice is low, almost swallowed by the quiet. 'It's a crime,' he murmurs, 'that these hands are only for flowers, and not for me.'