https://open.spotify.com/track/7polyembHZBHwSveAXE4cX?si=faff8216b0684f0b Flowers - Aespa

The bell over the door gives a sweet little jingle when Chan pushes into the flower shop. She knows how she looks right now; rather wrecked beyond belief, underdressed for the brunch she's already late to, coat half-buttoned, hair pulled back so sloppily it must look like she gave up halfway through the decision, dark circles she only has herself to blame for. For a moment as she crosses the threshold, she pauses to breathe in damp greenery and soil, bracing herself for the last non-stress inducing interaction she'll have all morning.

“Hi,” she says finally. “I'm looking for some help with a bouquet, for my, uh--mother-in-law.”

The young man behind the counter looks up from his book. He takes her in with one slow, assessing glance--then smiles. Pleasant, if a little sharp.

“How much do you hate this lady?”

Chan blinks. “I--I don’t.” She licks her lips. Feels cracked and frayed all over. Then, softer, more honest; “It’s complicated.”

the man hums. “Say less.”

He moves through the shop with practiced ease, selecting stems without asking another question. He works quickly, decisively, like exhausted, pathetic women with "complicated" in-laws wander in all the time. As he assembles the bouquet, he explains each flower's meaning:

“Yellow roses,” he says, tucking them in first. “are traditionally for jealousy, or, if you’re being generous, strained affection.”

Chan, against her best interests, lets out a breathy laugh. “Okay.”

“Striped carnations are for regret, but not apology,” he adds with a raised finger. “Important distinction.”

He adds petunias next. “Resentment. Very pretty and very polite resentment.”

Chan watches, fascinated, as the bouquet takes shape--perhaps not her first choice in terms of colour selection but the flowers themselves are undoubtedly beautiful and lush. And apparently, undeniably hostile if one knows how to read them properly.

The florist finishes with a small clutch of pretty pink flowers, nestling them near the center. “And cyclamen, meant for emotional distance. Fuck off, lady.”

He wraps the stems neatly and turns back to her. “I hope you were taking notes.”

Chan blinks. "Even if I was I don't think I'd capture your charming presentation," Chan stares at the bouquet, then at him. “I’m impressed.”

The florist shrugs, winding the twine he used to bind the stems around the spool once more. “People usually are.”

Chan should expect it, probably, the way their fingers brush when he hands the bouquet to her. It’s brief, completely accidental, she knows--but then her hand shifts, and the light above them catches hard on the large, and embarrassingly flashy cut of her engagement ring.

Chan looks up again so find the florist looking at her. His mouth curves. Not unkindly, but not quite kind either.

“Well,” he says, punching in her total, “give us a call if you decide to go through with preparations. We have great wedding packages.”

It’s deeply inappropriate. Chan should feel fury rising in her chest rather than laughter. Where does this guy get off on insulting a paying customer--questioning her, a woman he knows nothing about? Instead, Chan finds herself snorting as she taps her card. The best she can do is resolutely avoid the name tag she sees glinting in the corner of her eye, dangling from the florist's breast pocket.

She shakes her head once the payment goes through, and she gently takes the bouquet fully into her arms, cellophane crinkling against her coat. When she says, “You’ll see me again.” she's pretty sure she means it.

Seungmin meets her eyes, and something knowing seems to flicker there. “I’m sure I will.”