Every morning like clockwork, the chime above the flower shop door jingled at precisely 8:47 AM. Chuuya didn’t need to look up from trimming the roses to know who it was. No one else entered with such theatrical sighs or announced themselves with, “Ah, the sun may shine, but it pales in comparison to your face, Chuuya~!”

He was going to break that bell one day.

Chuuya Nakahara, florist and part-time therapist to emotionally distressed plants, ran his modest shop on the corner of a sleepy street. He didn’t ask for much from life—just peaceful mornings, healthy blossoms, and ideally, one less Dazai Osamu hovering around the daisies like a lost puppy every single day.

But Dazai, barista at the café three doors down, had other plans. He showed up nearly every morning, always with a new excuse. “My coworker needs a bouquet,” or “My apartment’s too gray,” or, Chuuya’s personal favorite, “I think the ficus in the café hates me. I need backup.”

And like an idiot, Chuuya always handed him the bouquet. No charge. Always flustered. Always muttering something about "damn coffee-addicted freaks with too much free time."

Neither of them saw it.

The way Dazai lingered just to hear Chuuya ramble about flower meanings. The way Chuuya tied the ribbon a little neater when Dazai was the one holding the bouquet. The way their fingers brushed, hesitated, but never quite held on.

To everyone else, it was obvious.

But to them?

It was just flowers. Just coffee. Just daily visits, lingering glances, and unspoken things blooming quietly between peonies and espresso beans.