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The first time Jihoon ends up in the flower shop, it’s completely by chance.
But really, how is he supposed to predict the weather would turn like that? It’s only a five-minute walk between campus and his dorm, and this early into fall, the skies in this part of the country are usually a clear, untroubled blue.
Usually.
“Shit,” Jihoon curses as the sky cracks open with a thunderous groan, releasing a deluge of cold, heavy rain. He doesn’t have a jacket, so his only option is to duck into the first viable refuge he finds. A modest storefront, its large window a lush tapestry of green and muted color. A simple wooden sign above the door reads Petals & Page.
A flower shop. Jihoon wrinkles his nose. Ever since he’d presented as an alpha, he’d developed a profound sensitivity to strong scents. Perfume counters are akin to battlefields. The cafeteria during lunch hour is a nightmare. Flower shops and confectioneries, with their dense, cloying clouds of sweet fragrances, are places he actively, vehemently avoids. But it’s either hide here until the sky clears, or brave the elements and get sick.
Jihoon figures he might as well take his chances.
He wrenches the door open. The bell tinkles melodiously as he stumbles into the welcoming warmth.
And then he stops dead in his tracks.
He’d instinctively been bracing himself for the assault on his senses, of the overwhelming sweetness of lilies, the peppery punch of carnations, the humid earthiness of damp soil. It doesn’t come.
The shop does smell strong, of course. The green, crushed-leaf aroma of ferns, the clean, soapy note of chrysanthemums, the dry, hay-like accent of the straw baskets lining the walls. But layered over it all, cutting through the predictable floral choir, is something that makes his breath hitch.
It’s rich. Velvety. A scent that feels deep red and petal-soft against his mind. Something like a memory of a spice from a black tea left to steep just a little too long. A profound, elegant sweetness that floods his senses and makes his mouth water with a primal kind of hunger, that sends a warm, unwinding curl of calm right down his spine.
It’s the single most captivating thing he’s ever smelled.
“Hello,” a gentle voice cuts through the haze. “Can I help you?”
Jihoon’s gaze snaps to the source. A man has just appeared through the doorway leading to the back of the store. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a grey sweater. Over it, he wears a simple black apron, tied loosely at his waist in a way that highlights the narrowness of his frame. His skin is a pale contrast against the silky darkness of his hair, against the intent black eyes that flick towards Jihoon for a second before returning to the bouquet of deep crimson roses he holds in his hands.
Roses, Jihoon thinks. Is that the fragrance he’d smelled? But the roses he’s always smelled have had a brighter, more volatile perfume. The scent that has him anchored is richer, more complex. These must be some special variety, something exotic hidden among the more common stock.
“Sorry,” Jihoon manages to say. He gestures vaguely toward the downpour outside the rain-streaked window. “Just waiting out the rain. If that’s okay?”
The man gives a small nod, and rewards Jihoon with a tiny smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. “It’s fine.” His voice is as soft as his movements as he crosses to the workbench and lays the roses down. “Try not to drip on the delphiniums,” he adds, with a glance at the basket of delicate blue flowers near Jihoon’s feet.
Jihoon shuffles further in, a strange mix of awkwardness and acute awareness settling over him. He pretends to examine a shelf of polished river stones and small potted cacti, but his entire being seems to be magnetically pulled towards the center of the room. Towards the man, or perhaps the bouquet of roses in his hands. Lee Sanghyeok, the neat script on the nametag on his apron reads.
The scent is almost dizzyingly perfect. As Sanghyeok moves, picking up a pair of pruning shears and beginning to methodically strip thorns from the rose stems, Jihoon senses a subtle shift in the fragrance’s source. Intrigued, Jihoon drifts closer almost by instinct, stopping until he’s only a few paces away from the man and his roses. He inhales deeply, delighted.
“What are these?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity. “They smell incredible.”
Sanghyeok pauses his shears. He doesn’t look up from his work. “They’re black baccara. A deeper crimson, with a darker scent profile than most. More velvety.”
Velvety. Jihoon thinks. That sounds like a good word to describe what he’s smelling. “That might be it,” he says.
Sanghyeok glances over at him briefly. His expression is unreadable. He picks up a single, perfect bloom, its petals so dark they are nearly black at the center, and holds it out. “Here. Try smelling this one away from the others. The isolation clarifies.”
Jihoon steps forward. As he takes the stem, his fingers brush against Sanghyeok’s. A jolt, warm and sudden, goes through him. He brings the bloom to his face, closing his eyes as he inhales its singular, intense fragrance.
It’s beautiful. The spicy, black-tea depth is there, the velvety richness. But the longer Jihoon breathes it in, a dawning confusion settles over him. The scent that has enthralled him is more than this. It has a living warmth, a clean, sun-touched note underneath the floral decadence that the cut flower, severed from its roots, does not possess. It strikes him with the strangest urge to scour through the shop for its source, to bury his nose in every single blossom if that’s what it takes to find what it belongs to. He gets a surreal vision of pressing his nose against the source of that scent, of placing his lips open-mouthed against that decadence and claiming it for himself.
“It looks like the rain is slowing down for the moment,” Sanghyeok says, interrupting his muse. Jihoon reopens his eyes, startled. Sanghyeok smiles at him politely, and gestures to the window.
He’s right. The downpour has settled down to a soft drizzle. If Jihoon wants to make it home anytime soon tonight, then this is probably his best chance.
But the scent… he looks down at the red rose in his hands uncertainly. A black baccara, Sanghyeok had said.
“You can keep that one, if you’d like,” Sanghyeok says, his attention already focused on the bouquet on the workbench. “I have more than enough for the shop.”
For some reason, Jihoon keeps getting distracted by the gentle, delicate motion of his fingers working the shears. Pretty hands, unmarred and smooth despite the fact that they must routinely handle thorny stems like these.
“Thank you,” he says belatedly, and glances at the rose offhandedly again. “And… thanks for letting me wait out the rain in here.”
“Of course,” Sanghyeok says softly. “You’re welcome anytime.”
Those parting words make him smile. Jihoon steps out into the damp evening, the rose a stark, dark red against the gray street. The drizzle kisses his face in a cold contrast to the warmth that still lingers in his veins. He walks quickly, but with every step he takes away from Petals & Page, the loss feels more acute. The rain-washed city air smells of wet concrete and distant car exhaust. A hollow, scentless void in comparison to the symphony he’d experienced moments earlier.
By the time he reaches his dorm room, the rose is the only thing that matters. He places it in a makeshift vase of a clean water glass, and sets it on his desk. In the sterile, boyish clutter of the room, the bloom almost looks alien in its elegance. He leans close and inhales deeply again.
It’s lovely. But it’s just a flower. The intoxicating taste from the shop has been reduced somewhat, the warmth that has made the scent so alluring gone.
That night, as he tries to study, the memory of it hijacks his focus. The words on the page blur. Instead, he sees deft, pale hands stripping thorns. He feels again, the electric brush of fingers. Most of all, he smells it – that deep, red-velvet fragrance that evokes such a juxtaposition of calmness and hunger within his bones. That scent is still more vivid in his memory than the rose on his desk is in reality.
He finds himself searching for traces of it on his own skin desperately. On the collar of his jacket. On his wrists. On the shirt he’d been wearing. But there’s nothing, nothing but his own scent.
It’s no use.
Jihoon is going to have to go back there again. He has to find the source of that scent, otherwise he’s going to go mad…
Jihoon is back at Petals & Page the next afternoon. Sunlight streams through the window, painting the blooms in a vivid brightness that hadn’t been present the day prior. As soon as he enters the store, the glorious scent assaults his senses once more.
It seems even more potent today, or perhaps it just seems intensified because he’d been thinking about it like a man possessed. The rich, velvety redolence, layered with sun-warmed earth and the phantom of dark tea, wraps around him and sinks into his very bones. He stands just inside the door for a long moment, eyes closed, simply breathing it in. A tension that’s been coiling in his shoulders begins to soften and unwind.
Beautiful, he thinks.
He opens his eyes, and his heart gives a thump when he sees Sanghyeok standing at the counter, engaged with a customer. A woman, chatting animatedly about an anniversary gift. Jihoon ducks behind a tall display of vividly-colored lilies, pretending to observe them, but really, he’s just watching Sanghyeok.
Watching the way Sanghyeok listens to the customer, his head tilted slightly, his eyes wide and earnest, his pouty lips softly parted. The way he tucks a loose, dark strand of his hair behind his ear. The customer says something, and Sanghyeok laughs. It transforms his placid face into something warm and bright, reaching his dark eyes, crinkling the corners.
Jihoon stares, mesmerized. His mind, which has been uselessly wracking itself for a plausible reason to be here, goes completely blank. All he can think is: I want to make him laugh like that.
Finally, the transaction complete, the woman leaves with a carefully wrapped bouquet and an elated smile. The bell chimes her exit, and the quiet of the shop settles back in. Jihoon’s pulse spikes, unbidden.
Sanghyeok doesn’t approach him, but wears a faint smile on his face as he busies himself with the register.
“It’s not raining today,” he notes. “I presume you’re here to buy something, then.”
“Yes,” Jihoon blurts out before his brain can formulate a single coherent plan. He steps out from behind the lilies, deciding that he just wants to keep talking to him, to be the focus of that attention, however brief. “I, uh… I was so impressed by the rose. The black… baccara,” he fumbles on the name a little.
Sanghyeok’s smile widens a fraction. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I did. A lot.” Jihoon shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “I was wondering… if you could recommend something similar? But, uh, different?” It’s a vague, pathetic request, but it’s all he has.
Sanghyeok regards him for a moment, his dark eyes seeming to see right through the flimsy pretext. Then he gives a small nod and comes out from behind the counter. Jihoon is once again struck with that scent. The real scent, the deep, red-velvet whisper that sings directly to his blood.
“Similar in color, or in scent profile?” Sanghyeok asks, leading him towards the rows of blooms.
“Scent,” Jihoon says immediately, and then wonders if he sounds too desperate. “I mean, both. But the scent is important.”
Sanghyeok’s eyebrows raise slightly. “I see. The black baccara is quite unique. But perhaps you might appreciate a midnight blue.” He stops before a basket of roses whose petals are deep, dusky purple, nearly black. “It has less of the fruity note, and more of the true, dark rose fragrance. It might be what you’re looking for.”
He picks one up and offers it to Jihoon, who takes it, inhaling. It’s beautiful, haunting even. But it’s not the scent.
“It’s nice,” Jihoon says, and he means it. But his eyes lift from the dusky bloom to Sanghyeok’s face. “It’s still not what I’m looking for though.”
Sanghyeok watches him carefully. He doesn’t seem surprised. “Stubborn,” he murmurs. He takes the midnight blue back, brushing Jihoon’s fingers again. For a moment, Jihoon thinks he might simply return it to the basket. Instead, Sanghyeok reaches for a small sheet of paper from his apron pocket and begins to wrap the stem with a practiced twist.
“Here,” he says, offering it back, now neatly bundled. “Take it.”
“Oh,” Jihoon says, and starts fumbling for his wallet. “Hold on, I’ll pay for it. How much is it for?”
Sanghyeok waves a hand. “It’s on the house.”
Jihoon frowns at him, displeased. “I can’t do that. Let me pay for it.”
Sanghyeok gives him a wide, unreadable smile. “Consider it a down payment.” A wry, playful glint sparks in his dark eyes. “When you finally discover the exact scent that has you haunting my shop, I’ll expect you to purchase a full bouquet of it.”
The teasing lilt in his voice makes Jihoon grin.
“Deal,” he says, accepting the wrapped rose. “You'd better hold me to that.”
“You bet,” Sanghyeok promises, and gives him a dazzling smile that makes his head spin.
Back in his dorm, the midnight blue joins the black baccara in the water glass on his desk, two beautiful symbols of his deepening obsession. Later that night, the scent doesn’t remain a phantom in the air; it weaves itself into the fabric of his dream. No longer an abstract perfume, but a warmth against his skin. Dark hair, flowing like loose silk beneath his fingers. His lips, open-mouthed as they pepper skin against a pale throat, the fragrance blooming beneath heated skin. Lithe fingers, entwined with his own.
Jihoon wakes, hungry for something he doesn’t even know how to name. The black baccara, the midnight blue… it’s still nowhere close to that scent. It’s not what he’s looking for. So there’s simply no use, no way of getting around it.
He’s going to have to go back to Petals & Page again.
Jihoon’s afternoon pilgrimage to Petals & Page becomes as routine as his daily lectures. Each visit, Sanghyeok gifts him a single, perfect bloom. A black pearl tulip, its petals the color of a starless midnight. A spray of chocolate cosmos, smelling faintly of cocoa and spice. A Reine de la Nuit dahlia, so deep a purple it seems almost to swallow the light. Each one exquisite, each one beautiful in its own way. The vase on Jihoon’s desk overflows, but still, he keeps going back.
It might be something else, to be honest. Before Jihoon realizes it, his obsession with the fragrance begins to twine, inseparably, with a growing attachment to the florist himself. He’s always thought Sanghyeok to be a pretty man. Tall but slim, with fine features, cat-like eyes that are quietly, carefully observant. Lips that are exquisitely soft-looking, and pouty even when stretched into a smile. Whatever the reason, Jihoon might even have just been satisfied with his daily trip to Petals & Page, just to keep seeing Sanghyeok.
That is, until one night.
Exhausted from back-to-back lectures and a grueling lab, Jihoon stumbles into a 24-hour convenience store, eyes heavy from the seventh circle of hell he’d been in the whole day, mind numb from academic fatigue. He shuffles down the brightly lit aisles, blearily scanning for his favorite instant noodle. At first, the air in the convenience store is what it typically always is: fluorescent light, cleaning products, and the vague, greasy smell of fried food from the counter.
Then it hits him.
Like a physical blow. A wave of pure, undiluted sensation. The rich, velvety sweetness that had enthralled him when he’d first stepped into the flower shop. Isolated here, outside the symphony of the flowers, it’s almost staggering. Stripped bare and left alone, it’s almost all-consuming. Every nerve in his body snaps to attention, every primal instinct in his body rattles awake instantly. He has to find the source of that scent – No. He needs to find it. He needs to find it, claim it, bury himself in it.
Jihoon turns, and his breath catches in his chest.
Because there, at the end of the produce aisle, examining a plastic container of strawberries, is Lee Sanghyeok. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, his hair slightly mussed, and utterly consumed in his task. His back is to Jihoon.
Oh, Jihoon thinks, his throat clicking together.
Oh.
Because Jihoon realizes right then and there, without a fraction of doubt, without a sliver of uncertainty, that the scent… the glorious, beautiful, maddening scent… is radiating from Sanghyeok. It pours from him like warmth from a hearth, unmistakable, undeniable. It’s not from the flowers at all. It’s from him. His skin, his blood, his very essence.
It’s been Sanghyeok all along.
He’s so starstruck that he’s only able to stand there frozen, a packet of instant noodles clutched forgotten in his hand, as the world rearranges itself around the center of the universe, which is that scent. Or rather, the source of it.
Lee Sanghyeok.
Jihoon doesn’t react until Sanghyeok has long since disappeared into the store, taking that beautiful scent with him as he goes. By the time he collects himself, the elusive florist has already finished his shopping and disappeared beyond Jihoon’s reach.
But it doesn't matter.
Because Jihoon knows exactly where to find him.
The next afternoon, Jihoon is back where he wants to be. He doesn’t linger by the door to breathe in the atmosphere today. He walks straight through the shop, directly to the workbench at the back of the store.
Sanghyeok looks up from wiring a delicate orchid. His expression is its usual impassive mask, but he takes one glance at Jihoon, and his eyes widen slightly. A minute, faint flush spreads across his face, and he instantly looks back at the flowers on his workbench instead. Jihoon breathes in deeply. He can taste it now, so acutely, so perfectly. It’s as if the million and one other fragrances in the store have almost ceased to exist. All there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be is this one fragrance that has almost consumed him whole.
“You’re early today,” Sanghyeok says softly. He doesn’t look up from his task. “I’m afraid I haven’t selected today’s specimen yet. Perhaps a hellebore? They’re called winter roses, and their scent is quite subtle, almost green–”
“I’m not here for a flower today,” Jihoon interrupts. He steps closer to the workbench, close enough that Sanghyeok raises his eyes momentarily in a flicker of alarm. The flush on his cheeks darkens slightly.
“No?”
“No,” Jihoon says, smiling now. He leans forward, so close that the tantalizing scent is enough to make his mouth water. “You see, hyung, I think I’ve finally identified the scent I’ve been looking for. The one that’s been driving me a little bit crazy.”
A flicker of panic, quickly mastered, passes over Sanghyeok’s face. “Is that so?” he asks almost calmly, but the crimson tinge in his ears betrays the confidence. “Which one was it?”
Instead of deigning to answer, Jihoon leans in to close the distance until his nose is a mere breath away from the delicate shell of Sanghyeok’s ear. He inhales open-mouthed, a deep, deliberate draw of air that pulls the glorious essence of that scent into his lungs. It’s almost overwhelming this close, pure and concentrated, sun-warmed velvet, dark tea, and that profound, rosy sweetness.
“It really was you all along, hyung,” Jihoon says in awe.
Sanghyeok shivers a little at the proximity, but he doesn’t pull away. Amusedly, he says, “I was wondering how long it might take for you to figure it out.”
Jihoon draws back just enough to see his face, grinning. “Oh? So you knew?”
Sanghyeok tilts his head, smile unreadable. “Maybe,” he admits. “Why else would an alpha be in my flower shop, obsessively hunting for a scent? Asking to smell every dark bloom he can find? It was very amusing sending you home with a decoy day after day.”
“A decoy,” Jihoon repeats, dazed.
“They kept you coming back to me, didn’t they?” Sanghyeok says, smile widening now. He takes a measured step away from the workbench, and, like a fish caught on a hook, Jihoon follows after him. “You still owe me a bouquet, by the way.”
Sanghyeok walks back toward the center of the store, to tend to the basket of the very same black baccara roses from Jihoon’s first day in the store. Jihoon shadows after him, unable to draw himself away from the scent even for a second. He watches Sanghyeok select a perfect bloom, slender fingers careful around the thornless stem.
Jihoon plucks the rose from his hand. He brings it to his nose, inhaling its lovely fragrance. It really is beautiful. But it’s like a candle compared to the sun. A faint echo where Sanghyeok’s scent is a full song. There simply is no comparison.
“I don’t know how I’m going to deliver on that promise,” Jihoon admits wryly. “I don’t think the flower I liked best is for sale.”
Sanghyeok wrinkles his nose in faint but pleased embarrassment. “Flower?” he echoes.
“But maybe we can arrive at a compromise,” Jihoon says. He tucks the black baccara carefully into the pocket of Sanghyeok’s black apron, admiring its deep red color against the dark fabric. With the same instinctive touch, he reaches up and tucks a loose hair behind Sanghyeok’s ear. “How about I take you out for dinner instead?”
Sanghyeok’s expression glows with happiness. The smile on his face extends, eyes curving into beautiful half-crescent smiles as he grins at Jihoon’s offer. A lovely expression for a lovely man, Jihoon thinks.
“Hmm,” he says playfully. “I’m a difficult man to please, but I think I can agree to that compromise.”
“A date, then,” Jihoon agrees, pleased.
“Tonight,” Sanghyeok tacks on, which makes Jihoon raise his eyebrows. “I’ll close the shop early.”
Jihoon smiles appreciatively. “Wow,” he says happily. “I didn’t know you would be that eager.”
Sanghyeok doesn’t falter. The playful glint in his eyes sharpens, and he brushes his fingers against the front of Jihoon’s jacket in a way that makes his heart stutter, just before he steps away from Jihoon to go attend to another flower basket.
“I’ve waited quite a while for you to catch on,” he says calmly. “I see no reason to wait any longer.”
Jihoon catches on to his tone immediately, and steps close without hesitation. He slides his arms around Sanghyeok’s waist gently, palms resting warm against his apron-tied hips, and simply breathes him in, letting the scent bloom and settle around his hungry, frazzled nerves. Sanghyeok jolts a little in surprise, and turns to face him, eyes mildly reproachful.
“I’m on the clock,” he says sternly.
“You said there was no reason to wait any longer,” Jihoon replies playfully, almost pouting.
Sanghyeok’s stern expression dissolves into a smile, and – Jihoon can’t help himself. He leans in and lets their lips press together. Sanghyeok huffs amusedly, but then kisses him back with equal fervor. Jihoon’s head spins, almost growing lightheaded. If Sanghyeok’s scent had been tantalizing as an aroma, it’s unbearable as a taste. The warmth, the depth, the intoxicating richness of it. He deepens the kiss instinctively, hands firming at Sanghyeok’s waist, drawing him closer until Sanghyeok is on his tiptoes, until a low hum escapes his throat.
When Sanghyeok pulls away from him abruptly, his eyes are dancing with amusement.
“Dinner first,” he reminds cheerfully.
“Anything you say, hyung,” Jihoon agrees, only to steal one more kiss, quick and sweet. Perfect, he thinks, as Sanghyeok returns his smile and turns back to his beautiful flowers one more time.
Fin