Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As Poppy leaned against the worn countertop, the rich tapestry of sounds, sights, and scents enveloped her in a cocoon of creative energy.

The pink walls, softened by years of shared stories and artistic expression, radiated a gentle warmth that contrasted with the vibrant hues of ink displayed on the walls. The ambient lighting cast a soft glow, accentuating the details of every tattoo machine, each one a testament to countless hours of craftsmanship and personal narratives. The eclectic collection of body jewelry, gleaming under the display lights, whispered stories of individuality and self-expression.

In the background, a catchy pop song served as a melodic backdrop to the symphony of the tattoo needle's rhythmic buzzing. The sound, both comforting and familiar, resonated with Poppy's heartbeat, synchronizing with the pulse of creativity that flowed through the shop. The muffled hum of conversations between artists and clients, punctuated by laughter and occasional exclamations, contributed to the vibrant ambiance, creating a lively mosaic of shared experiences.

Poppy's gaze, momentarily diverted from the bustling main street, wandered over the intricate designs adorning the walls. Each piece of artwork told a unique tale, from the delicate lines of a small butterfly to the bold strokes of a full-sleeve masterpiece. The shop, like a living gallery, embraced the diverse stories of its clients, becoming a sanctuary for the celebration of individuality.

As she continued to hum along with the song, Poppy's fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass countertop, becoming a silent percussion in the orchestra of creativity. The air within the shop carried a distinct scent—a blend of antiseptic, ink, and the faint aroma of scented candles—a sensory cocktail that fueled Poppy's artistic spirit.

Immersed in this creative haven, Poppy felt a sense of detachment from the external world. The occasional pedestrian passing by the window and the distant traffic noises merged seamlessly with the shop's ambiance, creating a harmonious coexistence of the two realms. In this corner of the world, Poppy was not just a tattoo artist; she was the curator of stories, the guardian of memories, and the weaver of ink and emotions.

As life flowed by outside her window like a river, Think P'ink stood as a timeless sanctuary, a place where the tangible and intangible elements converged to form a haven for those seeking to etch their stories onto the canvas of their skin.

Cooper, Poppy's closest friend, was in the midst of setting up his workstation, his tall and lanky frame moving with a certain awkward grace. Standing at six feet tall, his dark complexion and warm, dark eyes contrasted with the slightly disheveled blue locs that framed his face. A goofy smile seemed to be a permanent fixture, revealing his laid-back and friendly demeanor. A tattoo adorned his neck, a trait that differentiated him from his twin brother.

Poppy had specifically chosen Cooper to handle this particular client because the man had shown signs of nervousness about getting his very first tattoo. She knew that Cooper's easygoing and slightly clumsy charm would be the perfect antidote to the client's jitters.

As he set up his equipment, Cooper glanced over at Poppy, a mischievous grin on his face. His workstation, a riot of colors with an assortment of vibrant ink bottles and doodles on the table, reflected his eclectic personality. A quirky bobblehead nodded in agreement as he arranged his tools with a touch of clumsy charm. "You really know how to keep things interesting, don't you? This guy's first tattoo, and you're sending him my way. Hope he's ready for a dose of Cooper charm!"

Poppy chuckled and playfully rolled her eyes. "Well, I figured your style was the best match for what he wants. Plus, you're the master of putting people at ease, so it's a win-win. Just, you know, try not to scare him away with your bad jokes."

Cooper laughed heartily, the warmth of his laughter filling the room. "Don't worry, Pop. I've got this. I'll be the epitome of professionalism… with a dash of charm, of course."

As Cooper meticulously arranged his tools and prepared for his appointment, he couldn't help but share another joke. "You think he'd appreciate a good knock-knock joke while I work my magic?"

Poppy smirked, shaking her head in mock disapproval. "I think we'll save the jokes for after the ink, Cooper. Let's make sure he leaves with an amazing tattoo and a smile on his face."

In stark contrast to the colorful and lively atmosphere at Poppy's station, Barb held court in her dedicated corner. The subdued lighting highlighted the intricate details of her black and gray tattoos, while the steady buzz of her tattoo machine created an almost meditative ambiance. The walls, adorned with framed sketches and awards, testified to the artistry that unfolded in this corner of the studio.

At 5' 9" Barb was only an inch taller than Poppy and used it constantly to tease her. Barb's lighter skin provided a striking contrast to the bold, rocker aesthetic she sported. Her red mohawk, with dark roots peeking through, added an edgy flair, complemented by heavy eyeliner and mascara that highlighted her piercing gaze. Tattoos adorned her from her shoulders down, a testament to her commitment to the art she created.

The enormity of the design demanded every ounce of her attention and expertise, and Barb was known for her meticulous approach to her work. Her dedication to her craft was evident in every stroke of her tattoo machine. That said, the sounds of Pop music continued to infiltrate her space, and her expression grew increasingly annoyed. After a while, she couldn't hold back her frustration any longer and called out to Poppy, her voice sharp and curt, "Poppy, could you switch to something else? This pop shit is seriously getting on my nerves."

Poppy, unfazed by Barb's brusque tone, offered an understanding smile. "Sure thing, Barb. Let's change it up."

With a few taps on her phone, Poppy switched to a playlist of rock classics. The pop melodies gave way to the raw guitar riffs and powerful vocals of rock legends. Barb, though not one to easily show appreciation, seemed marginally more content with the change, and she resumed her work with a grunt of acknowledgment.

As Poppy's client had wrapped up their half-day leg piece almost 45 minutes ago, she could feel restlessness creeping in. With no more appointments scheduled for the day, she frowned thoughtfully, her fingers tapping lightly on the counter. The lull in activity was starting to get to her. Determined to make the most of her time, she decided to head to the back of the shop and grab some trash bags to clean up and stay productive.

In a burst of efficient energy, Poppy tackled the first task, swiftly emptying the trash cans. The crinkle of plastic bags and the distant hum of tattoo machines formed a rhythmic background to her movements. As she moved on to the employee fridge, a gust of cool air greeted her, carrying a faint scent of disinfectant. She meticulously rearranged the items, checking expiration dates with a sense of responsibility. The soft beep of the fridge closing echoed through the quiet shop.

Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the vibrant flowers she had purchased a few days ago were beginning to wilt. Realizing that they needed replacement, she contemplated making a quick run to the store to buy fresh blooms. And, since she would be out anyway, she decided it made sense to pick up additional supplies for the shop.

With an upbeat demeanor, Poppy addressed her coworkers, seeking their input. "Hey guys, do we need anything for the shop? I'm making a quick trip to grab some fresh flowers, and I can pick up other supplies while I'm out." Poppy's intent was to maintain a welcoming and appealing atmosphere in the tattoo shop since she considered it her second home.

However, Barb's response was far from enthusiastic. She let out an audible groan and retorted, "We don’t need flowers!”

As Poppy playfully stuck out her tongue in response to Barb's comment, Barb leaned back in her chair, her tattoo machine momentarily silenced. Her eyes, adorned with a no-nonsense gaze, met Poppy's, and a terse sigh escaped her lips.

"Poppy, we're a tattoo shop, not a damn cafe," Barb grumbled, her fingers deftly navigating the intricate details of the black and gray masterpiece she was crafting. The buzz of her tattoo machine resumed, punctuating her statement with the rhythmic sound that echoed through her corner of the shop.

She spared a glance at the formerly vibrant flowers on the counter, her expression revealing a hint of annoyance. "Clients come here for ink, not for a garden experience. I've got a reputation to uphold, and it's not built on floral arrangements. Keep it simple, clean, and focused on the art—that's what matters."

Cooper, undeterred by Barb's gruff response, flashed a wide grin and called after Poppy, "Don't forget the good stuff, Pop! The fate of our snack cravings rests on your shoulders!"

Poppy turned with a playful smirk, her eyes meeting Cooper's. "Fear not, snack knight. I shall return with treasures beyond your wildest dreams." She theatrically saluted before pushing open the door to the bustling world outside.

Barb, though seemingly uninterested, couldn't resist a subtle eye-roll at the exchange, though her stern expression did soften. Without looking up from her meticulous tattoo work, she mumbled, "Make it quick, Popsqueak. Someone’s gotta run this place."

Cooper, taking the opportunity to add a touch of humor, chimed in, "Yeah, who will keep Barb's rock music rebellion in check if you're not around?"

Barb shot him a mock glare, but a hint of a smile played on her lips. The trio's banter, a daily ritual, had become an unspoken part of the shop's identity. Despite their diverse personalities, they had found a rhythm that made the tattoo parlor more than just a workplace.

As Poppy stepped out onto the sunlit street, the door chimed softly behind her, signaling the temporary departure of the shop's curator. She began her walk up the street, a sense of purpose guiding her steps.

Blooming Gale's, the small flower shop she was visiting first, was a quaint establishment just a short distance away. It was a family-owned business, run by an older woman named Margie and her daughter Lana. The pair were known for their warm and friendly nature, making every visit to the shop a delightful experience. Poppy had a strong preference for patronizing locally owned businesses over faceless corporations, especially when it came to buying flowers. The personal touch and the sense of supporting her neighbors were values close to her heart.

The shop, while simple in its setup, exuded a unique charm that made it special. Their flower arrangements, though not necessarily groundbreaking, always had a timeless and appealing quality. Poppy appreciated the connection she shared with Margie and Lana, who embodied the community spirit that her father had championed for years.

Her father had long been a community leader, dedicated to making the neighborhood a place he was proud to raise his daughter. Over time, the encroachment of large-scale companies had created competition for local businesses, but her childhood had been nearly perfect. Her father's financial stability had ensured she never lacked anything. Furthermore, he had generously supported her dream of opening the tattoo shop, even though he might not fully grasp her deep passion for the art of tattooing.

Poppy's brisk walk toward Blooming Gale's was a comforting ritual, a well-practiced journey that held the promise of familiar warmth. The anticipation of the welcoming atmosphere of the small flower shop infused each step with a sense of ease. As she approached, the quaint exterior of the shop greeted her like an old friend, its charm and colorful displays a beacon of comfort in the bustling neighborhood.

However, as she reached her destination, the scene that unfolded shattered the familiarity that had accompanied her. A cold shiver ran down her spine as her eyes fixated on the "out-of-business" sign hanging in the window. The once-inviting aura of Blooming Gale's now stood in stark contrast to the emptiness that loomed within. Her steps, once confident and purposeful, faltered, and she found herself frozen in front of the door, a sudden and unexpected hurdle in her well-trodden path.

Margie, the matriarch of the flower shop, had never hinted at the possibility of closure or financial struggles during Poppy's previous visits. Concern gripped her as she peered through the glass, desperately seeking answers. The lights inside were off, and the space that had been an effusion of colors and life now echoed with an eerie silence. The counters and refrigerators, once adorned with vibrant blooms, now stood as silent witnesses to a story Poppy hadn't anticipated.

Without a second thought, Poppy's instinctive response was to knock rapidly on the door. The sound, a desperate plea for understanding, reverberated through the stillness of the shop. Lana, the familiar face behind the counter, emerged from the depths of the space, unlocking the door with a look of surprise that mirrored Poppy's own shock.

"Poppy, hi," Lana greeted, her voice carrying a note of sadness that added an unexpected layer to the usual warmth of her welcome. "Sorry, you caught us at a bad time. We're just locking up."

The shift in Lana's tone was palpable, and Poppy, unable to contain her concern, blurted out, "Oh my gosh, Lana, what happened? I had no idea."

Lana sighed, her expression a mix of resignation and melancholy, as she stepped out onto the street, closing the door behind her. "Well," she began, "it's been coming for a while. The new landlord decided to increase the rent again, and we honestly just weren't making enough to cover the bills. Mom's getting older, and we thought it would be a good time for us to make a change."

The words hung in the air, each sentence a heavy weight on Poppy's heart. The news felt like a betrayal of the familiar, a disruption to the rhythm of the neighborhood she called home. She couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow for Lana and her mother, knowing that their decision to close Blooming Gale's was born out of financial strain and the inevitable passage of time.

The weight of the closure settled on Poppy's shoulders, and she instinctively reached out, offering Lana a comforting hug. In that shared embrace, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the loss that echoed through the neighborhood. The closure of Blooming Gale's wasn't just the shuttering of a shop; it was the end of a chapter, a change that reverberated through the community they had all built together.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Poppy murmured, her voice a soft echo of empathy. "I'm going to miss you both so much." Her genuine sympathy sought to bridge the gap of the impending absence, but she couldn't shake the sense that something precious had been lost, leaving a void that no amount of comforting words could entirely fill.

Lana returned the hug tightly, her appreciation evident as she responded, "We'll miss you too. Honestly, you were our best customer, and we loved having you in the shop. I know Mom's going to miss you more than anything."

As Lana's words resonated, Poppy couldn't help but feel a bittersweet acknowledgment of the connection they had forged over the years. The shop had been more than a place to buy flowers; it had been a haven, a shared space where stories were exchanged, and friendships blossomed.

After a moment, they slowly pulled back from the hug, their expressions reflecting the somber reality of the situation. The weight of the news lingered in the air, and Poppy couldn't shake the heaviness that settled in her chest. The impending absence of Blooming Gale's left a void. It was the absence of familiar faces, the laughter that echoed through the air, and the shared moments of joy and sorrow that had woven a tapestry of memories.

Poppy, feeling at a loss for where to turn for flowers now, expressed her concern, "What am I going to do for flowers now? This was the best place." The uncertainty of the future, both for herself and the neighborhood, hung in the air. The question wasn't just about flowers; it was about navigating a changing landscape and finding a new source of comfort in a world that seemed to be evolving without warning.

Lana contemplated the question and then offered a glimmer of hope, "About that… have you ever been to Rosie's?"

Poppy looked at her with curiosity, her interest piqued. "No?"

As Lana described Rosie's, Poppy's mind painted a mental map of the neighborhood, pinpointing the location she was being directed to. The mention of the owner being a "prick" brought a wry smile to her face, a shared understanding of the quirks that sometimes came with neighborhood establishments. But the promise of incredible flowers and a friendly cashier sparked a sense of anticipation in Poppy. Rosie's, she thought, might just become a new haven for her, a place to create fresh memories and continue the tradition of bringing home vibrant blooms.

Recognition flickered across Poppy's face the more Lana described it. Her friend Biggie had mentioned it, as his best friend worked there as the cashier. "Oh yeah! I'll have to check it out. Good luck with the move. Seriously, everyone's going to miss you both so much."

After bidding Lana farewell with a final, heartfelt hug, Poppy felt a tinge of sadness at the unexpected closure of Blooming Gale's. With a sense of curiosity and a hint of determination, she set her sights on Rosie's. The walk up the road took on a different significance, as she pondered the stories and recommendations she had received about this mysterious establishment.

As she stepped back onto the sunlit street, the familiar path she had walked countless times felt different, tinged with a sense of loss.

The rhythmic tap of her shoes on the pavement mirrored the beat of her contemplative thoughts. Poppy's usual route, once a source of comfort, now seemed like uncharted territory. As she continued down the street, her mind buzzed with questions and uncertainties. The flower shop had not just been a place to buy blossoms; it had been a hub of connection and shared moments. The absence of that space created a vacuum that Poppy hadn't anticipated, prompting her to consider where she would now find solace and inspiration.

Amid the swirl of her thoughts, a new destination emerged—Rosie's, the flower shop Lana had recommended.

The shop emerged as a living testament to the neighborhood's history. The weathered brick, adorned with the patina of time, whispered untold stories. Expansive windows hinted at the presence of a second story, inviting curiosity about the shop's hidden depths. Aged wooden panels, painted in a rich blue-green hue, stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time, their surfaces bearing the marks of countless seasons. Potted plants, strategically placed, formed a fragrant walkway leading to the entrance. Their leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. Small awnings, casting dappled shadows, offered a refuge to the plants from the sun's rays, and the careful arrangement reflected a labor of love.

Above the door, the vintage sign declared 'Rosie's' in elegant script, a timeless emblem of the shop's enduring charm. The combination of classic architecture and the inviting arrangement of potted greenery created an atmosphere that beckoned passersby as if the shop itself were extending a warm embrace.

Approaching the propped-open door, a delicate breeze carried the unmistakable scent of flowers, enveloping Poppy in a fragrant symphony. The air itself seemed to hum with the essence of blooms, stirring a sense of wonder and anticipation. As she crossed the threshold, the shop's interior unfolded before her like a story waiting to be read. The crisp ring of a bell above the door echoed through the space, signaling her entry into a world of hidden wonders.

At that moment, Poppy's thoughts turned inward, reflecting on the beauty of this unexpected discovery. How had Rosie's eluded her for so long? Her usual walks, confined to the familiar, had rarely ventured this far. The encroachment of faceless corporations and relentless developers seemed to have claimed the nearby shops, leaving her yearning for authenticity. Rosie's, standing defiant against the tide of change, evoked a profound connection with her neighborhood's past. With each step inside, Poppy anticipated the treasures awaiting her, eager to immerse herself in the timeless beauty that Rosie's promised to unveil.

Entering the shop, Poppy found herself further stunned by the sheer beauty of the space. The soft chime of the bell above the door faded into the hushed ambiance that enveloped Rosie's. The sunlight, filtering through the large glass windows, cast a warm glow on the vintage brick floor beneath her feet. Each step she took revealed the intricate and elegant pattern of the bricks, creating a tactile journey as her fingers grazed over their cool surface.

As she descended a few steps into the shop, its elongated layout became apparent, stretching gracefully in front of her. The rhythmic hum of admittedly old refrigerators lined along the wooden wall to her right accompanied her every move. Their gentle melody, like a subdued symphony, harmonized with the ambient sounds of nature that seemed to emanate from the garlands and hanging plants adorning every available space.

On the opposite side, the brick wall with the windows was transformed into a botanical gallery. Small tables and counters, each carefully arranged, showcased bouquets and flower arrangements that mesmerized with their delicacy and refinement. Vivid colors danced in the sunlight, turning each floral creation into a living masterpiece. Poppy couldn't resist reaching out to touch the smooth petals, her fingertips absorbing the textures of nature's artistry.

In the back corner, a cabinet displayed artisanal candles, arranged meticulously on every shelf. The fragrant blend of lavender and vanilla emanated from this corner, intertwining with the natural perfume of the flowers. The air itself became a sensory canvas, carrying the scents of both wax and bloom.

Vintage advertisements for the shop adorned the wall between the windows, their faded colors telling tales of a bygone era. The echoes of a deep-rooted heritage resonated through these aged visuals, serving as silent witnesses to the shop's enduring presence in the neighborhood.

Despite the enchanting display, Poppy noticed an unusual quietness within Rosie's, devoid of the usual melodies. Dinkles, who as best she knew was usually working cashier, was conspicuously absent. As she approached the counter, her gaze was drawn to a small sign leaned against a tiny bell, its message elegantly inscribed: "In Back, Ring Once for Service." The absence of music, coupled with the silent summons, created a sense of anticipation in the air, leaving Poppy to wonder about the mysteries that awaited in the depths of the flower-filled haven.

The sign's specificity intrigued her, and playfully disregarding it, she rang the bell multiple times for humor's sake. Little did she expect that her actions would result in a startling sound from the back of the shop, followed by a resounding bang. Her eyes darted toward the doorway, which, according to the sign, led to the "back." She couldn't help but wonder what her ringing had unleashed.

A distinctly male voice, colored with annoyance, muttered from the depths of the shop. It was clear that she had stirred something, and Poppy couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt clawing at her conscience for the disruption she had caused. The irritable edge in the man's voice seemed to echo in her mind, and she couldn't shake the sense that she had unintentionally trespassed into a realm guarded by an elusive gatekeeper. A nervous flutter danced in the pit of her stomach. Soon, a young man, not much older than herself, came storming to the front desk. His black hair, tousled and rebellious, framed a face that exuded an air of frustration. Unruly strands fell across his forehead.

His piercing, light blue-gray gaze fixed a stern glare on her, the intensity of which hinted at an internal conflict. The eyes, a striking contrast to the disarray of his hair, held a depth that suggested more than the initial impression of annoyance.

His features, chiseled and defined, spoke of a rugged handsomeness that seemed at odds with the irritable facade he wore. His toned physique was emphasized by the forest green shirt that clung to his frame, subtly revealing the contours of his muscles. Well-fitted blue jeans accentuated the confident stride with which he approached the front desk.

A black apron, neatly tied around his waist, hinted at a meticulous side beneath the disheveled exterior. The choice of attire seemed intentional, a blend of practicality and style. As he reached the counter, his movements were deliberate, each step a testament to a certain level of confidence despite the evident annoyance. The way he carried himself spoke of a silent command over his surroundings as if the flower-filled haven were an extension of his domain. Poppy observed the subtle flex of muscles beneath the fabric of his forest green shirt, an unconscious display of strength that added an intriguing layer to the encounter.

Poppy couldn't help but feel a mixture of fascination and curiosity. This man, with his tousled hair and piercing gaze, seemed like a contradiction—frustrated yet undeniably alluring.

The annoyance in his voice was evident as he questioned, "What?" It wasn't a growl, but it was clear that Poppy's ringing of the bell had disrupted his day and caught him off guard. His posture and demeanor suggested that he wasn't in the mood for any nonsense. Poppy realized that her attempt at humor had landed her in an awkward situation and quickly decided to explain herself.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I just was trying to be funny," Poppy apologized swiftly, her words filled with sincerity as she sought to make amends for her impulsivity. "My name's Poppy, I'm a tattoo artist down the road, Think P'ink? Anyway, I like keeping flowers in the shop to make it more comfortable, and I used to get them from Blooming Gale's, but they just went out of business, and Lana told me I should start coming here, and here I am!"

However, the man's reaction was far from what Poppy had anticipated. He simply stared at her, his expression clearly unimpressed. It was a little unnerving for Poppy, who was accustomed to engaging with people who generally tended to match her enthusiasm and energy. She cleared her throat, trying to break through the wall of indifference, The air grew heavy with silence as Poppy shifted nervously, awaiting his response. 'Can I get some bouquets?' she questioned, the weight of his stern gaze making the simple request feel like an intrusion, “The shop is pink so…anything that goes with that?”

He continued to stare for a moment his gaze seeming almost curious rather than annoyed though his aloofness remaining intact. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he moved around the counter and ventured into the main shop. Poppy watched in a mix of confusion and anxiety as he approached the refrigerators, pulling out various flowers.

Amidst the pristine white shelves, he delicately retrieved bundles that were a kaleidoscope of fragrance and color. Lavender, hydrangea, candy tuft, and yellow carnations all mingled together, creating a stunning symphony of nature's beauty. The soothing aroma of lavender filled the air, momentarily easing Poppy's unease. The large, billowy blooms of hydrangea added a sense of lush abundance, their subtle variations in color—from pale blues to deep purples—speaking of careful curation and an artist's eye.

Clusters of candy tuft, resembling delicate tufts of cotton candy, and bright yellow carnations, with their sunny disposition, added whimsy and warmth to the mix. Each stem was a cascade of tiny purple blossoms, creating an ethereal atmosphere. Yet, he did it all in silence, leaving her uncertain if he was fulfilling her request or deliberately ignoring it. His standoffish demeanor left her perplexed, as it didn't seem to align with the apparent success of his business.

She shifted nervously from foot to foot, the silence elongating into an awkward void. Her internal thoughts whirred with curiosity and a hint of frustration. Why the silence? Was he deliberately maintaining distance or simply lost in his work?

After a considerable lapse of time, he emerged from the back, carrying three beautifully arranged bouquets, a floral masterpiece that captured the essence of Rosie's expertise. With a curt and businesslike tone, he stated, "That's 75." The price was delivered matter-of-factly, adding to the peculiar atmosphere of the interaction. Poppy, despite the strange encounter, was eager to complete her purchase and bring this unique blend of nature's beauty back to Think P'ink.

The crisp bills exchanged hands in a motion that held a peculiar grace. Poppy felt a subtle shift in the air as the transaction concluded. She couldn't help but be captivated by the final bouquet, a harmonious mix of blooms. Each flower seemed to tell a story, and together, they created a visual symphony that intrigued her.

She quickly retrieved the money and handed it over, observing the florist with a newfound curiosity. He was a strange man, his demeanor serious and focused. It was as if the language he spoke was the silent poetry of flowers, and the shop, his canvas. Poppy couldn't quite decipher him, but there was an undeniable sense of purpose in his actions.

Poppy offered a bright smile as she expressed her gratitude, “Thank you so much, I really appreciate it…” Her words trailed off, a subtle hint in her tone that she hoped to learn his name. However, he appeared completely apathetic in offering any further information. In a swift motion, he turned away, making his way toward the rear of the shop as if eager to escape the encounter.

Poppy couldn’t help but feel increasingly perplexed and somewhat disheartened. The florist, it seemed, was determined to avoid any interaction. His retreating figure signaled a clear desire for solitude. It was abundantly clear that he did not want to engage with her in any way. She was left standing at the counter, curiosity unanswered.

In all her 24 years, Poppy had never encountered someone who treated her in such a dismissive and inhospitable manner. The unexpected coldness left her momentarily stunned, questioning if there was something she had done, aside from the bell, to warrant such a response. As she stood there, the echo of silence lingering in the air, a myriad of thoughts raced through her mind.

What bewildered her the most was that, despite his real grouchy behavior, the man didn’t seem inherently mean. Avoidant, yes. Blunt, perhaps. Easily irritated and even rude – those descriptors seemed to fit him to a T. But Poppy couldn’t seem to agree with the assessment that he was a “prick” as Lana had described. There was a complexity to him that defied any clear categorization in her mind, leaving her feeling puzzled and intrigued.

Before disappearing into the back room, the dark-haired florist paused. His shoulders were tense as he reluctantly glanced back at her. Meeting her gaze only once, he quickly looked away. A heavy sigh escaped him, conveying exhaustion with the conversation. His uneasy shifting on his feet suggested an impending escape to the door. Before she could speak, he reluctantly uttered, “Branch.” Then, as swiftly as he had appeared, he retreated into the back room, leaving an air of tension in his wake.

"Branch" seemed like an apt name for him, carrying the sense of something sturdy and necessary. While he clearly struggled with people, he appeared to be the backbone of the shop. Maybe he was aware of his social shortcomings. That would explain why he’d have hired someone to handle the interactions with customers. He simply preferred to avoid it.

As Poppy made her way out of the store and back towards Think P’ink, she couldn't help but dwell on, well, Branch. His eyes, in particular, had left an indelible impression on her. The way they held a contradiction—guarded yet revealing—made her curious. Poppy found herself blushing at the lingering warmth of his gaze, even though his words had carried a hint of irritation. Amused by her reaction, she couldn't resist a soft laugh, using her free hand to gently facepalm in embarrassment. It felt cliché, she thought, to be affected by someone's eyes. Yet, the truth was undeniable; there was more to Branch than his brusque demeanor suggested.

The irritation and annoyance that had permeated his words hadn't reached his eyes. It was a subtle detail that lingered in her mind. There had been a contradiction in the way he carried himself, like someone faking a smile. You could tell. As she continued her walk, she pondered his demeanor. She wasn't entirely sure if she was reading him right, but the intrigue had planted a seed of interest in her mind. What she did know was that she wanted to find out more about the man behind the flower shop counter. Besides, she’d needed a new flower shop anyway, and the prospect of discovering the enigma that was Branch added an unexpected twist to her day.

Chapter Text

The alarm buzzed insistently, filling the room with its echo. Branch's hand shot out, fingers fumbling for the button on the outdated contraption he'd snagged from a garage sale. With a decisive swipe, he silenced the insistent sound, bringing an abrupt end to the room's restless symphony.

He lingered in that ephemeral space between sleep and wakefulness, cocooned under the weight of familiar, worn sheets. His gaze, softened by the diffuse morning light filtering through the curtains, drifted upwards to the ceiling. The allure of this sanctuary, a haven woven with the threads of countless nights, clashed with the chill that heralded the morning. Duty beckoned, though, and the dependable rhythm of routine stood as a stalwart anchor, orchestrating the seamless transition from repose to responsibility.

In a decisive motion, he rose, relinquishing the comforting grasp of the sheets. His feet met the cool embrace of the floor as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With practiced ease, he nudged the sheets aside, unveiling the untidy remnants of his night's respite. Duty called.

"Morning, Gary," he mumbled to the small cactus perched on his table, a fleeting smile dancing on his lips. With the languid grace of a waking routine, he indulged in a lazy stretch before rising. The dresser beckoned, its drawers housing the daily attire that would cloak him in the armor of mundane normalcy.

His room, a practical haven, harbored only the essentials – a bed, a compact dresser, a solitary side table, a corner desk adorned with a modest book collection, and a few potted plants that injected a touch of vitality into the utilitarian space.

Disregarding the vacant spots on the walls a subtle pang of nostalgia flickered across his features before he redirected his attention to the day's attire. A plain button-up and sturdy jeans caught his eye—no-frills, just like the routine he clung to. He avoided acknowledging the voids in his life, much like the empty spaces on those walls. Work took precedence. With measured steps, he headed to the bathroom to begin his day.

The shower was swift; he didn't indulge in the luxury of waiting for the water to warm up. Stepping out, his gaze lingered on his reflection in the mirror, contemplating the stubble that clung to his face. Annoyed by the potential hassle, he reached for the razor.

His fingers trailed along the contours of his olive skin, a map etched with the restlessness of sleepless nights and a conscious avoidance of the outdoors. A subtle frown surfaced as he acknowledged the somewhat sickly appearance that stared back at him.

Tousling his hair, the unruly black mop resisted styling, longing for a cut it hadn't received. Usually, he preferred a shorter cut, but it always tended to give the impression of minimal effort – a reality he acknowledged, given his inclination to forgo extended grooming rituals. Besides, it wasn’t like he was Sp— he stopped himself short.

After brushing his teeth, he navigated from the bathroom to the kitchen. The living space, an ambiguous 'open concept,' clung to its '70s remodel, resistant to change. Light walls and carpeted floors spoke of a bygone era, yet somehow, they clung to a deceptive brightness even at this early hour when the world was still wrapped in slumber.

His destination was the kitchen counter, a familiar haven where his trusty coffee pot and brewer, weathered by almost a decade of use, patiently awaited their daily ritual.

As he meticulously measured the coffee grounds, Branch's thoughts transitioned to the challenges looming over the day. Cloud's array of deliveries stood like towering hurdles, demanding Branch's meticulous attention to each one. The impending arrival of a fresh flower batch called for an organized inventory approach, and a stack of bills awaited his adept financial maneuvering.

With the coffee grounds evenly distributed, he lingered for a moment, inhaling the rich aroma that filled the air. His fingers secured the handle in place before he executed the familiar routine, flipping the switch to awaken the coffee maker. Gradually, the machine rumbled to life, releasing comforting and inviting scents that wrapped the kitchen in a warm embrace. With a few minutes before his caffeine fix would be ready, Branch took advantage of the moment, delving into his pantry for a quick breakfast.

Surveying the dimly lit pantry, he swiftly dismissed anything requiring cooking—a culinary endeavor he wasn't in the mood for this particular morning. Peering into the shadows, his eyes scanned the assortment of off-brand items, searching for something to stir even a hint of appetite. Amid the indistinct blur, a box caught his attention, promising a sweet and indulgent experience. Without hesitation, Branch seized a single package of toaster pockets, leaving the rest undisturbed, a pragmatic choice in the rhythm of his morning routine.

As the coffee maker diligently filled the mug, its rhythmic sounds forming a backdrop to his contemplation, Branch turned his attention to the challenges that loomed on the horizon.

Bills stood at the forefront of his concerns, an ever-pressing matter. Despite his resourceful mindset, the month's savings faced the scrutiny of his meticulous gaze. Cost-cutting measures, reflected in judiciously reduced electricity and a preference for discounted, imperfect food, had left him seemingly well-prepared for the impending gas, electric, and water expenses.

Even with these careful considerations, Branch still had the obligation of disbursing paychecks to Dinkles and Cloud to take into account. This additional factor left him estimating that he might find himself on a modest ramen diet for the next two weeks. He would need to look at the numbers, but he was hesitantly hopeful he would make ends meet this month.

With his mug held in a firm grip, Branch moved seamlessly to the next task—inventory. Cloud's imminent delivery of a fresh batch of flowers at six beckoned. The responsibility weighed on him; he understood that the store's reputation rested on the freshness and excellence of its offerings. Contemplating the logistics, Branch envisioned the swift and meticulous placement of the flowers in refrigerators—a strategic move to stave off wilting. In the quiet corners of his thoughts, he longed for the resurrection of the greenhouse in the back, a fleeting desire for self-sufficient cultivation—a pipe dream for now.

Finally, the consultation appointment awaited him in the afternoon—the climax of his day's agenda. The potential client, a bride-to-be named Minuet harboring grand aspirations for her upcoming wedding, was poised to engage in discussions about the intricate designs he had meticulously drafted. This was no ordinary affair; her wedding was destined to be a lavish and sizable event, evident not only in her substantial budget but also in the grand scale of floral decorations she envisioned. The venue itself sprawled expansively, and her desire for an abundance of flowers included roses, peonies, gardenias, daisies, and an assortment of lush greens to be intricately woven into every corner of the celebration.

The extensive floral requirements encompassed a beautifully crafted bouquet, meticulously designed centerpieces, and a flower-covered chuppah, among other intricate details. She set her sights on the gold package—a comprehensive ensemble that left no aspect untouched by the artistry of florals. Branch had invested weeks in refining these designs, ensuring they encapsulated the elegance the bride envisioned for her significant day. The prospect of securing such a prestigious and elaborate job dangled enticingly, promising not only a lucrative payday but also the potential to gracefully cover the shop's expenses for at least a month.

As Branch took a bite of the sugary, fruit-filled pastry, he attempted to shield himself from the weight of the impending situation. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, a subconscious response to the bitter aftertaste of financial concerns that lingered even in the sweetness of his breakfast. A weight settled in his chest as he consciously averted his gaze from the looming gravity of the moment, memories threatening to surface like restless ghosts before he had a chance to scrutinize the numbers. Realistically, he acknowledged that he had only a few months left at most if something didn't take a turn for the better.

Branch took a deliberate sip of his coffee, the warmth seeping through the ceramic mug and momentarily dispelling the morning chill. His gaze swept across the kitchen, a room that held more than just the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Memories, like elusive ghosts, lurked in the corners, threatening to surface. He resolutely pushed them aside, choosing to focus on the tangible aspects of his surroundings.

His mind, like a well-worn compass, directed its attention to practical matters—the laminate peeling off the countertops. A project for the near future, he noted mentally. The need to replace them lingered in his thoughts, not as a sentimental attachment, but rather as an item on a to-do list—no emotion attached, just a matter of functionality.

Turning his attention to the aging furniture in the living room, he acknowledged its weathered appearance but dismissed any fleeting thoughts of replacement. Each piece bore the marks of time, telling a silent tale of years gone by. It was old, yet the well-worn cushions and familiar groans still served their purpose. Comfort and functionality were the criteria that mattered most to Branch; sentimentality, he told himself, was not the reason he kept them.

The kitchen and living room, once the heart of the house, now existed in a state of quiet functionality. The past, though engraved into the very structure of the home, was kept at arm's length. Branch saw the remnants of bygone days, each piece of furniture a silent witness. Yet, he approached them with the detached gaze of a pragmatist. The house, like the repairs it needed, was a set of tasks to manage—a series of checkboxes to tick off, nothing more.

His eyes instinctively avoided drifting toward the master bedroom, a sanctuary of personal history. The plumbing in the master bath would need a check soon—a routine maintenance task. Everything else in that direction was pushed down the priority list, a deliberate avoidance.

With the last sip of coffee and the final bite of the pastry, Branch shifted from the momentary pause to the next item on his routine. He pushed away from the counter, and his footsteps echoed through the quiet spaces as he began the ritual of preparing for the day ahead. His movements were methodical, each action a well-practiced dance. As he shut off the minimal lights he had turned on earlier, darkness enveloped the rooms, leaving only traces of the spaces he briefly occupied. Efficiency dictated his every action, an unspoken commitment to conserve energy where possible.

With keys jingling in one hand and the little old flip phone finding its designated spot, he approached the front door – fully equipped for the day's practical pursuits. The locks, an excess number that probably served as a notice of his being paranoid, clicked open effortlessly under his practiced hands. The door swung ajar, revealing a world still cloaked in darkness. The outside world awaited a realm yet to be touched by the light of day. With a final glance around the dimly lit interior, he stepped into the pre-dawn hush, closing and securing the door behind him. The locks engaged with a soft click.

Descending the stairs from the unit he'd called home for years, Branch felt the worn, comforting embrace of the wooden steps beneath his feet. Each creak and groan echoed the routine that had become an integral part of his daily life—a silent dance between man and staircase. The quaint unit, both living space and workplace, blurred the lines between home and duty, simplifying his commute to the rhythmic descent of the staircase.

Living above his shop had its advantages, streamlining the transition between personal space and professional responsibilities. As he navigated the original brick path down the alley, he did his best to divert his attention from the familiar marks and moments that clung to him like shadows, often bringing with them unpleasant memories he sought to avoid.

The next hour played out like a strategic chess match, each bill on Branch's desk an opponent in the ongoing game that reminded him of the delicate state of his beloved establishment. Settling into his office, the folders emerged one by one, bearing witness to the financial tribulations that perpetually threatened his shop's existence. Expenses, receipts, and refunds spilled onto the desk, forming an ominous ensemble alongside the stack of overdue bills.

Taking a deep breath, Branch delved into the chaos. Business account statements, the ledger of his shop's economic heartbeat, awaited his scrutiny. A natural affinity for numbers allowed him to navigate the financial maze with relative ease, his calculator and notepad becoming trusted allies in the ongoing battle against impending financial doom.

The water bill, a flexible companion, could be postponed without consequence for a week. However, the electric bill demanded immediate attention, casting a shadow of urgency over Branch's contemplative workspace. Gas expenses, a mere blip on the financial radar, only escalated during cooking or when the need for warmth prevailed, contributing a modest dent to the budget, especially in the current season.

Yet, a fog of concern loomed as Branch reached the delivery bill. The lifeline of his business hinged on those forthcoming deliveries, ensuring a replenished stock of plants to sell. Technically equipped to cover it, along with the impending paychecks for Dinkles and Cloud, the ledger's final tally left him on precarious ground for the next two weeks. He could make it work; he’d done it with less. However, the discomfort lingered in the scant wiggle room it provided. Despite the modest fund's dwindling balance, he hesitated to dip into its reserves again.

Branch let himself ease into a moment of relaxation, cognizant of Cloud's arrival still being a good half-hour away. His gaze wandered casually across the familiar surroundings, eventually fixating on a modest stack of envelopes perched conspicuously in the corner of his desk. Those unopened letters, like persistent vultures, had become an unwelcome fixture, unwilling to let go of a business they deemed struggling. After a brief attempt to set them ablaze with his stare, he plucked one from the top of the pile, tearing open the envelope without any regard for the paper within. As Branch stared at the familiar stamp of Gristle and Son on the paper, his jaw clenched, and a frustrated sigh escaped his lips. It was a name that seemed to taunt him with relentless persistence.

Gristle and Son had a lengthy history, their presence becoming more prominent in the last six years as they aimed to acquire Rosie's. The relentless pursuit by Gristle and Son had started with a monthly barrage of letters. Their efforts intensified with slick, opportunistic salesmen, donned in cheap suits, attempting to coax him into early retirement. One salesman had audaciously suggested Branch was too young for the responsibilities at hand, a comment that almost led to a physical altercation. Luckily, Cloud had been there to restrain Branch from giving the pushy salesman a well-deserved punch.

He crushed the paper, wadding and crumpling it aggressively into a tight ball that barely contained his frustration. With a vehement scowl, he forcefully dropped the paper into the wastebasket next to his desk, his gaze searing into it as if attempting to will it into spontaneous combustion.

A distinct sequence of knocks echoed through the back door—a familiar rhythm, the classic "Shave and a Haircut." The unexpected sound caught Branch off guard, prompting a groan as he reluctantly rose from his chair. Cloud's early arrival disrupted the usual cadence, forcing Branch to summon the energy to greet him. The opening routine needed to be expedited now, a hurried effort to ensure the flowers wouldn’t wilt in the truck.

Unlocking the door, Branch found Cloud casually leaning against the wall next to the frame. His frizzy, curly, almost platinum blond hair framed a long face. His nose seemed pressed more into his face than necessary, having likely broken it or had it broken by someone at some point. a grin that struggled through fatigue, hinting at the toll of the early morning shift on Cloud's usually lively expression as he straightened up. "Heya, Boss. Thought I’d help you out this morning.”

Branch's expression shifted to a frown. That level of consideration from Cloud was suspicious. Cloud, with his myriad of roles, tended to be considerate only when one of two things happened: he either broke something, or he needed something. An unspoken suspicion lingered in the air as Branch eyed Cloud, his response tinged with cautious curiosity. “What did you do?”

Cloud huffed in mock offense as he made his way into the shop, allowing Branch to close the door behind him. “Y'know, I am hurt, absolutely offended that you think so little of me. I mean, seriously, Branch, I’ve worked here for four years, and you,” Cloud hesitated thinking, before breaking into an amused grin, “Got me down to a T. I need like… 50 bucks, but-" He turned around enthusiastically, "I’ll work that as overtime next week off the books.”

Branch’s response was swift and unequivocal. “No.”

“B-man, come on,” Cloud begged.

The nickname "B-man" earned a disapproving look from Branch. He was going to get a headache at this point, and they weren’t even officially open yet. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Branch entertained the idea of just closing the shop and doing the deliveries himself. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with this.

"I can't do that because it's -illegal-, Cloud," Branch reiterated, attempting to convey the seriousness of the matter. However, the expression on Cloud’s face prompted Branch to revisit the numbers in his head. It was tight, and he wasn’t sure it would work. He sighed, a sense of resignation settling in. 'Look, let me... Let me go back over the numbers for this week,' he muttered, the weight of responsibility evident in his furrowed brow. “I can maybe give you an advance, but that’ll come out of your next paycheck.”

Cloud thought about it for all of a second before, “Yeah, okay, I’ll take that.”

Branch rubbed his eyes again, a silent plea for patience, before relenting and handing Cloud the key to unlock the refrigerators. The lanky man headed up to the front to tackle that task, providing Branch with a brief respite to retreat into his office. The muffled sounds of the shop seeped through the closed door as he pondered how to navigate this financial twist.

It could have been worse, he mused. The delivery truck could have died or some other calamity could have befallen them. Counting his blessings, he considered the logistics. If he was able to secure the deposit from the wedding consultation today, he could supplement Cloud's advance without causing any significant disruptions.

Deep in thought, he weighed the pros and cons. With a plan forming in his mind, he decided to go to the bank later in the day to get their checks made up. Adding the advance to Cloud's paycheck seemed like a feasible solution, accompanied by a memo explaining the addition. It was a minor complication in the grand scheme of things, but Branch was determined to make it work.

The inventory flowed smoothly. Surveying the delivery, Branch was pleasantly surprised. The floral cargo, delicate and vibrant, seemed to have weathered the journey exceptionally well. A new hybrid rose, a gift from the supplier, stood out with its captivating pink-red hue adorned with delicate splatters of pale yellow—a visually striking addition. While it might not resonate with the usual older clientele, Branch was confident it would catch the eye of younger customers.

As the clock struck 7 am, the inventory was finally complete and Branch unlocked the shop for the day. He reiterated the schedule to Cloud, emphasizing the priority of morning deliveries followed by any-time deliveries. A strict timeline governed the day, with Cloud needing to return by 2 pm to cover the front of the shop while Branch had the consultation. The remainder of the any-time deliveries would follow. Realistically, Cloud stood a good chance of finishing early today, barring unforeseen mishaps.

Mindful of potential issues, Branch checked the spare tire and confirmed Cloud had the tow company's number saved. As he went through the pre-trip checklist, he impressed upon Cloud the gravity of the day's timeline. It wasn’t a request; it carried the weight of a veiled threat. Any hint of imperfection could cost Cloud his paycheck, a stern warning. Cloud, however, seemed unfazed, responding with casual assurance.

“No worries, Boss Man, you can count on me,” Cloud declared as he shut the back of the truck and made his way to the driver’s side. Branch watched skeptically as the engine roared to life. In this instance, he trusted Cloud about as far as he could throw him. He rolled his eyes lightly as Cloud drove away. Branch couldn't help but rub his temple, trying to will away the dull pulse that lingered. He shut and locked up the back door.

Slowly, Branch made his way to the front of the store, completing the process of opening up for the day. The living plants beckoned, their need for water demanding his attention. A quick survey revealed which arrangements were showing signs of decline, requiring his skilled touch for replacements. This was his favorite part of the day – just him and the flowers, the act of creating and nurturing. It provided a sanctuary of sorts, a space where he could lose himself in the simplicity of the task.

This daily ritual allowed him to turn off his mind and immerse himself in the therapeutic process of working with the blooms. It was a form of meditation, an escape into the world of petals and leaves where he could lose himself in the act of arranging and cultivating. Branch didn’t like to be idle. Being productive, and hands busy, gave him little time for his mind to wander. It provided a shield against the nagging thoughts that could encroach during moments of stillness.

The day unfolded in a flurry of petals and purpose—crafting arrangements, assisting customers, and biding time until his scheduled consultation with Minuet. Cloud's punctuality was a welcome relief, and with a courteous gesture, Branch ushered the petite woman into his office, a haven adorned with vibrant flower sketches adorning the walls.

Branch's eyes, keen and observant, studied the nuances of Minuet's expressions as they traversed the vast garden of floral ideas. As they delved into the intricacies of the designs, Branch took note of every preference and aversion, considering her likes and dislikes with the precision of an artist carving a masterpiece. He guided her through a myriad of possibilities, discussing the language of flowers and the emotions each bloom could convey.

Minuet, a tiny woman with a regal air, expressed her desires with a soft-spoken elegance. Her round appearance held a certain regality, a paradox that intrigued Branch. He listened attentively as she shared her vision for the arrangements, the colors that spoke to her, and the textures that resonated with the essence of her celebration.

Amidst the discussion, Branch skillfully intertwined his expertise with Minuet's preferences, creating a symphony of ideas that harmonized with her personality. He unfolded sketches and palettes, allowing her to visualize each arrangement in the blooming theater of her imagination.

The meeting covered more than just the tangible aspects of the arrangements. It became a dance of shared creativity, a collaborative journey where Branch not only understood Minuet's floral dreams but also the emotions she wished to evoke on her special day. The estimated budget, the deadline, and the delivery schedule were all seamlessly intertwined with the evolving designs.

As they navigated back to the front of the shop, she disclosed that she still had a few more florists to evaluate before reaching a final decision. The revelation cast a shadow over Branch, the weight of the challenge evident as he considered the competitive pricing of larger companies. Somewhat naively, he had harbored the hope that the distinctive nature of his designs would prove compelling enough to sway her decision.

Approaching the front, a woman's voice unexpectedly pierced the air, exclaiming, "Minuet?? Oh my GOD! Hi!"

Poppy looked familiar, and Branch strained to place where he had encountered her before. It wasn’t until she mentioned a tattoo shop that the puzzle pieces clicked into place, and his stomach sank. It was the bell ringer. About a week had elapsed since her last visit, and he hadn't anticipated her swift return.

Unfortunately, during her previous visit, he had been a little short with her, and now Branch found himself grappling with a sense of discomfort. The weight of his short fuse hung over him, a problem that had the potential to impact business. Though unintentional, it was an issue he had been actively trying to address. Now, the consequences of his actions loomed, threatening to hinder him from securing a much-needed job.

The women happily chatted about the upcoming wedding and preparations. Branch stood awkwardly, his hands fidgeting with a stray piece of paper. Uncertainty crept into his expression as he pondered what he should do. Should he just stand there, waiting for a break in their conversation? Should he interrupt and let her know he was available to move forward with the arrangements? Or should he retreat to the back, assuming their business was complete? The expectations eluded him, and he could feel his palms starting to sweat.

“Wait, so if you’re here, this is for your flowers?” Poppy tilted her head, her smile radiating excitement. Branch observed her, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, as she squeezed her friend's hands.

Minuet nodded happily, “Yes, we’re sparing no expense. It’s going to be beautiful.”

“Well, then you made the right choice; Branch’s work is amazing.”

Branch, leaning against the counter, crossed his arms, a perplexed frown on his face. Why was she acting like this? After what happened last time? She complimented his work, encouraging the choice of his shop. Why was she doing that? She didn’t even know him.

“Oh, well, I hadn’t decided yet but,” Minuet seemed to pause and think, her gaze shifting from Poppy to the various floral displays, “If you’re giving him the stamp of approval, then he must be very good.” She exchanged a seemingly knowing look with Poppy. He couldn’t read what it meant before she continued, “The designs were stunning, none of the other shops so far could compete.”

“If you’re sparing no expense, you might as well go with the best, right?” Poppy encouraged, her eyes fixed on an array of floral arrangements, one of the few he had remade just this morning.

“You’re right, of course.” Minuet looked back at Branch, her smile light and decision apparent in her eyes. “Get the contract; I’ve decided.”

Branch stared at the two women as his brain screeched to a stop. This utter stranger had just saved the biggest contract he had ever had at the shop. For literally no reason. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. They both stared at him as he stood there, a deer caught in headlights before he quietly apologized and rushed back to his office to get the paperwork. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Poppy and Minuet to exchange amused glances.

In the office, Branch's mind raced with a thousand questions. What was her angle? No one did things like that for no reason. Why would this Poppy girl encourage her friend to use his shop when she, herself, had only been here once before? It didn’t make any sense. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration, and confusion etched across his face as he fumbled through drawers for the necessary documents.

Paperwork in hand, he made his way back up front. The two women were engaged in laughter and conversation as if they hadn’t just upended his world. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention.

Minuet happily signed the contract, her signature flowing elegantly on the dotted line, and she placed the deposit without hesitation. Once she had a copy, she and Poppy exchanged farewells, the cheerful atmosphere lingering as Minuet made her way out of the shop. Branch couldn't believe his luck. The contract for the flowers for the wedding of the year was now in his hands. This unexpected turn of events felt like the turnaround he desperately needed, and it all happened thanks to the bell ringer.

As Branch picked up the paperwork, he checked it for the third time, almost in disbelief that this was happening. It was. The ink on the contract confirmed that he had just secured a significant deal for his shop. He couldn't help but smile, a mix of relief and excitement flooding over him.

She, the bell ringer, was currently standing in front of the refrigerators, deep in thought as she debated on what flowers she wanted. He hadn’t paid much attention to her the last time she had come in. Not surprising considering she had startled him, causing him to knock over his toolbox. She was of average height, perhaps an inch or so taller than him, with an air of practicality in her movements. Her freckled face and bright pink hair pulled into a high ponytail caught his attention. He couldn't help but notice the half-leg Lisa Frank-like tattoo on display. It was as vibrant and eye-catching as a flare in the night.

“Thank you,” the words seemed to appear in the air, Branch's gratitude escaping before he even realized he was going to speak. She looked over at him, her eyes widening in apparent surprise at his initiation of conversation. For a moment, there was a silence between them.

She blinked at him owlishly, as if trying to figure out why he was thanking her. When understanding dawned, her smile seemed to split her face, genuinely thrilled at the unexpected interaction. It was almost blinding in its warmth. She started speaking, almost a mile a minute, explaining that this was just who she was and that Branch deserved all the credit due to his work. The words poured out of her, a torrent of enthusiastic gratitude that seemed to carry a touch of nervous energy.

Branch, taken aback by the sudden flood of words, could only listen as she attributed the success to him. Her animated explanation seemed to go on and on as if she believed that the sheer volume of words could adequately convey her appreciation. In the midst of it, Branch couldn't help but feel utter bewilderment. Who needed to talk that much to say 'You’re welcome'?

Cloud, for some inexplicable reason, wore the dumbest smile Branch had ever seen before excusing himself to finish deliveries. Left alone with Poppy, the woman who seemed to subsist solely on sugar, Branch found himself tangled in a web of uncertainty. It was a lot to handle. His stomach twisted with the familiar anxiety he loathed. Talking to her was the last thing he wanted, even if she had been helpful.

Poppy, seemingly impervious to Branch's subtle discomfort, prattled on about her day with unwavering enthusiasm. Each word spilled from her lips like a cascade of cheer, detailing the resounding success of the flowers from their last encounter. Her anticipation for Branch's creative touch at Minuet’s wedding was palpable in the animated rhythm of her speech. Yet, amidst the lively exchange, a noticeable gap loomed – she hadn't divulged a single detail about her own floral preferences for the week.

Branch was confused. Was she here to buy flowers or just talk to him? He didn’t have time to talk.

He must have been silent for too long because, as abruptly as the conversation began, it appeared to have halted. Glancing back at her, he found her staring at him, expectantly. The knot of unease coiled in his stomach, tightening with each passing moment, a silent companion to his discomfort. Had he missed something? It seemed she had posed a question, but he had inadvertently tuned her out. The faint hum of the refrigeration unit accentuated the awkward silence.

Branch wracked his brain, attempting to grasp the question he had neglected to answer. This was precisely why he detested engaging in prolonged conversations. The soft rustling of petals being adjusted in nearby arrangements permeated the air. What was supposed to be a simple transaction—request flowers, sell flowers, and then the customer leaves—had morphed into an unnecessarily complex ordeal thanks to Poppy's relentless chatter.

She giggled, the sound echoing through the small shop. Branch blinked. Was she laughing at him?

“I asked, how has your day been?”

Oh. “Oh.”

She laughed again, her laughter like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Branch must have made a face, though he wasn’t sure what kind would prompt a laugh like that. He absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, the coarse weave of his shirt offering resistance to his fingertips. As if seeking refuge, he averted his eyes, unwilling to confront the intensity of the moment. The warmth of her attention made him feel seen. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and he wasn't sure if he liked it; he hadn’t felt truly seen in a really long time. Not since—his brow furrowed, and abruptly, he shoved the unwanted thought away, unwilling to let it linger.

"It’s been fine. Can I help you?” He frowned again, regretting the unintended harshness in his tone. Surprisingly, her smile hadn’t dropped at all. Instead, she had shifted her attention back to the flowers, as if choosing to focus on the vibrant blooms rather than his momentary lapse.

“I need some new bouquets for the shop. You did amazing last time, and they’re starting to wilt. I don’t really know much about flowers, and I was kind of hoping you’d pick some again?” When she looked back, a genuine sincerity seemed to color her gaze, striking him with the authenticity of her request.

Branch wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do. It wasn’t like he knew her. Last time, the bouquets he’d crafted had been aesthetically pleasing, yes, but the underlying meanings had been less than kind. He’d essentially conveyed his annoyance through the choice of flowers, each arrangement silently screaming his feelings at her. And she clearly hadn’t bothered to look up their meanings. A lump of guilt settled in his throat. Then she’d helped him, with no prompting at all. Gramma would be ashamed. He reached up, rubbing his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. Reluctantly, he made his way out from behind the counter and began perusing the flowers.

Starting with sunflowers—cheerful and bright—he chose them for their symbolic meaning of happiness and gratitude. Yellow would be the key here. Moving on, he selected a variety of matching tulips. Blue hydrangeas, also representing gratitude, and a few white daisies for new beginnings. He hesitated, deep in thought. One more element would be good. He moved to the new roses he’d received today and incorporated them into the arrangement. Striated roses were relatively newer and didn’t carry a well-defined symbolism as many other flowers did. The darker pink markings made a lovely contrast against the two yellow blooms. Finally, some simple ferns for sincerity.

He could feel her eyes boring into his back, burning him with her undivided attention. Overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the interaction, Branch, with a practiced detachment, attempted to shield himself from the excess. As he approached the front counter, he braced against the torrent of social energy, a silent plea for respite. Laying the large bundle of flowers next to him, he reached into the drawer on his left and pulled out one of his shears. It was muscle memory; he worked while watching and reading the flowers, observing the way they leaned and the turn of their leaves on the stems.

He determined the center for each bouquet—a sunflower—and worked his way out. Each flower was explicitly placed to look its very best and enhance the rest of the bouquet. She was silent the whole time he worked. Glancing up at her once to see why, he found her eyes fixed on his hands, completely enraptured by what he was doing. The attention was immense, and he felt his ears burn under the gravity of her gaze. Conflicting emotions swirled within him - a mix of discomfort, surprise, and a hint of something he couldn't quite place. As he tied off the bouquets, he averted his eyes back to his work.

She gushed. In his six years of shop ownership, no one had adorned his creations with such unabashed enthusiasm, leaving him simultaneously humbled and confused. It was nice? He wasn’t sure. It was still far too much, far too high energy for him. But his client was pleased, and she had made it clear that she was so happy she had found the shop. To his surprise again—she was very good at surprising him, apparently—she hadn’t hinted, asked, or even downright demanded a discount for her assistance. He gave her the full price for each bouquet, and she was happy to pay it.

She said her goodbyes and stated her intention to be back next week. A new regular. Branch didn’t think he would get used to how outgoing she was, but if she stayed this good of a customer, he supposed it wouldn’t be too bad if she kept coming back.

Chapter Text

On that slightly overcast Saturday morning, Poppy approached the entrance of Think P’Ink with a bounce in her step. Her keys jingled on her hip with every almost-skip she made. The vibrant pink sign, a beacon of creative expression against the muted sky, boasted intricate tattoo designs that seemed to come alive in the morning light. A mural, a visual ode to the artistry within, adorned one side of the building. Splashes of vibrant colors danced across the wall, intertwining dragons and blooming flowers telling stories only a tattoo artist could understand. The shop seamlessly connected to the neighboring metaphysical store on the other side, creating a shared canvas along Main Street.

Without much regard for the clock, Poppy turned the lock, granting herself entry into the haven she'd meticulously crafted from the ground up. The heavy metal and glass door responded with a determined groan, a familiar harmony in her morning routine. As she stepped inside, the creak of the door echoed, enveloping her in the distinct atmosphere of her tattoo sanctuary.

Her morning ritual unfolded with a meticulous dance, a symphony of gestures that transformed the space into a pristine canvas. Health and safety weren't just principles at Poppy's establishment; they were revered guardians. With a deep commitment to ensuring a spotless environment, she had created a haven where people could relax and have fun while getting their tattoos. Not a single hint of potential discomfort dared to surface under her watchful eye.

Every inch of the shop, from the floors to the windows, chairs, and counters, received its daily cleaning and sterilization. The scent of gentle disinfectant hung in the air, a reassuring signal to clients that cleanliness was a top priority. Poppy's dedication echoed in the gleaming surfaces, providing a sense of tranquility to those entering her creative domain.

With the assurance of a flawlessly sanitized space, Poppy unleashed the vivacity of her shop. A flick of a switch banished the morning dimness as lights danced to life, revealing the carefully curated tattoo station awaiting its daily transformation. The sound system came alive with a vibrant pop station, familiar strains, and infectious choruses filling the air. A burst of energy surged through Poppy's veins, and, unable to resist the rhythm, she found herself dancing with infectious joy.

Her hands moved with the precision of a choreographed dance, retrieving inks from neatly organized shelves and wiping down her chair with practiced efficiency—all in tune with the pulsating rhythm of the music. The tattoo station, once dormant, now buzzed with life under the spell of Poppy's creative energy, promising not just ink on skin but an experience of relaxation and fun.

As a new song burst through the speakers, Poppy's excitement overflowed. The shop reverberated with her joyous squeal as she cranked up the volume, instantly recognizing the distinctive voice of one of her current favorite singers. The smoother beat filled the air, setting the rhythm for the day ahead. The lyrics, a melodic invitation, intertwined with the clatter of Poppy's preparations: 'Back where you are or I can take you home, I think my brother might like you, Just not in the same way I do, yeah.'

Floyd, with his incredible voice and burgeoning popularity, held a special place in Poppy's heart. She adored not only his singing style but also his overall aesthetic, as evidenced by the pictures she'd seen. The desire to catch him in concert burned within her, although he hadn't graced their city with a performance yet.

Poppy lost herself in the music, singing along at the top of her lungs, her body swaying and dancing to the infectious beat. The lively tunes cocooned her in a world within the shop's walls, momentarily shutting out everything beyond the front doors. Her hands moved with the rhythm, effortlessly arranging tattooing essentials with an infectious joy that mirrored the melody.

However, the spell was abruptly shattered by a sudden bang on the door, causing Poppy to jump and unleash an involuntary scream of surprise. The vibrant melody continued without her accompaniment as she whipped around, her heart still racing from the unexpected interruption. There, at the entrance, stood Barb, doubled over in laughter, clearly finding the whole situation uproariously funny.

Poppy, caught between embarrassment and amusement, couldn't help but crack a smile at Barb's infectious laughter. She approached the door and, with a hint of playful annoyance, unlocked it. Barb, practically wheezing, managed to gasp out, “Holy shit, Popsqueak, what was that? A one-woman Coachella??”

Poppy couldn't suppress a laugh, her embarrassment melting away in the warmth of Barb's humor. "Well, I was just getting into the groove," she replied, feigning seriousness, "preparing the shop with some extra enthusiasm today."

Still chuckling, Barb slipped past Poppy through the door, her entrance marked by the clattering of her boots on the tattoo shop's floor. She made her way toward her usual back corner, her distinctive mohawk down, hinting at a lazy day ahead. The perpetual tiredness in her eyes was a constant, perhaps owing to the stubborn remnants of eye makeup that never seemed to come off.

Poppy let the door swing shut behind her friend, the lively melody of the pop song now confined within the shop's walls. With a glance at Barb's retreating figure, Poppy headed to the sound system. With deft fingers, she adjusted the volume, dialing down the music from a blaring intensity to a more manageable level. “So what’s on the docket today, Barb?”

“I got that dragon chest piece coming in at 10,” Barb announced as she settled onto her stool, casually tossing her bag into a corner before retrieving her art book. She flipped through its pages with practiced ease, the worn edges and ink-stained sketches telling tales of countless creative sessions. "Then I got that kabuki mask piece at 2, and the photo-realistic black and gray consult at 6. Should get a deposit today."

Poppy, leaning against the sound system, listened intently as she mentally organized the day's schedule."That sounds great,” she said, warmly agreeing. Barb hummed in response. Poppy let her eyes wander out the wall of windows at the front of the shop, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. She was starting to wonder where Cooper was. He’d been getting up when she’d left their shared apartment. He’d been half-asleep, but she had reminded him that he had an earlier appointment today.

Cooper's tendency to lose track of time, coupled with his perpetually laid-back demeanor, often made mornings a bit of a challenge. As her gaze lingered on the lazy street, she couldn't help but hope he'd make it in time for his appointment. However, the familiar face of her client appeared, strolling up the sidewalk. Poppy couldn't suppress her grin and headed back toward her station to finish setting up her gun and other supplies.

As she got her client comfortable and the final stencil set, they went over the final touches and tweaks. Poppy was elated for this piece—a super-deformed version of Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon, curled around her client's bicep, playfully chasing a fish. She moved to start as the front door swung open. Cooper, his signature green hat missing, had his shorter locs pulled into a half ponytail, with a few loose ones framing his face. His big smile was apologetic as he carried in a holder full of coffees from Poppy’s favorite cafe. “Sorry, Poppy! The line was super long, like really long.”

Poppy's initial concern melted into a warm smile. "No worries, Coop. You brought the cavalry," she teased, gesturing to the coffees."When’s your client getting here?”

“In like,” he glanced at the clock above the door, “Fifteen? I think. Or maybe at 10? I need to check.”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Poppy shook her head, her mock exasperation turning into a smirk. "Always keeping us on our toes, huh?" she said, dipping her needle into the ink with a practiced motion. Her fingers moved deftly, the metallic clink of the needle punctuating the air. "So, what's your masterpiece for today?"

Cooper scratched his head, a goofy grin stretching across his face. “Oh, I dunno, he asked me to draw a bunch of stuff in my style and he’d pick one when he gets here. So it's a surprise for everybody.”

Barb, who had been quietly setting up her station, couldn't resist chiming in. With a teasing grin, she glanced up from her work. "Ah, the classic Cooper approach. Leave it all to fate and let the universe decide."

Cooper chuckled lightly. "Hey, it works for me! Keeps things interesting."

Poppy laughed, the sound echoing through the room. With a twirl of her hand, she gestured towards Cooper’s work area, the scent of ink lingering in the air. "Well, I hope your client has a good sense of humor, Coop. You might end up with a masterpiece or a masterpiece in the making."

As the banter settled into a comfortable rhythm, Poppy focused on her client, the tattoo machine's soft hum becoming a soothing melody in the background. The lines of Toothless began to come to life under her skilled hands, and the room filled with the steady buzz of creative energy. With every stroke, the dragon's playful spirit emerged, capturing the essence of the animated character in vibrant colors.

Meanwhile, Cooper, still scratching his head over the uncertainty of his client's preferences, continued setting up his station. His goofy grin persisted, and Barb, ever the silent artist at work, immersed herself in the intricate details of her masterpiece. Cooper's hands moved with a certain clumsiness, but a genuine enthusiasm for his craft shone through. Barb, on the other hand, worked with meticulous precision, her focus unwavering as she etched intricate designs onto her client's skin.

The front door chimed open, announcing the arrival of another client. The trio's banter quieted, replaced by the anticipation of a new artistic endeavor. Cooper, having finished arranging his inks, glanced over with a grin. "Time for my dancing pickle masterpiece to make its debut," he quipped, a twinkle in his eye.

Barb rolled her eyes in mock disdain, but a playful smirk betrayed her amusement. "No one wants to see your pickle, dude."

Laughter echoed through the vibrant space of the tattoo shop, weaving through the ebb and flow of clients, banter, and the shared passion for transforming skin into living art. The lively rhythm continued for several hours until Poppy found herself on her final client of the night—a woman who had gone through multiple consults, grappling with indecision before finally settling on a design.

With meticulous care, Poppy sanitized her chair, each stroke of the cleaning cloth a ritual anticipating the satisfaction of completing the intricate artwork. As the bell chimed at the front door, signaling a new arrival, her joy faltered. There in the doorway stood Rhythm—tall, with richly dark skin and a striking head of purple hair elegantly tied up.

The apologetic expression on Rhythm's face, however, betrayed an unexpected twist, and Poppy realized it meant that Rhythm had changed her mind. Again.

"R, no! We finished the design," Poppy exclaimed, her initial grin fading as she registered the unexpected plea.

Rhythm's remorseful look deepened, her eyes reflecting the conflict within. "I know Poppy, but it's one tiny change, please? It's for my sister."

A mix of frustration and resignation clouded Poppy's expression. The beautifully crafted ocean scene with an ornamental frame, a masterpiece that told the story of childhood trips to the beach, was already set up and ready to adorn her client's skin. The sentimental value woven into every line and curve was undeniable. However, the pleading look in Rhythm's eyes tugged at Poppy's empathy, softening the edges of her professional demeanor.

"What were you thinking? I'll tell you if it'll work, and you have to listen to me," Poppy sighed. She wasn’t going to lie; changing the design now could make it something Rhythm hated, and she didn’t want to change it.

Rhythm, now leaning over the counter toward Poppy's workspace, pleaded her case. "I just thought we could add some flowers around the frame. Baby's breath. They're supposed to symbolize deep everlasting love, but it's not just romantic; it means familial love. Or buttercups?"

Poppy, despite her initial frustration, considered the proposal. The mention of flowers softened the tension in the room, and she visualized the delicate blooms weaving around the ornamental frame. Baby’s breath wouldn't work. Buttercups with their vibrant yellow hues, however, could indeed complement the existing design, adding layers of meaning to the already sentimental tattoo. The possibility unfolded in her mind like a canvas waiting to be painted, and a subtle nod of approval followed.

Poppy swiftly sanitized Rhythm's thigh, the swish of the cleaning cloth a prelude to the transformative artwork about to unfold. With precision, she carefully placed the stencil, ensuring its alignment mirrored the envisioned beauty. Once satisfied, Poppy grabbed a marker, summoned reference pictures, and began hand-drawing the flowers.

"So, I get baby’s breath, and we’re not doing those, by the way. But why Buttercups?" Poppy inquired, her artistic focus intertwining with genuine curiosity.

Rhythm, comfortably reclined in the seat, beamed with enthusiasm. "Well, they mean joy and youth, but they also symbolize happiness and friendship, among other things. It encapsulates my relationship with my sister. I love B, and I want her to know that, no matter how many times we don’t agree on something—be it engineering homework or whatever—I love her and appreciate what she brings to my life, you know?"

“I get that,” Poppy agreed, her tone carrying a shared sentiment. She couldn’t imagine her life without Viva. Her older sister was one of the most important people in her life, a constant pillar of support and understanding. They had, like most siblings, engaged in their fair share of arguments, especially during Poppy's teenage years. Yet, Viva had been there for her through thick and thin. Poppy was pretty sure Viva would commit war crimes for her. The thought brought a small, fond smile to her lips.

“Okay, last chance before we get started,” Poppy declared, pulling the marker away from Rhythm's thigh. The room buzzed with the low hum of the tattoo machine from where Cooper was working. Poppy's eyes, a mix of concentration and anticipation, met Rhythm's. “What do you think?”

Rhythm beamed, her eyes lighting up with excitement at the final adjustments. “Perfect! Let's do this!”

As Poppy delicately began outlining the intricate details, Rhythm's gaze wandered around the room, curiosity dancing in her eyes. “Oh! A new bouquet! Who’s that from?”

Poppy chuckled, her movements flowing with a rhythmic precision as she dipped the needle into more ink. “I bought them. Pretty, right? Though, the florist picked them out.”

Rhythm's eyes sparkled with playful mischief, and she practically sang, “Looks like someone's got a cruuuuush.” Her words hung in the air, and Poppy, momentarily distracted from her work, glanced back at Rhythm with a puzzled expression. Rhythm looked back at her like she was dense. “Yellow Tulips? Girl, seriously? They literally mean ‘there’s sunshine in your smile.’ It's like Victorian flower code.”

Poppy's puzzlement deepened, and she couldn't help but laugh, a mix of embarrassment and amusement coloring her expression. That couldn’t be right. Branch hadn’t liked her at all at first, and the second time he’d been distracted with a client. He’d been grateful for her to step in, but at most he simply didn’t hate her.

“No way, doesn’t the whole bouquet have to be taken into account? They have to have other meanings.”

Rhythm, undeterred by Poppy's skepticism, pulled out her phone, her fingers dancing over the screen as she began searching for the meanings behind each flower. Poppy, successfully distracting her client, took a moment to appreciate the canvas before her. The soft whir of the tattoo machine resumed, marking the return to the intricate dance between artist and canvas.

“Okay, let's see, Sunflowers mean happiness, a long life, lucky charm, a bunch of things really,” Rhythm tapped at her phone, her enthusiasm contagious. Poppy grinned, appreciating the vibrancy Rhythm brought to the conversation. “Daisies are … joy, cheerfulness, purity, new beginnings.” Her face scrunched up, “Blue hydrangea means… forgiveness? Regret? Huh, weird, I have no idea about the roses. So… does that stuff make sense? Maybe the florist picked them 'cause they looked good together.”

Poppy paused in her work again, her needle hovering over the delicate canvas of Rhythm's skin. She glanced at the flowers, considering their unintentional symbolism. A grin played on her lips. “No... I think I get it.”

“Wanna share with the class, Miss Tattoo Artist?” Rhythm teased, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Well,” Poppy hesitated, her gaze momentarily shifting from the tattoo to meet Rhythm's earnestly interested eyes. The need to explain, fueled by Rhythm's genuine curiosity, pushed her to share the story. “I went to the shop for the first time like a week or so ago? And I kinda made him break something while I was there. Totally my fault; I rang the bell upfront a ton of times out of nowhere and startled him. He was SUPER mad at me, though, and barely talked to me at all that first visit. I mean, he didn’t even wanna tell me his name.” As she recounted the tale, Poppy focused on the lines, her movements precise, careful to prevent any type of blowout with the ink on Rhythm's skin.

“Then, yesterday, I went into the shop to get some more flowers because—Oh my gosh, I forgot to start with—I found the shop because my normal florist went out of business. So I go into the shop, and—Wait, do you know Minuet?”

Rhythm raised an eyebrow before thinking, “Isn't she that famous violinist that’s getting married?”

“YES! Her! Well, she’s a friend of mine, and she was at the shop, and I was so surprised! She was there getting a quote for her floral arrangements for her wedding, and I was so excited cuz the arrangements I got last time were just as pretty as those,” Poppy gestured vaguely with her free hand toward the bouquet on the counter, “I guess she hadn't decided on who she was going with, and I may have convinced her to use the flower shop.” Poppy's hands moved with precision, the tattoo machine buzzing softly as she focused on her work. The lines were looking smooth, and she couldn't help but feel pleased with the progress. Perfection could not be rushed.

“Branch, that's the owner by the way,” She clarified, glancing up at Rhythm, “He looked so surprised. Seriously like a bunny caught in a trap, just totally stared at me like I had three heads. But then Minuet left and he thanked me. I think he’s more, like, nervous around people than actually mean. Then he made me the bouquet. So, based on all that, I think he’s trying to say he’s sorry for being mean to me, thank you for helping, and let’s start over. At least that's what I hope he’s asking.”

“Oh, so it's you that has the crush,” Rhythm’s tone was teasing, and Poppy pulled the tattoo gun away from her skin.

“R, you legit cannot try and make me fluster while I’m working on you if you want these lines to stay straight,” Poppy admonished, her gaze shifting from her client's skin to meet Rhythm's eyes. A professional mask clung to her features, attempting to conceal the flush that betrayed her embarrassment. Damn her pale, practically translucent skin—it was a canvas for every hint of emotion. The subtlest touch of embarrassment, and she blushed like a lobster.

Rhythm laughed, “Sorry, sorry, continue.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but she settled back, allowing Poppy to resume her work.

“But he’s cute right?”

“Rhythm, Stop!”

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung lightly in the air as Poppy meticulously cleaned and cared for the freshly-inked masterpiece. She took her time, ensuring that every detail was perfect. The colors on the skin were vibrant, a kaleidoscope of artistry that brought the design to life. Poppy couldn't help but admire her handiwork, a fusion of creativity and skill that transformed a blank canvas into a personal expression.

Rhythm's excitement radiated throughout the room as she marveled at the finished tattoo. The yellow flowers, now a permanent part of her skin, added a touch of nature's beauty to the intricate design. Despite the knowledge that colors would naturally soften with time, the immediate result was nothing short of breathtaking.

As they moved on to discussing aftercare, Poppy explained each step with the utmost care, providing Rhythm with a detailed plan to ensure the longevity and vibrancy of her new artwork. The business end of the transaction followed, with Rhythm generously paying for the exceptional service and adding a considerable tip as an acknowledgment of Poppy's talent.

They shared a hug before Rhythm made her way out of the shop and on to share her excitement with her younger sister. She smiled as the door closed behind her, signaling the end of the tattooing portion of her day.

“You never answered her question,” Poppy's attention shifted abruptly as Barb's voice cut through the air, and she turned to find her friend casually leaning against the counter. Barb's nonchalant demeanor betrayed the subtle mischief glinting in her eyes as she picked at her teeth with her pinkie. A sense of curiosity and confusion flashed across Poppy's face, her raised eyebrow mirroring her silent inquiry about the unspoken question.

Barb, with deliberate slowness, turned her head to lock eyes with Poppy, a bored expression playing on her features. There was a pointed look, and both of Barb's eyebrows arched, emphasizing the question. “Is he hot?”

Poppy's eyes darted away, an involuntary reaction to the unabashed scrutiny of Barb's gaze. A flush of embarrassment painted her cheeks, the warmth intensifying as Barb's deliberate inquiry unfolded. The bored expression on Barb's face morphed into an impish grin, a subtle feral edge to her amusement.

"Oh my god, Barb!" Poppy exclaimed, her embarrassment evident in the faint stammer of her protest. She attempted to muster an irritated look, but her reddened complexion likely undermined the intended effect. Barb's laughter only fueled the rosy hue spreading across Poppy's features.

"Seriously, you have a girlfriend. Why do you care?" Poppy questioned, attempting to deflect the attention from her embarrassment.

"Because it embarrasses you," Barb grinned, the feral quality of her smile undeterred. Her eyes held a mischievous glint. "When's the last time you liked someone? Like, actually?"

Poppy parted her lips, ready to respond, but Barb interjected with a serious and annoyed tone. "Not counting Yogi Doolittle," she added, her expression retaining a stern edge.

Poppy's mouth snapped shut, her features contorting into a frown at the rude nickname directed at one of her best friends. An irritated trace lingered on Poppy's face, her eyes narrowing as she mulled over Barb's pointed remark. Though she tried to shake it off, the realization gnawed at her. When was the last time she genuinely liked someone?

The last few guys had vanished, leaving behind a sense of emptiness. They started as gentlemen, interested and polite, only to fade away, avoiding her even when they crossed paths again. The memory of the last guy lingered; it must have been a year ago.

Barb's smugness intensified as Poppy pondered. She couldn't deny it—she hadn't been on a date in forever. "Shut up," Poppy blurted, instantly regretting her words as Barb erupted into laughter.

Barb turned her body, leaning into the counter to hold her up as she practically howled with laughter. Stifled giggles joined the chorus behind Poppy. Whipping around, she caught Cooper, the traitor, trying not to lose it as he cleaned up his client's finished tattoo. “Cooper, no! Not you too!”

“I’m Sorry, Poppy!” It wasn’t very convincing the way he was shaking with unloosed laughter.

Barb, barely in control of her laughter, threw her arm around Poppy’s shoulder and pulled her into a conspiratorial whisper. “But seriously, don’t leave me hanging. Is he?”

As Poppy felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, she couldn't deny the magnetic pull that drew her attention to Branch. A subtle attraction had begun to weave its way through her thoughts and she found herself captivated by the nuances of his presence. Each encounter unveiled a layer of appeal, and it was his hands that held a particular allure, especially when engaged in the art of crafting bouquets for her.

His hands, noticeably larger than hers, had conveyed an undeniable strength through the sturdy fingers adorned with the faintest hint of calluses. The imprints of his labor, etched onto his skin, told a tale of dedication and hard work. His warm olive complexion, darker than hers, provided a striking visual contrast that captured her attention, and the transition from the back of his hand to his palms held a captivating beauty of its own.

Yet, within the robust exterior, Poppy discovered an unexpected delicacy in the way his fingers moved. Each gesture, whether arranging or cutting the flowers, revealed a finesse that seemed to defy the inherent power his hands possessed. As she reminisced, she couldn't help but recall the gentle shift in his eyes—gentler, softer. She grappled for the right word, uncertain if "hesitant" was the perfect fit.

Poppy's attention returned to Barb, who sported an increasingly unhinged grin as she awaited an answer. Poppy was acutely aware that the longer she hesitated, the more imaginative Barb's conclusions would become. The dilemma she faced was evident—she couldn't afford to lie now, especially after the prolonged pause, as Barb had an uncanny ability to ferret out the truth. It was a predicament akin to being caught between a rock and a hard place.

"He's not unattractive," Poppy finally conceded, her admission carrying a hint of reluctance and a touch of something more.

“HA!” Barb sounded triumphant as she pulled away, “Coop! She admitted it!”

“I admitted nothing! Saying someone’s attractive and saying you like someone are two very different things!” Poppy retorted, crossing her arms defensively. Her gaze flickered toward the counter, her attempt to clarify only earning an eye roll from Barb. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she knew she wasn't convincing anyone with her denial.

Barb’s smile didn’t fade in the least; it only widened as she and Cooper began speculating on what this mysterious florist looked like. “I’m surprised you went back a second time,” Barb admitted, calling out as Poppy moved across the shop toward the back, her tone carrying a hint of amusement as she plopped onto her stool, prepping for her last client of the night.

“I mean…yeah?” Poppy supplied, pulling out her dinner, her stomach grumbling in agreement. The fridge door creaked softly as it closed, “I was a bit nervous honestly, but I don’t like people being mad at me. And it kinda was my fault.”

“But he’s nice now?” Cooper’s question broke through her thoughts. Poppy hesitated, her eyes lingering on the Tupperware in her hand as she contemplated.

"I think so, yeah," Poppy replied, her voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. She sat at the small table in the back of the tattoo parlor, absentmindedly swirling the leftovers that made up her dinner in its container. "I don’t know. I gotta get to know him better."

The two seemed contented with that answer and left her to eat, but now she was thinking. She didn't get many chances to talk to him, only ever seeing him when she went to the shop. Poppy's thoughts shifted to the monthly Business Association Meetings—a cornerstone for her in connecting with other business owners in the community. An idea began to take shape, a spark of inspiration igniting. Though connections were often fostered in those meetings, the conviction grew that she had never spotted Branch among the familiar faces.

As the prospect of inviting him to one of the meetings materialized, Poppy's mind played out scenarios. Would he even consider attending? She pondered the logistics, envisioning an opportunity for more substantial conversation than the hurried exchanges at the flower shop.

Standing up from the table, determination etched on her features, Poppy embraced her decision. The Business Association Meetings offered a chance to engage with Branch in a different context, beyond the fleeting moments of flower purchases and awkward interactions. A plan took shape, and with a resolute nod, she decided to extend the invitation.

Heading back to the front of the shop, where Barb was preparing for the last client of the day and Cooper was packing up to head back to their shared apartment, Poppy's mind buzzed with anticipation. This could work.

Chapter Text

The sun hung high over Main Street, casting a warm white glow that painted everything in hues of silver. As Poppy approached Rosie’s, the sunlight played with the leaves of the various trees lining the road, creating dappled patterns on the pavement beneath her feet. The air carried a hesitant warmth that came with late spring early summer, and the distant hum of the city cast a soundtrack to her growing turmoil.

Each step she took seemed to resonate with the anxious flutter in her stomach, a feeling that swarmed hard enough to make her palms go clammy. It was a weight on her mind, and while excitement was there she felt the worry more. She couldn’t help but replay the scenario in her mind.

Regret lingered from her earlier attempts to ask Branch to the Association Meeting. She knew that her hesitation had cost her precious time, and tonight’s meeting would be her last chance. The Association meetings were a monthly affair, and as much as she was worried she would say no, the idea of waiting until next month to try again seemed even more daunting.

Passing by the stationary store, she sighed softly. She allowed herself a glance at the papers and supplies displayed proudly in the window. She made a mental note to stop by on the way back. It would be a prize for completing her goal, a small act of self-encouragement. The hope that she had correctly interpreted the flowers fueled her steps, pushing her on.

The nervousness she felt was unfamiliar, a departure from her usual ease in reaching out to new people. The anticipation built with every step, every shop passed, but even with the nerves she couldn’t suppress the smile that slowly played on her lips. This wasn’t just about extending an invitation; it was about breaking down barriers, forging a connection, and creating a bridge between himself and Poppy.

Poppy couldn't help but recognize the stark contrast between her usual circle of friends and Branch. While she naturally gravitated toward those who matched her excitability, enthusiasm, and outgoing nature, Branch presented a challenge with his quiet and introverted demeanor. Their interaction had been brief, with him seldom uttering more than a sentence—a task that seemed to require effort almost like a chore.

Poppy found herself navigating uncharted territory with Branch, completely in the dark about his hobbies and interests. The closest comparison she could draw was to Barb, who had also been somewhat standoffish when they had first met. However, Barb had eventually shown her that shared interests weren’t always the foundation of a connection, even though they could certainly help.

Despite having different hobbies, they had connected through shared aspects of their lives. Both women adored their fathers, cherished their home lives, and had discovered common ground in their mutual love of music and live concerts. The music they enjoyed may have been different, but it hardly mattered. Poppy hoped that, in a similar vein, she could connect with Branch beyond the shallow business relationship they had now.

Poppy tried to be hopeful, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, she was only a few blocks from Rosie’s now. She imagined the meeting as a potential common ground for her and Branch. The Business Association, with its platform for collaboration and community growth, seemed tailored to someone who cared about their shop as much as he did. With the benefits vivid in her mind, Poppy found it hard to imagine a reason for him to decline.

The task seemed straightforward—enter the shop, extend the invitation, and elaborate on the advantages. If he didn't come, she could at least say she made the effort. Except, she wanted him to come. The meeting was an opportunity for more casual conversations, a chance to learn about him beyond the context of flowers and brief encounters. She knew almost nothing about him, not his age or last name. Poppy felt a pang of discomfort, realizing it felt somewhat disrespectful to frequent his shop and yet know so little about him. For Poppy, neighboring businesses were more than just transactions—they were friends. And friends were meant to be known.

Poppy took a moment at the crosswalk to collect herself, inhaling as she paused for the light. The flower shop, now in full view, had transformed some since her last visit a week ago. The shrubs up front had seemingly exploded with color, clusters of flowers clearly in full bloom amid the green leaves.

She glanced both ways before making her way across the street and allowing herself to be immersed in the warm undertones of the aromatic air. It reminded her of allspice. As she approached the front of the shop and the shrubs, she focused her attention on the flowers. Though she didn’t know the variety, she did find them stunning. The heart-shaped leaves, smooth and toothed along the edge, framed bundles of delicate and velvety four-petaled flowers. Poppy was a fan of the light pink-purple hue, too.

She ran her fingers over the leaves, taking in the sleek texture, before turning fully toward the front door. This was it, Poppy. No more chances. That was all she had to do. She allowed herself one more breath, steeling her nerves before grabbing the handle and opening the door. The perfumed air wrapped around her like a familiar embrace as she stepped past the threshold.

The shop’s entry boasted a brick landing that extended across the entirety of the front windows, a well-designed feature that provided a captivating view of the shop below. Whoever had designed the space had done so with precision, ensuring that visitors could take in the full essence of the shop even before fully entering. Centered on the landing was a small staircase, only a few steps leading down into the heart of the main space.

However, from her place at the top of the steps Poppy spotted a slight miscalculation in her plan.

Dinkles.

At the far end of the shop, behind the counter where the candle cabinet stood, was Dinkles. Dinkles was, in her opinion, the quietest person she had ever. Over the years of their acquaintance, she had only heard him speak a handful of times. Every time he did, though, it had taken her completely by surprise. His voice rumbled deeper than expected from someone of his stature and frame.

She stood staring into the shop, suddenly questioning her choice of being there. Poppy knew Dinkles decently well; him being best friends and roommates with her friend Biggie. While Dinkles preferred to listen and seemed to reserve his words for moments he thought important, Poppy knew anything that happened here today would inevitably find its way back to Biggie.

As much as she loved Biggie, he could be a bit of a gossip when the mood struck. It was just his nature, and she understood that if he thought something was important, he would share it with their friend group. So far, only two of her friends knew anything about her attempts to make friends with Branch, and even then Cooper and Barb were a little out of the loop. She wasn’t sure why, but she knew she wanted to keep it that way until she got to know Branch better, at least.

As Poppy considered a quick retreat back through the door, any real thought of disappearing back out of the door vanished when Dinkles turned. His gaze met hers with a lazy smile, and he offered a casual wave. Even from a distance, his dark eyes were visible, and Poppy couldn’t help but return the gesture with a light smile. This wasn’t the plan, but she could still make this work. Resolved, she descended the steps and approached Dinkles and the counter.

“Dinkles, my man! Hey! How are you?” She had never forced a smile before, but for once it felt just a bit too tight. She hated admitting to herself how much effort it took to fight the urge to glance toward the door to the back rooms. Dinkles responded with a slow, lazy smile, brushing some of his yellow-green hair out of his face– the pink tips were new. He leaned against the counter, resting on his elbows. His honey-toned skin seemed to glow in the early afternoon light.

He waved his hand back and forth in a “more or less” manner. It was an easy read; things were going okay.

Her smile was more genuine now, “Good. Great! I’m glad,” Poppy took a breath before glancing around; no one was there except them, “Hey, uh, is Branch in back?” She turned her attention back to Dinkles and almost immediately regretted it. His eyebrows had hiked nearly to his hairline, his eyebrow piercing missing a strand of his colorful hair. Poppy tried to keep her face as neutral as possible, but that familiar heat began to creep into her cheeks. “I wanted to talk to him about the Business Association?” It felt lame as she said it.

Dinkles blinked at her slowly, his gaze was scrutinizing; as if he were measuring her up or trying to piece together a puzzle. His head turned just enough that his eye could flick over his shoulder toward the back room door, and he pursed his lips slightly. There was a hesitation in his demeanor that Poppy couldn’t quite read. Recalling all the little details Biggie had shared about Dinkles’ long tenure at the shop, she knew he was well-versed in its ins and outs, having worked there for a few years, just shy of full-time while attending college.

As soft hum escaped Dinkles as he shifted his focus back to Poppy, a small crease between his brows formed, and she could tell he was uncertain. He seemed to possess a better understanding of Branch than she did, and there was a palpable hesitancy in letting her disrupt whatever he was working on. It became clear to Poppy she would need to go all out. She felt her brows creased as she widened her eyes, the plea completely open on her expression.

“Please?” she begged, a pleading pout finding its way to her lips and voice, “It’ll be good for the shop if he comes. I just want to invite him.” She clasped her hands together eyes wide and earnest. Poppy hoped that it was enough. Dinkles was often far more difficult to move than Biggie; Biggie was a total emotional softie compared to his roommate. She just needed to soften his reservations a bit, though.

He gazed at her, his expression caught in the crossfire of surprise and bewilderment, seemingly blindsided by the unexpected nature of her request. The tension crackled as his eyes locked onto hers, and the stare he gave was nothing short of intense. Poppy, determined, felt her eyes beginning to water as she maintained her unblinking eye contact.

After what felt like an eternity, Dinkles, overwhelmed, took a breath. The room seemed to exhale with him. Slowly, he leaned forward, his hand meeting his face with a mixture of frustration and resignation. The bridge of his nose felt the pinch of his fingers, and his eyes scrunched shut, blocking her out. A slow, defeated wave toward the door accompanied his surrender as if he was physically pushing away the weight of the decision. Poppy felt herself bubbling with delight. She had won!

“Thank you~,” Poppy sang, her voice carrying the cheer she felt. As she made her way to the back steps, nervousness danced alongside her excitement. It made her stomach tighten ever so slightly.

The anticipation had been building up for weeks, and now, finally granted access to the forbidden territory, Poppy’s heart raced with curiosity. She had never been allowed back here before, and her imagination had painted vivid pictures of what mysteries lay hidden behind the often closed door.

She felt charged with an electrifying blend of eagerness and apprehension that buzzed in her head as she crossed the threshold. The back room, however, greeted her with a surprising sense of ordinariness that contrasted sharply with her vivid expectations. The bubble of excitement she had carried with her seemed to deflate just a bit. The space, though functional, lacked any of the enchantment she had envisioned.

On her left, a large cooler was seamlessly embedded into the wall. It sat perpendicular to the wall that backed the main portion of the shop, its presence imposing yet utilitarian. The hum of its machinery droned quietly in the room around her.

Around the cooler and along the back wall, a mesmerizing array of wire, lattice, and various crafting supplies adorned the space. Ribbons and twine, a riot of colors spanning the entire spectrum of the rainbow and beyond, like a kaleidoscope of possibilities against the rather muted backdrop.

As Poppy’s eyes swept across the room, they landed on the stalwart workbench positioned just to her right. It had been one of the few things she had spied through the door during previous visits. It was old, the wood worn and soft looking from age and marred with marks from various tools. Its surface, mostly bare, held only a partially drawn blueprint. Various shears and tools dangled from the pegboard above the table, organized carefully by a hand that had worked at this table countless times.

To her surprise, adjacent to the table were carefully stored advertisements, framed and set aside with delicate care. Carefully tipping through them, she could see that each one seemed to capture a different moment of the shop's history. They had evolved to match with the changing times, reaching back further than she had anticipated. Each poster and flier beautifully painted or printed to keep the essence of the shop. As she straightened back up, carefully replacing the frames, something caught Poppy's eye.

On the wall next to the doorframe, discreetly positioned just above the table, hung a picture. It had been carefully positioned as if intent to hide it from the public eye. It was all silver tones, though age had clearly faded it to a degree with hints of sepia creeping in. Poppy turned, moving toward it to get a better look. Centered in the photo was an older man, seemingly in his forties, standing proudly as he carried a ten-year-old- girl in his arms. Both seemed to radiate pure joy as they beamed excitedly at the camera. Behind them stood a familiar storefront.

The photograph portrayed them in clothing that was, to her minimal knowledge of the subject, similar to that of the late thirties or early forties. As Poppy’s eyes lingered on the framed snapshot, a realization dawned on her—this must be a picture of the original owner and his daughter. The warmth and connection between them were easy to read, even in the stillness of the photograph. A fuzzy warmth spread through Poppy as she looked over the picture, and she couldn't help wondering if the shop had been named after the little girl in the photo.

Poppy turned, her steps echoing softly in the relatively confined space as she ventured deeper into the back. The area, in all honesty, wasn’t that big. A bathroom was nestled discreetly in the back corner, and as she traversed the short hallway, her eyes caught sight of a door that seemed to lead to the office. The hushed sounds of a chair shifting and the gentle murmur of pen on paper gradually infiltrated her hearing, accompanied only by the drone of the freezer and the rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. Though she wasn’t intentionally trying to be stealthy, Poppy moved with a quiet reverence, trying to be mindful of not disrupting the quiet too much.

Unable to resist the pull of curiosity, Poppy couldn’t help but steal a peek into the slightly ajar office before announcing her presence. Inside, Branch was stationed at a substantial wooden desk, almost cocooned over a sheet of paper. His temple rested against his hand and he leaned heavily on his elbow, engrossed in the document beneath him. Around the desk, documents had seemingly made themselves at home, forming piles that were just-barely-organized chaos. While the exact nature of Branch’s task was hard to decipher, it was clear that he was almost completely immersed.

Almost. Without lifting his attention from the papers spread out before him, Branch called out, “What?”

Poppy was momentarily taken aback, surprised he had even noticed her in the rapt attention he was giving his work. She recovered quickly though, a smile just as quick as she moved more fully into the doorway, “Hi Branch, I’m so sorry to bother you while you’re busy.”

At the sound of her voice, Branch’s attention was wrested from the mountain of documents around him. His expression swiftly shifted from surprise to outright confusion, her unexpected presence catching him completely off guard. Undeterred by his initial bewilderment, Poppy maintained her bright smile hoping to dispel any discomfort at her appearance.

Branch, apparently still grappling with the abrupt interruption, responded with a subtle frown. It lacked any of the usual sharpness, more a reflection of his confusion than anything else. Poppy, determined to maintain the lightness of the moment, chose not to take it to heart.

“Sorry, Dinkles said I could come back,” Poppy explained, restraining her excitement as best she could. She was stepping into Branch’s space, and she aimed to be respectful of that. In response, Branch sighed and made a vague motion with his hand, granting her what she assumed to be permission.

Slowly she stepped into the office. The walls, mirroring the rest of the backspace, wore an aged brown hue that cast a slightly constricted, cave-like feeling over the space. The room lacked any personal touches she could see, its essence defined by the utilitarian presence of shelves, filing cabinets, chairs, and the desk. It left little room for anything else, much less the two people now occupying it. Poppy pulled out a chair and seated herself across from Branch.

“So, now I’m going to ask you something and you are more than welcome to say no, but I think it’ll be helpful to you as a business owner,” Poppy began, trying to lean her tone toward a more delicate balance of diplomacy and determination. As she spoke, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in Branch’s expression—disinterest creeping in. It wasn’t that far from what she had expected, but she didn’t want to lose him in the first sentence. Poppy pressed forward.

“I’m a member of the local Business Association and have been for about four years,” She continued, glancing up as she tried to remember exactly how long it had been before looking back at him, “and I’ve never seen you there. No one seems to know you well, so I wasn’t sure if you’d been extended an invitation. You know a lot about shop presentation and your craft and I thought you could bring something to the meetings. But, I think it would be helpful for you too.”

God, he was impossible to read. His expression, though still tinged with a hint of annoyance and disinterest going by the soft crease near his eyes and the tightness of his jaw, had morphed into something more neutral. Branch’s stormy eyes remained fixed on her, leaving Poppy feeling more than a little nervous. The subtle shift had offered a small glimmer of hope—he was, at least, giving her the benefit of listening. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

“Like, um, Oh! Networking, almost all of the small businesses on Main are there, and a few off Main, so it's fantastic for meeting other businesses that might be helpful. Marketing, most of the businesses on Main Street tend to advertise each other, either by keeping business cards or examples of each other's work. I do the business cards. And I tell -everyone- where I get my flowers. And we work together to try and set up community events and stuff,” She smiled nervously, hoping she’d made some kind of impact, “We’re having a meeting tonight-”

Branch’s expression immediately soured and he shifted in his chair. He opened his mouth to respond, but Poppy, determined to preempt an immediate refusal, rushed to continue, “I know, its very last minute, but again if it doesn’t work out you don’t have to come, but if you could I’d love to see you there.”

His jaw clicked shut, and a moment of clarity settled over his expression. However, Poppy noted, the now apparent reluctance pinching his face was not exactly an encouraging sign. Branch huffed out a breath, leaning into his hand again, and rubbed his temple in what looked to be an attempt to alleviate a burgeoning headache. His frown etched deeper into his face, creasing near his brows and accentuating frown lines near his lips.

“I…” Branch began, his eyes briefly darting away from her, as if second-guessing what he was about to say. “I don’t do well in crowded places.” The admission surprised Poppy, the reluctant big of vulnerability emerging early in their acquaintanceship. The words themselves seemed to be wrung from him against his will, showcasing something Branch didn’t really seem comfortable sharing.

Poppy took in the revelation, connecting the dots with the observations she had made over the last few weeks. Branch appeared to be much more at ease with familiar faces, those who had grown accustomed to his quirks and mannerisms. In contrast, interactions with unfamiliar people brought out a different side of him—awkward, blunt, reticent, with a very low tolerance for mischief. He reminded her of some of her more reserved friends from high school, individuals who found solace in the quiet corners of the library during free periods. Large gatherings wouldn’t be something he enjoyed, she agreed, though she hoped the more structured setup for the meetings might appeal to him.

“That’s okay, If you sit near the back, most people won’t bother you, and if it gets to be a lot you can kinda just,” She made a quick zipping motion with her hand, “Whoop, slip out through the back doors for time to yourself. They’re a few hours long, but it's pretty linear. Everyone shows up, meeting starts officially at about 7:15. We go over the old business, which usually takes about an hour. Then we go over new business, another hour unless a debate starts, then longer. Then everyone eats pizza, mingles, networks, then we all go home around 9:30-10.” Poppy was pleased to see his expression soften a bit at the schedule.

He pressed his fist to his mouth, and a thoughtful expression crept slowly onto his face. His brows furrowed again slightly, but it wasn’t as unpleasant to watch as when he was frustrated or angry. From the way he maintained his spaces and how he generally carried himself, Poppy felt it was safe to assume Branch was a highly detail-oriented person— someone who was more likely to organize his tasks to the smallest detail and schedule his days with precision. If she had to guess, he was currently weighing the pros and cons of her proposal.

After a moment, Branch’s attention shifted to the papers on his desk. His eyes crinkled slightly in thought. She hoped she was imagining it, but the bags under his eyes seemed darker today.
Branch’s eyes glanced at another paper on his desk, before looking back at her. Poppy firmly believed in the saying ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul.’ Branch had walls that seemed to tower miles above anyone else’s. Yet his eyes, that striking silvered blue, seemed able to look straight through a person. They were easily his most captivating feature.

Branch cleared his throat, his eyes darting away again. Eye contact seemed to make him nervous after too long. Something Poppy would have to keep in mind for future conversations. He breathed, leaning back in his chair as if shoring himself, “I’ll think about it.”

Poppy blinked at him, surprised. It wasn’t a no. His answer hadn’t been an outright refusal, and a warmth started bubbling in her chest, causing a smile to bloom anew. While it wasn't a definite yes it wasn’t a no either. Branch glanced back at her, a brow raised slightly in questioning at her response. His arms crossed solidly over his chest, closing himself away from her. Whether or not he understood what had happened at that moment wasn’t the most important thing. In this office with its harsh fluorescent lighting, dreary brown walls, and piles of paperwork, she had made a crack in his wall. It didn’t matter if he came to the meeting anymore; the fact he had considered it because she had asked was a victory in itself.

A buzzing excitement pulsed beneath her skin— an electrifying surge of joy that erupted from somewhere deep inside, a thrill that she couldn’t name that lit her entire being with adrenaline. Every nerve, every instinct, screamed at her to leap over the desk and engulf him in the tightest hug she could muster, a gesture she’d enact on any other friend without hesitation. But for Branch she restrained herself.

She suppressed the urge to hug, instead channeling her excitement into a different outlet. With eyes squeezed shut, she let out a squeal, practically jumping out of her seat. The chair behind her teetered dangerously, and as Poppy let her eyes open, she stifled a laugh at the scene that had unfolded within milliseconds. Branch, wearing an expression of abject horror mixed with utter bewilderment, had physically recoiled from her. His hands were up defensively and he had pushed his chair away from the desk in an attempt to get away from her sudden burst of enthusiasm.

Poppy tried to look sheepish, but she could feel her grin refusing to budge betraying her attempt at remorse. “Sorry, sorry, I got excited!” She put her hands up, trying to placate him and show she meant nothing by it.

“Right,” Branch replied, a doubtful tone colored his answer as a bit more disbelieving than she would have liked. His gaze lingered, a bit whale-eyed as he watched her like she was a bear in a campsite. As he straightened up he didn’t seem keen on moving his chair back to his desk. “Was there anything else? I kind of need to…” He made a half-hearted gesture at the paperwork on his desk. “Payroll.”

Right. Payroll. That was a crucial aspect for most businesses. Thankfully, it wasn’t something she had to burden herself with. Her tattoo artists paid a booth rental fee, chipped in for cleaning supplies, and purchased their inks, machines, and repair parts. It was a nice little setup that meant that almost all of the money they earned belonged to them. Her biggest worry at Think P’Ink was making sure the bills got paid on time and everything at the shop ran smoothly.

“No no, that’s all,” Poppy assured him, her words fizzing with excitement. She whirled around as she returned the chair to its rightful place. “Seriously, I’d love to have you there. It's at the Community Center on Third and Lamb at 7.”

Branch frowned at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling just slightly as he squinted at her. Seated near the edge of his chair; Branch left ample space between him and his desk, likely for maneuvering since he seemed half-expecting her to burst into cheers again. He clarified, “I didn’t say I’d go.”

She felt like she was vibrating, excitement physically trying to release itself from her body. She could feel herself bouncing on her toes, “But you didn’t say no. So when you decide to come, that’s where it is,” Poppy responded. Her cheeks started to ache from the strain of her broad smile. Stepping backward out of the cramped little office, her voice mirrored the confidence that had started flowing through her, “See you later, Branch!”

As she moved past the doorframe, Poppy felt like she practically glided toward the front of the shop. The timeworn planks creaked with almost every step. Amid the soft creaks, she caught the distinct sound of Branch rising from his chair behind her. His voice trailed after her, a flustered protest that flared with indignation to the point she thought it would crack, “I didn’t say I’d go!”

She practically danced down the steps back into the shop proper, her shoes tapping out a soft rhythm of triumph. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to ruin this moment. Dinkles, who was now perched on a stool as he tried to suppress a smirk but couldn't quite hide the amusement in his eyes, had waved lightly at her as she descended from the back. His textbook sat on the counter next to him. Her smile grew, and she couldn’t help the excited bubbly giggle escape her. Branch was potentially coming, and she couldn't help but revel in the victory. Pushing the door open, the world seemed to share in her elation. Stepping into the afternoon sunlight, Poppy felt at ease for the first time in weeks. She wouldn’t have to stress anymore.

Several hours later, Poppy was -very- stressed. How had everything gone so wrong? Her corner of the shop had been a haven of creative energy, but by the time she had left, it had been an absolute disaster. Her client had waltzed in late, nonchalantly carrying a bag of food from one of the local shops. All for himself, something that had irked her terribly. His carefree attitude had continued when he’d insisted he was ready for his appointment.

He had been terrible at sitting. Poppy wished she would be exaggerating if she said he’d been more dramatic than the gaggle of drunk sorority girls who’d all come in for a group tattoo. Whining and squirming because he had disregarded her very legitimate advice that maybe, just maybe, a rib tattoo would be a bit challenging for a first-timer. Six long hours unfolded, marked by frequent breaks and a literal need to just not listen to her guidance. Adding insult to injury, he somehow managed to spill some of her ink for his appointment. It earned him an extra charge.

Now, as she glanced at the time on her stereo, a groan escaped her as the bright green 7:08 stared back at her. Why today? Of all days, why did it have to be today she was running late? Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel as she stared out the window, the seconds ticking away with every tap. Her eyes bore into the traffic light, desperately willing the green arrow to allow her left turn. Her car lurched forward, rushing through the intersection as soon as the light turned green.

Parking in the first available spot she could find, Poppy slammed her gearshift into park, shut off the car, and snatched her purse. 7:10. She still had, hopefully, 5 minutes before the meeting came to order. She swung open the door and pulled herself out just as another car rumbled by. Slamming and locking the door, she sped around the front of the hood and stepped onto the sidewalk. Only about half a block away from the Community Center, she knew it would be a quick sprint.

Normally she loved this time of day—the sky had only just started to darken, the wispy pink clouds gilded at the edges. The beams of the setting sun streamed through the buildings, creating bursting patches of color and light on the sidewalks. Today, she ignored it. Or, well, not ignored per se. Rather she acknowledged it much quickly than she normally would. Poppy would often find herself pausing to take in the moment and day, breathing in the last moments of sunlight before heading into the meeting. Instead, a burning welled in her legs as she moved with purpose.

As the community center came into view, so did the lone figure at the top of the steps. Branch had come! He stood somewhat awkwardly, leaning against the wall closest to the steps but maintained a careful distance from the doors. His gaze was fixed over the street, briefly interrupted as he glanced down at the watch on his wrist, the other hand shoved fully into his slacks pocket. Poppy couldn’t believe her luck. She could feel her heartbeat racing, though that was probably from half running up the block. He had taken her up on her offer, and, to her immense relief, hadn’t left before she had arrived. He was right there. She was so making a friend tonight. “Branch!”

Branch looked up seemingly caught off guard. For the briefest moment, relief flickered across his face before his signature grouch expression settled into place, “You said seven, I’ve been here for 20 minutes.” he grumbled as she made her way up the steps, the irritation was evident. Hesitance flooded her smile, and her shoulders lifted ever so slightly; she hoped she came across as apologetic as she felt. She hadn’t meant to keep him waiting, after all.

“I’m so sorry,” she shifted the bag on her shoulder, aiming for a more settled appearance, “I had a nightmare client and he was late, and then couldn’t sit and it was just awful. I legit left the shop like twelve minutes ago and I couldn’t text you I was going to be late.” Her words spilled out in a rush trying to explain, “Why are you outside?”

His jaw tightened slightly as he shifted his gaze towards the doors. The lobby appeared empty, but Branch hesitated anyway, making no move to approach. His free hand found refuge in his other pocket and his eyes fixated on the concrete near his feet. Shifting his weight, he began to open his mouth, as if to articulate something, only to think better of it and promptly closed it again.

Poppy waited for him to answer, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment before pressing, “Branch?”

He glanced at her, a mix of hesitation and something she couldn’t pinpoint etched onto his features. With a resigned sigh, he finally spoke, “I, uh, I didn’t know what room, y’know, we were meeting in.” His cheeks seemed dusted with red, though from a blush or the setting sun, Poppy wasn’t entirely sure. It was a soft moment, something she wished for a moment she could capture and keep. She liked it.

A genuine warmth spread across Poppy’s face, her eyes lighting up with gratitude and excitement. It felt as though Branch was, not to make a joke, extending an olive branch. The cool evening breeze seemed to carry a sense of newfound camaraderie as he made the effort, to step out of his comfort zone. Something swelled in her chest, filling her lungs with something like appreciation for the trust he had placed in her, trying something he clearly wasn’t sold on.

“Come on,” tucking hair behind her ear, she stole another glance at the door, “There should still be some seats in the back.”