Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Not this shit again," Mickey muttered, turning onto his side and pulling the pillow over his head, eyes shut as if that would do anything against the noise coming from the apartment next door. 

Fridge opening, fridge closing, bottles clinking, microwave, silence. TV sounds, the laugh track of some sitcom. For fuck’s sake, it’s two in the morning.

Mickey was just tired. He’d spent the whole damn day driving flower arrangements all over the fucking city.

Thanks to Toby, his delivery guy, who called in sick at the last minute this morning. 

That’s what you get for hiring an ex-con, Mick.

Two funerals and a lesbian wedding in this godforsaken heat—the hottest July in decades—was too much for one person. Not to mention that he had to keep the shop closed all morning, losing out on important sales from walk-in customers who bought bouquets for their loved ones.

Normally in the afternoon when the heat was hardly bearable, he could at least hide in his air-conditioned store. Most of the time he had to keep pausing his work for orders because customers found 65°F a perfect shopping temperature and they took their time looking around and choosing pre-tied bouquets or other plants but it was at least not hot.

Normally Mickey would lock up a little after five, eat something and then he'd spend the next four hours arranging pink and white hydrangeas for a wedding. In his air conditioning shop. 

Even when he secretly hated hydrangeas because the damn things needed so much care, and if you looked at them the wrong way, they’d just die but it would be better than to drive around in this heat.

Not today. Instead, today he had rolled through the evening traffic and delivered three arrangements and two bridal bouquets for a same-sex civil marriage ceremony in an intimate setting. Then he had a chicken burger from the McDonalds drive through and when he walked up the stairs to his apartment, he was exhausted. He grabbed a beer and showered, before falling straight into the sheets. 

It had been hard enough to fall asleep—the sheets sticking to his skin, the air too heavy, the shower unnecessary. He’d thought about sleeping at the shop, but he was too exhausted and tired to get up, barely managing to turn on the fan, which was even more useless than the shower.

Then, just as he was about to finally doze off, he heard footsteps in the hallway and the key turning in his neighbor’s door.

His fucking new neighbor wasn’t someone who liked to sleep at night. Or be quiet. Or be considerate.

"Hey, asshole!" Mickey yelled, slamming his palm against the wall above his headboard. "Let me fucking sleep, you prick!"

Sure, maybe not the best way to start off with a new neighbor, but fuck it—he started it.

In the two days this guy had lived next door, Mickey had barely gotten any sleep. Last night, he took a shower at three in the morning—with music playing at full volume. The night before that, he got home after midnight and watched TV until two.

Yeah, the walls were paper-thin, and Mickey probably didn’t even need to yell or bang the wall to get his attention, but he had a point to make, and he was pissed and so tired.

The guy hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself or put a name on the mailbox so Mickey didn’t know who the hell he was mad at.

So far, he was just the guy, and the guy didn’t even have a face.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the new rug that suddenly appeared in the hallway on Tuesday, Mickey wouldn’t have even known someone had moved into Ronan’s old place. The rug and the nocturnal tv watching.

The guy had snuck in like a fucking ghost and hadn’t shown his face since.

Fucking weirdo.

Whatever he was doing over there, the noise stopped just a few seconds after Mickey’s outburst, and he turned back to the wall, waiting for the darkness to finally take him.

But it didn’t.

Goddammit.

Mickey turned to face the window, hoping it would eventually cool down enough for him to sleep.

After what felt like an eternity, he sighed, got up, and walked barefoot into the living room. He grabbed the joint from the small wooden box and sat down by the open window before lighting up.

Maybe this would help him sleep.

One bare foot placed on the windowsill, the other on the floor, he took a drag, held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, and then exhaled. It wasn’t strong—not the kind that would knock him out, just enough to help him wind down.

He took another hit, glancing down at the street, then across to Mrs. Henderson’s bookstore. He wondered if she’d ever smoked in her youth. Probably, he thought, taking another drag.

Yawning, he placed the joint in the ashtray—he’d finish it tomorrow maybe—then headed back to the bedroom.

But he didn’t get far.

Just as he was passing the front door, there was a knock. More like aggressive pounding than an actual knock.

Mickey suddenly yanked the door open, coming face-to-face with someone who looked half-confused, half-startled.

The face was—okay? Can a face be okay? Tall, strong chin, red hair, pale as fucking Dracula, as far as Mickey could tell in the dim hallway light.

"What?" Mickey asked, staring at the guy standing in a damn bathrobe and slippers, still processing how fast Mickey had answered the door.

His arms crossed over his chest he looked down on Mickey "Can you stop smoking? It’s all drifting into my bedroom, man."

Mickey raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Close your fucking window then, Westside. I ain’t stoppin’ shit. You’re the reason I need weed ‘cause I can’t fuckin' sleep."

Mickey smirked as the guy just stared at him in disbelief.

"The walls are thin as fuck," he added. "Now get off my damn rug—some of us gotta get up early."

With that, Mickey slammed the door in his neighbor’s face.

Fucking idiot. Probably Westside in his ugly ass bathrobe.

He went back to the living room and decided to finish the joint on the open window out of spite before going to bed. Getting high enough to pass the fuck out the second his head hit the pillow. 

—

The thing about getting high, going to bed way too late, and barely sleeping was that he felt half-dead on his feet the next morning.

After taking an ice-cold shower and downing two cups of coffee just to be somewhat awake, and to avoid scaring off his own customers, he dragged himself down the stairs to the shop.

There was a glass door that connected the hallway of the apartment complex to the store, allowing Mickey to get inside in the morning without having to step out onto the street. The other door, framed in green wood between two large display windows, was for customers.

He enjoyed being in the shop this early, having a few quiet minutes to himself before things got busy—before he had to advise customers, arrange bouquets, take orders, and prepare floral arrangements. 

Even though he has to fucking talk to annoying customers the whole day, he loved this job.

Before he unlocked the door for others, he tended to his small collection of potted plants, which could all use a little water. Not the cacti but the succulents and the Italian herbs. The basil and rosemary, whose scent filled the back of the flower shop, the various types of lemon balm that he had grown from seeds, and the hanging plants that cascaded down from the handmade shelves on the wall.

Mickey took his time caring for them. It wasn’t a nursery, just a flowershop, but he had a soft spot for cacti and succulents. Maybe because they managed to grow even under the most impossible conditions. Kind of like him.

His shop wasn’t big, and from the outside of the apartment complex, you could almost miss it—tucked between the yoga studios and dog groomers that had, in recent years, started replacing the bars and pawnshops. If Mickey hadn’t placed a few plant pots with various perennials on old wine crates or buckets of cut flowers in front of the large window, his shop might have gone unnoticed.

Once he finished watering his potted plants and counting the cash in the register, he unlocked the green street-facing door and stepped outside. It was already warm, even though the sun had just risen. It was going to be another unbearably hot day in Chicago.

Mickey started arranging heat-resistant rosemary and orange barberry in small clay pots, with a few tiny succulents in colorful planters on the old wine crates outside his shop, along with his chalkboard sign welcoming customers.

He suddenly felt something against his leg, and he might have been startled if he hadn’t been expecting it. Snickers the little brown cat, purred as she wove between his feet, wrapping her tail around his calf and looking up at him hopefully.

“What?” he asked, setting the clay pot down on a crate.

She meowed and hopped onto one of the wine crates. Mickey scratched her head briefly and then sighed. “Come on. I went grocery shopping yesterday and got you some food. But don’t you dare tell your stray buddies that there’s free food here.”

He headed back inside, where it was thankfully much cooler, and walked into the back room, where he kept a small fridge for drinks and a little cardboard box with a blanket under the table. Here in the back room Mickey spent his quiet moments when business was slow.

Of course, the box was not meant for the stray cat.

He placed a bowl of food for Snickers next to the box and went back into the shop to start checking his inventory against the orders so he’d know how many cut flowers he needed to order from the wholesaler for the next few days.

Mickey liked this shop. He liked working with colorful flowers and he liked digging in the dirt from time to time, even though he wasn’t a gardener but a florist. Working with his hands had been fun from the very first second—since Ronan had taken him in back then.

Snickers purred and licked her paw as she came out of the side room and hopped onto the counter next to the register. Mickey had stumbled into this shop just like she had.

Ronan had taught him everything he knew about flowers and plants and everything he needed to do. From bookkeeping to floral arrangements to hands-on craftsmanship—Mickey had learned it all from him. Ronan had taken him in after finding him half-dead and bleeding in an alley, right after Mickey had his coming out to his old man.

Mickey shook his head, trying to push away the memory of that night twelve years ago. He had run away like a coward, but he was still alive. And by now, he had made peace with this life. More than that—he was grateful for every day he got to create something beautiful with his hands and bring joy to others.

Mickey had just finished the order list when the small bell above the door rang, announcing a new customer. He sighed and set Snickers on the floor before the customer could see her. That damn stray knew she wasn’t supposed to be in the shop, but he couldn’t exactly leave her to melt into the liquid asphalt outside, either.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey saw her disappear into the side room before he turned to the man approaching him.

“Hey,” he greeted.

Tall guy, broad shoulders, tank top and swim trunks, flip-flops, and long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Pretty attractive, actually—if it weren’t for the full beard that made him look like a Viking.

“How can I help you?”

“My fiancée and I are getting married soon,” the guy started, and Mickey nodded. Fiancée. Damn, his radar was getting rusty.

“I know it’s short notice, but we need a bridal bouquet, a boutonnière, and 20 table arrangements,” he said with a hopeful smile. Mickey sighed.

He loved it here. Here, in the middle of the South Side, which the hipsters had been slowly but steadily gentrifying for years, yet it was still his home. Mickey hated coffee shops and men with full beards and man buns, but he couldn’t complain about the prices he could charge for damn hyacinths and succulents—or about the ridiculous profit last-minute bridal bouquets and boutonnieres brought in.

He grabbed his tablet from under the counter and opened the calendar. “When’s the wedding?”

“August 24th,” Ponytail-Surfer answered, and Mickey couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“That’s not even six weeks away, man. What do you think this is, 1-800- Flowers?”

He glanced at the calendar, already seeing a few smaller orders, but nothing that would make this impossible. Still, he could use it to push the price a little.

The guy shifted from foot to foot. “Is there no way you can make it work? You’re the last one on my list. Everyone else is booked.”

Mickey sighed and looked at the calendar again. He opened the date and started typing. “Got colors or anything yet? Your fiancée’s favorite flowers? Girls can get super bitchy about this kind of stuff.”

The guy’s face lit up, and he grinned. “I’ll send her by this afternoon so you two can talk details. I just came to check in and pay.”

Mickey nodded, and they talked for a few minutes about money, delivery, and all that other crap before the guy left, leaving Mickey alone again.

Snickers jumped back onto the counter and tilted her head.

“Don’t look at me like that. I added a rush fee because it’s last-minute, not because of the damn man bun and flip-flops, okay?”

He put the tablet back and ran his fingers through her light brown fur. The cat had shown up around the same time he had—back then, nothing more than a tiny brown ball of fluff.

Mickey remembered that Ronan had been allergic and had made it clear they couldn’t keep her, but Mickey had spent the little money he made in the shop to buy food for her anyway. Ronan had known—Mickey was sure of that by now—but he never said anything. Maybe because he knew Mickey had found something like a friend in the cat.

Snickers purred and curled into a small ball.

“I should actually be working, right? This shit isn’t gonna make it itself,” Mickey mumbled and turned to his order.

A few minutes passed as he went over today’s tasks, already mentally combining flowers and greenery, setting them out on his workbench. Then, the bell above the door chimed again, announcing another customer.

“Be right there,” Mickey called from the back of the shop, where the workbench was tucked around the corner, out of sight from the door.

"It's me. Take your time, kiddo."

Mickey smiled when he recognized Mrs. Henderson's voice. She was a small, gray-haired old lady who owned the bookstore across the street. She stopped by almost every day to chat with Mickey. In the summer, she came by more often—probably because she enjoyed the cool air in Mickey’s shop, where he has to keep the temperature constantly low because of the flowers.

She had her usual spot behind the counter, on a cushioned chair that had been there longer than Mickey could even remember.

He wiped his hands on his apron, damp from the flower stems, and stepped out from behind the workbench. He couldn't help but smile when he saw her sitting in that very chair. Her wrinkled hands rested on her cane, and her eyes peered at him over thick glasses.

"Aren’t you going to say good morning?" she asked sternly but with a smile.

Her short gray curls reached barely her shoulders and bounced as she looked up at him.

Mickey almost rolled his eyes but refrained. "Morning, Esther," he said instead, taking off his apron and hanging it on the hook by the door. He hated the stupid thing because he looked ridiculous in it, but the stains were just as bad.

"You look tired," Esther noted, adjusting her glasses.

"Don’t you have books to sell?" Mickey tried to change the subject.

"Ever since this Amazon thing, barely anyone comes in, and you know it. So, spill it. What’s keeping you up at night?"

Mickey sighed. "That damn new neighbor is driving me insane." He leaned against the counter, running a tired hand over his face. "This is the third damn night in a row I haven’t gotten much sleep. I mean, what the hell is that guy even doing?"

Mrs. Henderson smiled and tilted her head slightly. Mickey had known her long enough to tell she was about to say something—probably something that would annoy him or make him think. Or, worse, both at the same time. She had this uncanny ability to know everything, even when he tried to keep things to himself. Though he’d never admit it, he appreciated that about her. The way she saw right through him and always managed to coax out whatever he wasn’t saying.

"Have you finally met him?" she asked, completely deadpan.

Mickey nodded but didn’t say anything.

"Is he good-looking?" She tried to sound casual while scratching the brown ball of fur in her lap. Of course, the two of them stuck together. Snickers purred, as if she fully agreed with Mrs. Henderson’s line of questioning.

Mickey stayed silent, chewing on his lower lip. He had only seen the guy briefly. A glimpse. In a dimly lit hallway, with tired eyes and dead on his feet.

"He is good-looking," Mrs. Henderson said, more to the cat than to Mickey. Then she whispered, "He desperately needs to get laid."

"Esther!" Mickey burst out. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

He knew she had a foul mouth sometimes, but she had never been this direct before. It was almost embarrassing to hear that from a hundred-year-old. Even if she was right. It had been a while…

"I'm just saying." She shrugged. Then she lifted her cane and smacked him lightly on the thigh.

"Ouch! The fuck was that for?" Mickey rubbed the spot with his palm.

"You shouldn’t swear so much. Especially not when you’re blaspheming." She gave him a stern look.

Now Mickey did roll his eyes. He had no idea how her acceptance of his sexuality fit with this religious bullshit—or if she was even religious at all and was just messing with him. But in all these years, he had never really had the guts to talk to her about those kinds of things.

Still, he was long overdue for something with a guy.

He wouldn’t admit it to Esther or anyone else, but he had secretly wished, now and then, for someone to be more than just a one-night stand or a casual hookup. The bitter truth was, he was lonely. He had a stray cat and a wrinkled bookstore lady. He was grateful for both, but something was missing.

Mickey knew he wasn’t easy to handle. He could be quite difficult. Introverted, withdrawn, and had difficulty talking about his feelings. And then people either ran the second things got difficult, or Mickey pushed them away himself—because he knew they wouldn’t be able to deal with him, and it would just be a waste of time and energy for both sides.

But then Ronan had died a few years ago, and Mickey had seen the pain and regret in Esther’s eyes. 

Esther and Ro had never been a couple. She had told Mickey, shortly after Ro’s death, that it had never worked out. Fate had always gotten in the way, or one of them had been stuck in another relationship. But when he died, she had regretted never telling him how she felt. Never taking the first step.

That was when he realized that if he kept pushing people away like this, he would end up dying alone too. A little dramatic, sure—but the point still stood.

Mickey didn’t want to end up like that. But what was the alternative? Dating? Fuck, no.

He was beyond Grinder a few years ago. This was just as difficult as meet people face to face and annoying as fuck.

He grimaced at the thought of that Grinder meet up he had a year ago.

"The cacti are blooming already. Have you seen?" he tried to change the subject.

The old lady caught on to his not-so-subtle attempt and sighed. "Honestly, Mickey. Go out. Meet people. You’re young! At your age, I danced through the nights and slept with so many musicians I lost count."

Mickey sighed. "Alone? Fuck, no. Going out alone is just sad."

He grabbed the broom from the corner and started sweeping, just to avoid her gaze and keep his hands busy. He had already swept the night before, before closing up, but he hated when she was right and looked at him like that.

"Take your sister with you. She’d love playing wingman for the gay's." Mrs. Henderson winked and stood up.

She had only taken two steps when suddenly, the guy was standing right in front of Mickey.

Mickey looked at the redhead and noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Mrs. Henderson had sat back down.

Yeah. An audience was exactly what he needed.

The redhead shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his blue jeans, while his white t-shirt stretched over what were of course well-defined chest and arm muscles.

"Need somethin'?" Mickey couldn’t help but sound snappy.

"Hey. Uhm. I—" he stuttered, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I came in through the other door in the stairwell, not the front entrance. Hope that’s okay?"

Mickey scoffed. What did this guy think he was doing? Making noise all night, banning Mickey from smoking in his own apartment, not even introducing himself properly, and now just waltzing into Mickey’s private space?

"No. It’s not. That door is for employees only. Customers and inconsiderate assholes should use the front entrance." Mickey leaned on his broom with one hand, while the other rested on his hip.

The redhead snorted. "You should put up a sign, unfriendly dick."

"Can you even read? I mean, maybe you're illiterate. You still don’t have a nameplate on your door."

The guy just chuckled in amusement, but Mickey wasn’t done yet. He took a step closer to the ginger. "You walk into my shop and dared to insult me?"

The redhead scoffed. "You started it. I was actually here to apologize for last night and let you know that I often work late, which is why I stay up so long. But if you’re gonna be an ass about it, I’ll just leave."

He turned on his heel, leaving Mickey standing in the middle of the room. But Mickey wasn’t going to let him have the last word.

"Fine. Go ahead, asshole."

"I will." The guy gave a mock salute with two fingers against his forehead as he walked out, and Mickey tried to swallow the anger rising in his stomach. 

Arrogant prick.

What the hell was this guy thinking? That his stupid job was more important than Mickey’s sleep? That it justified his inconsiderate behavior? Mickey scoffed dryly and shook his head.

"He’s cute. There’s an interesting dynamic between you two," Mrs. Henderson observed as she got up. “And he is really good looking.”

Mickey sighed and went back to sweeping the already clean floor, just to avoid looking at her amused grin. She walked past him, leaving him alone in the shop with his broom and the cat.

Mickey sighed again and shook his head. Unbelievable, this guy. And Mickey didn’t even know his name.

Snickers stretched and meowed, giving Mickey a questioning look.

"Shut up," Mickey muttered.

He put the broom back in the corner, took his apron off the hook, and returned to his workbench to finish the next order. Snickers didn’t follow him but instead padded into the back room and curled up in a box.

—

As he sat in front of the TV that evening, a beer in one hand, a slice of pizza in the other, watching Storage Wars, thoughts of Ester’s words crept back into his mind.

Should he really go out? Be around people? Ask Mandy to play wingman?

Fuck.

He hated this.

Ester always made him think about shit he didn’t want to think about.

He liked his life the way it was. Most of the time, it was quiet—peaceful, even.

Something he never thought he’d get, back when he was a dirty teenager, with fucking Terry always around, nothing to eat, cold water, and fear buried deep in his bones.

Then he came out, got beaten half to death, and when Ronan found him, he didn’t just teach him how to arrange bouquets—he taught him how to live.

How to talk to people, how to be friendly and polite. How to treat your body well. How to be a man. A gay man.

And somehow, life became peaceful.

Quiet mornings in the shop, late-night shifts to get orders ready for the next day.

He’d gotten this life. And for a long time, it was everything he ever wanted.

No fear. Just happy days.

But lately, something had changed.

Since Ronan’s death, he felt lonely.

Deep down, beneath all the attitude he’d carried since he was that teenager, he wanted just…

Something.

He wanted more.

He wanted someone to share the pizza with.

To argue about who got the last slice in the cardboard box from Luigi’s.

He wanted someone who’d lie beside him under the sticky sheets in this godforsaken heat and, despite it all, still move closer.

Just to be close.

To seek his touch just because they liked him.

He wanted someone who’d smoke the last of the weed with him, then binge on junk food and sweets, talking absolute nonsense and giggling through the night.

He wanted someone to watch Storage Wars with—cuddling and kissing on the couch.

He wanted someone who would disturb his peace in the best way possible.

Fuck.

He didn’t want to end up as alone as Ester in a hundred years.

And he didn’t want to regret a single thing when he was old.

Fuck.

So should he go out with his fucking sister to flirt with some guy over margaritas?

Should he reinstall Grindr?

Or should he just wait until some guy walks into his shop to buy flowers for his fiancé—but falls for Mickey instead?

Mickey sighed, turned off the TV, and got ready for bed.

He’d just… wait for the something, he guessed.

—

The next day he picked up the cream-colored roses and the orange dahlias, along with some greenery and smaller white roses, and started assembling the first bouquet. They weren’t supposed to be large, just a small gesture for a company anniversary. But as he finished the first one and wrapped the stems with twine, he decided to take a few pictures for his portfolio. He wiped his hands on his apron and grabbed his phone, snapping a few photos from different angles. He liked how the orange and cream played off each other with the white, making the colors pop.

He liked orange in combination with softer tones. It made the orange look vibrant, fresh—summery.

A picture crept into his mind. 

Fuck.

No, he was definitely not thinking about that damn ginger. Even if the orange-red of his hair was almost the same shade as the dahlias, Mickey wondered if his hair would shine even more in the sunlight.

By the second bouquet, Mickey was already lost in thoughts about the guy. He couldn’t pull himself away from him. He was arrogant and inconsiderate, sure, but also kind of hot? 

Fuck.

Definitely not gay, right? But definitely Mickey’s type.

Oh goddamn it, Ester was right. He really needed to get laid.

By the time he started the third bouquet, he was far enough down the thought spiral that he considered apologizing for being a dick.

The bell above the door yanked him out of his thoughts, and he peeked around the corner. A petite young woman with long, thin brown hair stood in the middle of the shop, looking around.

"I’ll be right there," Mickey called out, quickly tying the twine around the stems to finish the bouquet so he could serve the customer.

He walked around the workbench and stepped up to the woman. No doubt she was connected to the hipster from this yesterday. Some people just had that look.

"Hey. My fiancé was here yesterday? He said we could talk about the wedding?"

Mickey nodded. "Sure. Do you already have something in mind?" he asked, leading her to the counter.

He pulled out a binder, flipped to the 'Weddings' section, and showed her the portfolio.

They talked for a while, discussing seasonal flowers, color schemes, and all that stuff while Mickey typed everything into his tablet.

By the time they finished and she left, Mickey felt drained.

He hated brides who didn’t know what they wanted. Sure, it was his job to advise customers and make their every wish come true, but you’d think that if you were getting married in a few weeks, you’d at least have a vague idea of what colors you wanted.

—

It was almost five when Mickey started bringing the plants and wine crates inside from in front of his shop. It was unbelievably hot outside, and within minutes, he was already sweating without even exerting much effort.

He had just grabbed the signboard and the last plant, turning to bring them inside when he suddenly bumped into someone.

The rosemary pot slipped from his hands and shattered loudly on the pavement.

"Shit," Mickey cursed, kneeling down to pick up the shards of the terracotta pot. "watch where you’re going, asshole?" he snapped without even looking at the other person.

"Shit, sorry," the other guy muttered, kneeling down as well.

Mickey blinked and looked up.

The guy was kneeling in front of him. His red hair stuck out in all directions, damp with sweat, glowing in the sunlight. Freckles covered his nose, cheeks, forehead, and the rest of his okay face. His greenish eyes were focused on the ground, his strong jaw clenched, his lips so pink and soft.

Mickey snapped himself out of it and focused on the mess between them.

He had gathered most of the shards and stood up. The other guy seemed to have the same idea, and they bumped their heads together.

"Goddamn it, shit, fuck," Mickey cursed, rubbing right above his eyebrow.

The redhead looked at him, slightly embarrassed, and held out his hand, awkwardly gripping the rosemary—without any soil, its roots hanging loose. With his other hand, he rubbed his forehead. "Sorry," the redhead murmured. 

Mickey glared at him angryly and just took the rosemary, walking back into the shop to grab a dustpan for the spilled soil.

By the time he came back out, the guy was gone.

Unbelievable. 

To hell with the apology. He wants war? He'll get war.

Chapter Text

One and a half weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Mickey and the ginger had run into each other in front of his shop. One and a half weeks in which Mickey thought the redhead might have died. Well, maybe that was a little dramatic, but the point was the same.

Not that he really cared what happened to that asshole, but Mickey was still a somewhat concerned neighbor. 

The house was quiet. No late-night TV escapades, no hours of laughter, no running around taking late night showers or moving furniture. It was quiet and peaceful, and Mickey was getting the sleep he needed.

He could have thought the guy moved out if it weren’t for the shoes—sometimes there, sometimes gone, sometimes neatly lined up, sometimes all over the place in front of the apartment door. Or the sign that had appeared on the mailbox two days ago.

Gallagher.

Finally, Mickey had a name to put to the face.

What kind of name was that anyway? Irish? It fit the red hair, at least, but Mickey thought that Irish people were meant to be friendly. 

Because this redhead was anything but friendly. Or considerate. Or polite.

The other week, this redheaded idiot had crashed into him, broken property, and then just disappeared without really checking in or apologizing. He hadn’t even introduced himself properly, what kind of Irish is he? 

Mickey usually didn’t give a shit about good manners, but he knew other people did. He’d long since accepted that and played along. 

Mickey promised war after their last encounter but these days he preferred to have peace rather than start a war on his own volition. And the apartment across the hallway was quiet.

It had been one and a half weeks of peace and quiet. One and a half weeks of restful nights—until about thirty seconds ago.

Thud, crash. Silence. Thud, thud, ding. Fridge. Footsteps. TV.

Mickey rolled onto his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. It was still too damn hot, and he lay on his mattress in nothing but boxers.

It was just before midnight when his neighbor apparently decided to break the one-and-a-half-week ceasefire and rob Mickey of his sleep.

Again.

Mickey sat up when he heard The A-Team theme song.

There was no way in hell he was falling asleep to gunfire. Once, that was an average night in the Milkovich House of Horrors but the South Side had been gentrified for too long, and he had gotten too used to peace.

No fucking way.

He slid to the edge of the bed and got up, his bare feet smacking against the laminate floor as he walked into the living room. He lit the half-smoked joint from earlier that afternoon at the open window, inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, and exhaled out into the night.

The street below was quiet, but across the hallway, voices and gunfire blasted through the walls. A woman screamed, and Mickey could clearly make out Murdock’s crazy ramblings through the cardboard-thin apartment dividers.

Had that asshole turned the volume up?

Mickey stubbed the joint out in the ashtray and got up.

He wasn’t high, just pleasantly buzzing, a warm tingle in his limbs, his head slightly fogged. But it did nothing to dull his irritation. Best conditions for a confrontation. 

He opened his apartment door and stormed over to the other, knocking flat-palmed against it.

"Ey!" he called over the TV.

Then—suddenly—silence. Like the guy had turned it off.

When Gallagher finally opened the door, wide-eyed, Mickey remembered he himself was wearing nothing but worn out boxers. 

But the redhead wasn’t much better. He had a shred more of dignity in his signature faded, dark blue bathrobe, a white tank top underneath, loose green plaid boxers, and white tennis socks. In one hand, he held a container of ice cream, in the other, a spoon.

His hair was sticking up in the back at an unnatural angle, like he’d been lying in the same position for hours, head pressed against a pillow or the couch.

It looked cute.

Fucking hell.

Mickey was supposed to say something, right? He should say something. Maybe yell or insult. But so far, several weird seconds had passed, and for every single one of them, Mickey had completely forgotten what the hell he was even doing here.

Was it the weed? Maybe.

The guy gave him a what look, and Mickey blinked, trying to sort his thoughts.

"Can you turn the fucking volume down?"

It didn’t sound as sharp as it had in his head.

"What do you mean?" the ginger asked, mouth full.

Then he swallowed, licked his lips, and scooped up another spoonful of stracciatella, shoving it into his mouth and fucking grinning without taking his eyes off Mickey.

"Are you fucking with me?" Mickey’s eyebrows shot up.

But Gallagher’s grin only widened, his eyebrows bounced "Dunno what you’re talking about." He shrugged. "I was just listening to music with my headphones and eating ice cream."

"Are you fucking serious?" Mickey’s blood boiled, and his fists clenched at his sides.

Gallagher just grinned, sliding another spoonful into his mouth.

And then—just for a second, like he couldn’t help himself—Gallagher’s gaze dropped. To Mickey’s mouth. Then his chest. Then to his boxers.

It was quick. If Mickey had blinked, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t blinked, and he hadn’t missed it.

The redhead had checked him out.

And Mickey had done the same, hadn’t he? The moment the guy had opened the door, he had checked out his chest, the way the white fabric stretched over muscle and those chopper chest hair poked out . His boxers with the slightest dick print. His stupid fucking white socks whith one higher than the other on his calf. His goddamn smirk on his ice cream wet lips and those reddish hair, sticking in all directions.

Fucking fuck, Gallagher.

The ginger grinned even wider and leaned against the doorframe. Casually, he slid the spoon into the ice cream and waited for Mickey to react while lazily licking it clean.

"Fuck off." Mickey snapped and stormed away.

He somehow hoped he wasn't imagining the feel of Gallagher's eyes on his ass all the way back to his door.

—

Why would someone do something like that?

Why would someone provoke someone else like that?

Mickey stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, anger still boiling inside him.

He hadn’t done anything at all. He’d just been lying in bed, trying to sleep.

He’d had a week and a half of peace, and he’d enjoyed it—gotten used to the quiet in the house. But then, out of nowhere, that idiot had started waging war again.

He’d turned on the TV and cranked up the volume while eating his stracciatella ice cream.

He’d turned it off the second he heard Mickey knock on the door, and then—he had the audacity to smirk at him. Provocatively.

And the damn icing on the cake?

He’d checked him out. Scanned Mickey’s body and grinned.

Who the fuck does shit like that?

Mickey turned over, now facing the wall, pillow pressed over his ear to block out the noise from the other apartment—where BA was still talking to John Smith.

—

Mickey loves Fridays.

Despite last night’s incident at Gallagher's door—or whatever the hell that was—Mickey woke up feeling somehow lighter. Fridays always did that to him. 

He had loved them ever since he decided to keep the shop closed on that day. It was the best decision he had ever made.

Because now, Fridays belong to him. No shop operations, no customer traffic, no annoying questions like, "Can you put together a bouquet for me? But not too colorful. No roses. And it has to be modern."

Just him, his work—and the music he wanted to listen to.

That was the best part. On Fridays, he could finally turn off the god-awful "customer-friendly" playlist that Mandy had put together for the shop. She had meant well, but Mickey had to fight the urge to drown his own head in a flower vase every time Ed Sheeran played for the tenth time that day.

Now, he could finally listen to what he actually liked. Loud. Without giving a damn fuck. And while the music blasted through the empty shop, he could focus on what he loved most—working with his hands. In peace. Alone.

A whole day for his work, his music, and the satisfaction of getting shit done on his own terms.

Since he had been working alone, it had become impossible to handle large orders on top of the daily business. It had been different back when Ronan was alive. Mickey had managed the shop front, taken orders, advised customers, while Ronan worked in the back, assembling arrangements at the worktable. They had been a well-oiled machine. And in the evenings, when Mickey locked the door, he would join Ronan in the back, and together, they’d finish the rest.

Now, he has been alone for nearly two years.

And he had almost ruined Ronan's good reputation when he barely managed to complete that massive wedding order for some corporate big shot and his wife last spring. They had been so thrilled to give a "small Southside shop" the opportunity to rise to the challenge—some fucking charity project.

But the entire wedding could have gone to hell, if Mickey hadn’t pulled an all-nighter, arranging bouquet after bouquet until his fingers went numb and he could barely stand on his feet at four in the morning. Then he had eaten something, downed a coffee, and opened the shop at 8am

Back then, he thought he had to prove something to Ronan. Prove that he deserved to have the shop signed over to him.That he was worthy of making Ronan proud.

In the end, he had nearly worked himself into an early grave beside Ronan.

Because that wedding hadn’t been the first tight-deadline job, and he couldn’t even fathom what would have happened if he had failed. A shitstorm on the shop’s Instagram page. A disaster on Google. Negative reviews that never went away.

He would have disappointed Ronan. Even if he wasn’t around anymore to see it, Mickey would have known. 

That near-disaster of a wedding had been the moment he pulled the emergency brake.

Four days a week. No more. It was the only way to keep everything running without killing himself in the process.

And it was the best decision he had ever made.

Because now, there were Fridays. His Fridays. And he fucking loved them.

Mickey had locked the shop from the inside, hung the "Closed" sign on the door, and brewed a whole pot of coffee—extra strong, black, no sugar.

Then he pulled his tablet from under the counter, opened Spotify, turned the speakers up, and got to work.

"Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men blasted through the small shop, and Mickey couldn’t quite hide the smirk on his lips. This playlist was one of two he played on Fridays. A softer start before he switched to the heavier, louder stuff. This one had classics, mellow shit—something he’d play if Ester was sitting in her chair, knitting.

Maybe later, he’d switch to the rock playlist with Slipknot and Peyton Parrish.

Music while working was always a bit risky.

Sometimes, he could look at his arrangements the next day and immediately tell what he had been listening to.

More chaotic, more aggressive when he played rock.

Weird, but true.

The worktable was already covered with everything he needed—white and soft orange roses, baby’s breath, eucalyptus branches, and a crate full of cream-colored hydrangeas he had just grabbed from the fridge.

He had a clear plan in mind. The bride wanted "elegant but modern," which, in plain English, meant classic white arrangements with just a touch of color. Simple. Expensive. And a pain in the ass. God he hates hydrangeas.

Mickey grabbed a rose, stripped the thorns with practiced ease, and cut the stem with his knife. Then another. And another. His hands moved on autopilot while the bass pulsed through the room.

He had gotten the knife for his twentieth birthday from Ronan. A real florist’s knife, stainless steel, the blade slightly curved—though now noticeably smaller from years of sharpening. The handle was black, textured for better grip, the butt end missing and held together with duct tape.

But Mickey couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

At the base of the blade, where it met the handle, initials were engraved.

Not his. Not Ronan’s.

He had once told him how he got it. Ronan had bought it at a pawn shop with the first money he had ever earned.

Ro had never had kids of his own, so instead of just the knife, he had signed over the entire shop to Mickey.

Mickey knew how much that knife had meant to him, and over the years, it had become Mickey’s most cherished tool.

And he liked this kind of work. It was calming. And if he was being honest, he liked that today, he didn’t have to force a smile or make small talk about "Oh wow, the flowers smell amazing!"

If he had a choice, he’d ditch the walk-in customers entirely, take only orders, and work alone.

But the daily business—the fucking hipsters who bought an amount of succulents and dried flower bouquets—kept the shop’s rent paid and the Google and Yelp reviews glowing.

Which, of course, boosted the weekend orders.

He placed the first rose into the floral foam, then another, loosening up the arrangement with eucalyptus and put some hydrangeas in between.

Mickey was good at this. He knew exactly how to balance colors and shapes so it didn’t look like gas station garbage.

As the temperature outside climbed, the shop stayed pleasantly cool, and the music continued to play. A new song started just as Mickey finished the first <a href="https://ibb.co/NphNQr1">arrangement</a>  and carried it into the fridge.

"Heat Waves" by Glass Animals played and he was so caught up in his work that, on his way back to the table, he started dancing.

He loved the Fridays with his music and the whole shop for himself. Even if his mood had been dampened last night, almost sour, because that idiot had provoked him so much, almost nothing could ruin today. Of course, he'd thought about the other man while he'd been removing thorns with the knife, but he'd shaken it all off and turned to his music and the flowers. There was no need to let that ruin his mood.

He decided to take a break, pulled his cigarettes from under the counter, poured himself the last <a href="https://ibb.co/zT9vKcLg">cup</a>  of now-cold coffee, and stepped out through the side door into the building’s hallway, then out onto the street.

The heat was the first thing he felt.

Then the blinding sunlight, already too bright and too hot for this early in the day.

Holding his coffee in one hand, he clumsily pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it, stuffing the pack and lighter into the back pocket of his jeans.

The smoke filled his lungs, mixing with the hot air and the stench of exhaust fumes and city trash. But this was his home, and he loved it.

Even if it smelled like shit. Even if hipsters in fucking flip-flops strolled down the freshly paved sidewalks.

A few years ago, nobody here would’ve dared to drive around with rainbow flags on their rearview mirrors.

Now, though…

Mickey shook his head and took one last drag before flicking the cigarette toward the gutter.

He grabbed the door handle and swung it open.

Mickey didn’t believe in coincidences. He didn’t believe in karma, fate, bad omens, or any other supernatural bullshit, but when Gallagher stumbled through the door and right into his arms, he cursed all seven gods and every black cat in existence.

Mickey’s cup slipped from his hands, crashing to the ground as its contents spilled over the redhead’s clothes.

Mickey just looked at him for a second. Fucking starring. Dark brown coffee stains spread across the <a href="https://ibb.co/spWWHVsq">dark blue button down</a>, right over the patch ‘I. Gallagher’. On the shoulder was the logo of the Chicago Fire Department.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Gallagher swore, yanking at his shirt before looking up at Mickey.

His face was a mix of anger, shock, and pure stress.

"Yeah, Jesus fucking Christ," Mickey snapped. "Can’t you watch where the hell you’re goin’? Again?"

Gallagher’s face turned as red as his hair.

"Me?" he snapped back. "I don’t have time for this childish bullshit. ’m late."

And just like that, he stepped past Mickey, right over the broken cup, and took off down the street.

Mickey felt the déjà vu settle over him.

That asshole had left him standing in the shards again.

But this time, he had been wearing a firefighter’s shirt. And he had been in a hurry.

Maybe someone was in trouble? Maybe a house was on fire? A cat on a fucking tree?

Or maybe not.

Maybe this fucking Gallagher just wanted to get a creamy, sugary, cold starbucks drink before his shift. He seems like the type. As if the ginger had flipped a switch, Mickey's mood began to sour.

He went inside, grabbed a broom, and swept up the broken porcelain.

—

After he had calmed down a bit and had loudly complained about the fireman and his outrageous behavior, Mickey had finished two more table arrangements with the hardrock playlist loudly in the speakers.

“Childrish bullshit” he scoffs, shaking his head, walking out the door.

It was noon by now and he was heading across the street to the tamales stand to grab something to eat.

It was a small, unassuming thing—barely more than a cart with a umbrella overhead. A handwritten sign with the day's specials were plastered on the front. The air was thick with the scent of masa, slow-cooked meat, and spicy salsas, mingling with the city’s heat.

<a href="https://ibb.co/7dHX64wf">Emilio</a> grinned wide when he saw Mickey, a little spark in his dark eyes. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with strong arms and black hair tied into a loose ponytail. The heat made his forehead glisten, and he wiped the sweat off his neck with a rag.

"Ah, if it isn’t the most handsome man on this side of the border!" he beamed. "And he’s coming straight to me—my heart is racing." He slid a hand under his shirt, tapping his chest to pretend his heart is hammering like in a cartoon.

Mickey rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. "Jesus, Emilio."

"Always so shy about compliments, guapo." Emilio winked at him as he reached for the brown paper bag his sister Romina silently handed over.

"I don’t know why I keep coming here," Mickey muttered, grabbing the bag.

"Because deep down, you know you can’t live without me." Emilio leaned on the counter, arms crossed lazily.

Mickey opened the bag, took a bite of one of the hot tamales, and raised an eyebrow. "I can’t live without Romina’s tamales," he said through a mouthful, flashing her a grin.

Emilio laughed, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his tied-back hair. "Admit it—if I stopped flirting, you’d miss me."

Mickey shrugged. He didn’t want to be rude—he liked Emilio well enough—but sometimes the guy took things a little too far. What started as playful flirting sometimes edged into something more. Just a few months ago, Emilio had come into Mickey’s shop under the pretense of buying herbs and had tried to kiss him. Mickey had made it clear he wasn’t looking for a relationship.

Emilio had understood—but had also made it very clear that he wouldn’t mind keeping things casual. Mickey had turned that down, too.

Romina, who had been quietly working in the background, let out a soft snort. "Stop bothering him, Emilio. You’ll scare off our best customer."

"Please." Emilio leaned back against the counter. "Mickey can handle it."

"Hm." Mickey hummed, stuffing the rest of his tamale into his mouth before setting some bills down for Romina. Then, without another word, he turned to leave.

"I’ll be waiting for you, my love!" Emilio called after him.

Mickey flipped him off.

Back at the shop, Mickey locked the door behind him so no customers would wander in, then sank into his chair.

He pulled out one of the tamales, took a big bite, and chewed, staring absently at the crumpled paper bag on the counter.

Emilio was a good guy—really. Nice, charming, confident, attractive. Anyone else might have seen him as the perfect candidate for something casual or even serious.

Mickey wanted that. Something serious. Really. But it has to be with the right guy. And Emilio wasn't the right one. Even if Mickey was never in love before, he knew it have to be different. Feel different. 

And something casual? Just sex was risky—one of them would always end up catching feelings, and the other wouldn’t. And that? That felt like complete bullshit. Spending time with someone when you knew, deep down, it would never really click. A waste of time for both. Mickey just didn’t see the point in getting into something that wasn’t going to end in something solid.

His gaze drifted toward the large window, where the midday sun cast streaks of light across the shop floor. Outside, people went about their day, lost in their own routines. Some walked side by side, with someone they really wanted.

And Mickey wondered if, one day…

He scrunched his nose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up. He had an order to prepare for tomorrow.

He started the playlist, and Slipknot’s Before I Forget came up first on shuffle. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to his roses and hydrangeas.

—

The night was still. He had finished the orders, cleaned up the shop, and then went upstairs, eating yesterday's leftovers in front of the TV. 

Now he was lying in his queen-size <a href="https://ibb.co/nMvs6Prc">bed</a>, staring at the ceiling. Only the monotonous hum of the fan broke the silence, as it distributed the heavy, warm air around the room. Mickey lay on his back, one hand behind his head, the other resting loosely on his stomach.

The heat alone made it hard enough to fall asleep. And then his thoughts kept spinning endlessly in circles, keeping him awake.

He had tried to avoid thinking about Gallagher. He had tried to drown him out with work, loud music, tamales, and recently with a half-joint by a closed window.

He had tried to avoid thinking about the coffee stain shirt and all the completely different ways they had run into each other.

He had tried to avoid it—and failed. Miserably failed.

It was too dark, and the thoughts of stracciatella ice cream on perfect lips were too loud.

Maybe, if he just let off some steam, he'd finally get a few hours of sleep.

Mickey ran his hand over his face, then let it wander down his chest, his stomach, over the fuzz between his navel and waistband, lower, as he gave in to the thought with a sigh.

He shouldn't do that. His neighbor was nothing he should think about when he was about to jerk off.

It was not good behavior, not good manners and not a good basis for good neighborliness. 

But they weren't. Gallagher and he weren't friendly to each other, and Gallagher didn't have good manners, and he and Mickey weren't good neighbors.

So he gave in and closed his eyes, imagined pushing him against the counter, pulling off the damp, coffee-soaked shirt to finally see what lay underneath. He knew it would be good. Muscular, defined, but not exaggerated. The kind of body shaped by training. Maybe a few freckles on his shoulders, maybe scars from firefighting, from flames.

Mickey's breath grew heavier. His hand moved lower, pushing down the waistband of his boxers, as his mind continued to paint pictures he couldn't fight anymore, nor did he want to.

He imagined how Gallagher's lips would part slightly, surprised and gasping, when Mickey looked at him. How his breath would feel warm against Mickey's skin when they were on the brink of kissing.

How he would sound when Mickey finally touched him exactly where he wanted to touch Gallagher. 

Mickey bit his lip, sucked in air through his teeth, as his fingers glided through his pubic hair.

Shit.This was definitely a mistake.

But it felt too good to stop.

So he continues to the thought of Gallagher in him.

—

Toby arrived early and parked the van on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, right in front of Mickey’s shop. It wasn’t even seven yet, but they had to deliver the floral arrangements for the aisle, the bridal bouquet, and the boutonniere to the church before heading to the venue to set up the table decorations.

“Morning, Mick,” he greeted with a grin, grabbing one of the crates from Mickey before he could even step through the shop’s door. Toby was lanky and tall, his upper arms bony and thin, but he was strong and a crazy motherfucker. He had been Mickey’s juvie cellmate when he did his first and only stint inside for running drugs across the city under Terry’s thumb. They had lost touch afterward—weren’t even really friends by the time Mickey got out. Toby had unexpectedly stumbled into Mickey’s shop about a year ago, looking for a bouquet to propose to his girlfriend.

Mickey hadn’t known he was looking for a driver to help with deliveries, but when he saw Toby’s van, he offered him the job, and Toby had taken it. Mickey knew Toby was grateful, and he’d helped him out more than once—whether picking up flowers from the wholesaler or hauling Mickey’s old couch up the impossibly narrow stairs when he replaced it with a new one.

The van was useful, and Toby had agreed to slap Mickey’s logo on it to make things look more professional.

Mickey had packed the arrangements, the church decor, and everything else into green transport crates—open at the top but still stackable. They had holes at the bottom and sides to keep the flowers ventilated. 

This morning, before heading out, he had watered the floral foam again to keep the arrangements from wilting. Hydrangeas were a fucking nightmare, and Mickey was making a shitload of money to make sure everything looked perfect and the wedding guests didn’t have to deal with sad, droopy flowers.

Mickey and Toby chatted as they loaded the crates, and once everything was packed, they started the engine and drove off.

“Cassie okay?” Mickey asked, fiddling with the crackling radio to find a decent station.

“Yeah,” Toby nodded. “By the way, my probation’s getting shortened. Only two more months left.”

“Really? Good for you.” Mickey had to smile. 

One of Mickey’s conditions for Toby’s employment was that he had to starve off the drugs, and clearly this worked well for the kid. Sure, Mickey occasionally calmed his nerves with a joint but what Toby doesn’t know won’t harm him.

“You’re not screwing up again, right?” Mickey asked, serious. He wasn’t Toby’s dad, but he was his boss. Even if the line between friend and authority was pretty damn thin.

“Nah, don’t worry. Cassie would kill me.”

“Cassie’s not the only one.” Mickey shot back.

“What’s up with the redhead?” Toby changed the subject, and Mickey went along with it.

He sighed. “He’s driving me up the fucking wall.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

Mickey shot him a what-the-fuck look. “He’s reckless, rude, loud, has zero manners—just a complete pain in the ass.”

“Sounds like Mickey Milkovich’s dream guy.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Mickey ended the conversation.

They drove through the dense Chicago traffic to the <a href="https://ibb.co/xSXzJ1bb">Old St. Patrick’s Catholic Church</a> in the West Loop. 

The church was imposing—huge, with two towers on either side and a stone staircase leading up to its wooden doors. Large, elongated <a href="https://ibb.co/nMNQYYYC">stained-glass windows</a> let plenty of light inside. Several wooden pews were arranged in two rows, separated by an aisle that led to the altar. It was white and understated, nothing like the opulent, gold-adorned churches filled with religious paintings that Mickey was usually hired to decorate.

At the end of the aisle, near the altar, a woman was giving instructions to a group of musicians. When she spotted Mickey and Toby, she marched toward them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor in the vast space.

She introduced herself as the bride’s sister and quickly gave them instructions on where to place the floral decorations, took the bridal bouquet and boutonniere from them, and bustled around, micromanaging everything. Her shrill voice was commanding and arrogant.

Mickey didn’t like her.

But she and this whole wedding party were paying customers, and customers didn’t pay him to like them.

Toby and Mickey worked quickly and efficiently, and once they were done in the church, they headed to the reception venue.

The <a href="https://ibb.co/kVCwj8Fm">house</a  was big—not massive, but elegant and historic, with classic European architecture. The two-story building had a light, cream-colored facade and large windows framed by dark trim.

A sweeping outdoor staircase curved up on both sides, featuring ornate wrought-iron railings. They led to a small terrace with a similar railing that ran along the upper floor.

The entrance area on the ground floor was spacious and welcoming, leading through a large set of glass doors into the garden, where a few blooming trees stood.

Several long tables with white tablecloths were arranged on the lawn, wooden chairs neatly tucked underneath. Above them, a wooden <a href="https://ibb.co/XrPLrFG3">pergola</a>  was strung with fairy lights.  

Perpendicular to the guests' tables stood a separate table for two, its chairs upholstered and extravagantly decorated—the sweetheart table for the bride and groom.

Under one of the blooming trees, another table was set up, already adorned with small signs listing menu items. The buffet for later, Mickey guessed.

On the opposite side, beneath another tree, an identical table stood, displaying signs for cakes and desserts.

A petite young woman, dressed in black dress pants and a dark red polo shirt, was busy setting the tables when she looked up. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and Mickey noticed the name of a catering company embroidered on her shirt.

“South Side Succulents and Flowers. We’re delivering the table arrangements,” Mickey said, watching her expectantly.

She nodded. “I’m with the catering team. They told me you’d be arriving. You can start, but could you wait on those two tables until I finish setting them?”

She looked professional in her uniform, unlike Mickey, who wore black jeans and a dark blue button-down he had pulled from his closet that morning. Toby had on a dark gray shirt, unbuttoned over a black tank top, paired with dark blue jeans and Converse. They looked unprofessional next to the catering staff, and Mickey felt a small pang of embarrassment.

“We’ll unload and start with the other tables first. Is that the bride’s table?” He gestured toward the two-seat setup.

The woman nodded. “Yeah, I’ve already finished with that one.”

Mickey gave a quick nod and turned to head back to the van.

“Button up your shirt,” Mickey told Toby when they reached the van.

Toby gave him a confused look but didn’t question it, just did as he was told.

Then they unloaded the remaining crates, carried everything into the garden, and started arranging the centerpieces on the tables.

Mickey made a few minor adjustments, swapping out a couple of slightly wilted flowers for fresh ones he always kept in reserve, and re-tied some ribbons and bows. Once everything was in place, they carried the empty crates back to the van.

“Wait here. I just need to get a signature,” Mickey told Toby, who shrugged, lit a cigarette, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Mickey made his way back into the house with the delivery slip.

This was the part of the job he hated most—approaching customers, needing something from them.

It wasn’t that he was shy or insecure—hell no. But he preferred flying under the radar, liked being gone before the guests even arrived. He knew he sometimes couldn’t keep his mouth shut, wasn’t exactly polite when something annoyed him, and could be explosive if someone talked to him the wrong way.

As he passed through the kitchen, looking for someone in charge, he heard loud laughter and chatter coming from the entrance hall. He rolled his eyes and headed outside.

He was definitely underdressed for a wedding like this, and the feeling of embarrassment crawled up the back of his neck.

Then the lady from the church came into view, and he walked toward her. She had a glass of champagne in hand and gave him a once-over.

“The florist is still here?” she said to the man beside her. Her tone was amused, surprised—not an unusual reaction for Mickey, but something about the way she said it made his blood boil. Like he wasn’t standing right in front of her, like he was just an object.

He forced himself to stay the fuck calm. “I just need a signature, then I’m gone,” he said, holding out the clipboard.

She stared at his hands. He was used to that, too. The tattoos had faded over the years, but they were still distinctive—still a mark of where he came from. Still intimidating, threatening.

She signed quickly, then gave him a strange little smile without saying another word before turning away.

Bitch.

Mickey was about to head out the doors when a flash of orange caught his eye.

In all his holy fucking glory, there stood I. Gallagher. Dressed in a dark blue suit, tie, a champagne glass in hand.

Mickey tried not to stare, but his brain stored every single detail in a split second for later, when he’d be alone in his dark bedroom.

The broad shoulders. The sharp jawline. That smile—more polite than real, not reaching his eyes. The long fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. The lips, wet from the champagne.

Then, for just a fraction of a second, their eyes met. And that was enough to snap Mickey out of his trance.

He rushed outside onto the gravel parking lot, gasping for air.

He hadn’t expected to see him here, and just like the last two times they’d crossed paths, it hit him like a punch to the face. Like someone had yanked the plug from his brain, leaving everything offline.

“Mickey?”

The voice behind him was rushed, and when he turned, he saw the redhead—champagne still in hand—standing in the dark wooden doorway.

For a second, Mickey wondered how the hell he knew his name before remembering that the sign above his shop was pretty damn obvious.

“What?” Mickey snapped. No way he was getting into any kind of argument right now. Not at a client’s wedding.

A beat.

Then another guy appeared behind Gallagher, touching his elbow and letting his hand slide up his arm.

“Ian? Everything okay?”

They were close. No question about that. And it shouldn’t bother Mickey, right? But it did.

Ian. That's his fucking name. Ian Gallagher.

Mickey’s brain short-circuited again, searching for words.

The redhead turned to look at the guy. Short brown hair, a sharp jaw, broad shoulders that matched Gallagher’s under a sleek black suit. Attractive.

“Yeah, I—just said hi to Mickey here,” Ian replied.

“Oh, you know the flower girl?” the guy joked, just as arrogantly as that bitch inside had.

Fucking pricks.

Mickey snorted. He’d heard enough. Seen enough. He was done with this fucking job.

Rich assholes.

He left Gallagher standing in the doorway with his whatthefuckever-friend and made his way across the gravel to his van.

“Mickey, wait.”

He opened the passenger door and called over his shoulder, “You owe me a flowerpot, asshole.”

Then he climbed in, and Toby drove them off the lot.

—

How the hell can he be so attracted and repelled by someone at the same time? He thought staring at the ceiling of his bedroom once again.

Is that even possible? Ian fucking Gallagher, who had left him in the shards, twice, who had insulted him in his shop, who had deprived him of sleep and provoked him, now had stupid northside asshole friends. How could this guy get any worse?

And at the same time, he was challenging Mickey in a way no one ever else had. He filled the silence with sound. He made his boring life exciting, gave him something to think about. And fuck. He kind of liked that.

It was frustrating and confusing in an emotional way.

Mickey pressed his face in his pillow and screamed. 

Chapter Text

“Honestly, Ester, I’d deck that guy if I were you.” Mickey hefted one of the book boxes from the back door of the shop to the front.

“Yeah, I would have too, if he hadn’t run off so fast.” Ester shrugged and sighed, placing books on the shelf behind the counter.

Mickey dropped the box onto the counter, trying to catch his breath. The warm, stuffy air in the <a href="https://ibb.co/wZVPgstz">shop</a> made even this small effort feel like torture.

“Why do you even keep ordering books? I thought no one came here no more.” He recalled Ester’s rants about the Amazon takeover as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I still have my regulars.” She smiled as she tore open the box and started taking out books. Then, her smile widened. “And recently, a certain redhead.”

Mickey froze mid-movement, almost dropping the box.

“The fuck?”

Ester shot him a warning look over her glasses, and Mickey muttered a half-hearted “Sorry,” rolling his eyes.

“He’s cute.” She calmly sorted through the books.

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s nice, Mickey. Well-mannered, polite, and well-read.”

Mickey laughed dryly. “Are we talking about the same redhead? Were you even wearing your glasses when he was here?”

Ester rolled her eyes. “Shut up. I’m right. You two just got off on the wrong foot.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How many times? Five, six?” He shoved another box onto the counter. “First, he’s loud and annoying. Then he waltzes through my door. Then he runs me over, is a smartass, and lets his friend insult me? Not to mention, he breaks my stuff.”

“I’m sure he feels bad about it.”

“He never properly introduced himself or apologized for anything.” Mickey crossed his arms.

Ester sighed and gave him a pointed look. “Did you introduce yourself? Did you politely ask him not to use that entrance? I was there, Mickey. You were pretty worked up. And bumping into each other twice—nobody could’ve helped that.”

Mickey stayed quiet. 

“Mickey. You know I'm right.”

He hadn’t looked at it that way.

Fuck.

He hadn’t welcomed Gallagher to the building. Hadn’t apologized for the coffee stain. 

Fuck.

Still.

“But what about—”

“Mickey.” Her voice was calm but firm as she set an empty box aside.

Mickey exhaled sharply. “I hate it when you're right.”

Ester just nodded and went back to stacking books on the shelves.

“Pass me the next box, sweetheart,” she said after a few minutes. “You gotta head back soon, right?”

Mickey nodded. He had about twenty minutes before he needed to reopen the shop, but he wanted to eat something before the afternoon rush.

“Go on, then.” She didn’t even look up from the shelf.

Mickey hauled the last box onto the counter and turned to leave.

“Thanks, sweetie.” She smiled over her shoulder.

“No problem, E. Let me know if you need anythin’ else.”

“Lilies. You know I love lilies.” She winked, and Mickey smirked as he stepped out of the bookstore into the sweltering midday sun.

He made his way back to the shop, relishing the cool air on his skin as he stepped inside. He dropped onto Ester’s chair behind the counter and finished the leftover sandwich he’d bought from Subway.

He had just taken the last bite and pulled up his calendar to check which flowers he needed for the next order when he heard the bell above the door chime.

Mickey looked up from his tablet and swallowed the last bit of food.

Since the wedding three days ago, he hadn’t seen or heard from Ian. It had been quiet next door.

Now, he was standing in the middle of his shop.

Ian Gallagher in all his fucking glory.

Fucking fuck.

Mickey stared at him for a few seconds, then wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. “What do you want?”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Are you this rude to all your customers?” He ran his hand through his hair and briefly rested his hand on the back of his neck.

Only the Assholes. Mickey wanted to snap back, wanted to wipe that dumb look off his face. But Ester’s words still echoed in his head.

Maybe they really had just gotten off on the wrong foot.

“What can I do for you?” Mickey asked instead, his voice maybe a little too deliberately friendly.

Ian smirked faintly, then wandered slowly through the shop.

Or maybe he is an asshole.

 Mickey watched him from the corner of his eye as Ian strolled seemingly aimlessly between the plants. He stopped briefly at the hanging ones, let his gaze skim over the pots and vases, then finally wandered to the cacti and succulents in the back.

His fingers absentmindedly traced the shelf’s edge. “Wanted to apologize for my friend at the wedding.”

Friend.

Ian didn’t look at him, just stared at a small echeveria in a colorful ceramic pot. “He was an asshole.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort. Gallagher unwittingly stealing the word that was going through his head since the redhead appeared in his shop. That was what he was apologizing for? His friend had been just as much of an asshole as he was.

His friend. Not boyfriend.

Ian rolled his eyes like he could read Mickey’s mind. “And for the whole running-into-you thing.” He shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked away. He was nervous.

God if that didn’t send Mickey through a loop.

Shit. Fuck.

Mickey nodded quickly, swallowing hard. What the hell was wrong with him? Normally, he’d tell him to fuck off, tell him to shove his apology up his ass. Even if he was a customer, nobody talked to him like that. Normally. But something about this whole situation—or about him—felt... different.

“So, is that it? Or are you actually buyin’ something, or did you just come for that?” It was the best he could manage at the moment.

“What do you recommend?” Ian smiled, and this time, the smile reached his eyes. Not like at the wedding a few days ago—then, it had been fake, forced. But this—this was real. And it knocked the wind out of Mickey.

“Depends.” Mickey’s pulse sped up as he glanced away, focusing on the plants. “Succulents need a little more care than cacti. Or do you want something like this?” He gestured to the Scandens Micans hanging above Ian’s head.

Ian followed his gesture but shook his head. “Cactus sounds good. Spiky, dangerous. My type.”

Somehow, without even realizing it, Mickey had fucking smiled about the dumb joke and he moved closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Ian’s body, their forearms nearly touching. They stood by the little table of cacti and succulents, surrounded by fragrant flowers and bursts of color, and Ian’s eyes were shining, searching Mickey’s face for something.

Ian suddenly flinched and looked down at himself. Snickers was curling around his leg, purring and looking up at them.

Mickey felt embarrassment creeping up his neck. "Shit, sorry. Snickers. Go!"

She tilted her head, and Mickey huffed.

"No, it's okay. She's cute. Is she yours?"

"Stray cat. She comes by sometimes. Didn't notice she got in."

Snickers trotted into the next room, and Mickey watched her for a moment, wondering if Ian actually liked pets or if he was just being polite.

Ian cleared his throat, snapping Mickey back into reality.

“Uh—this one,” Mickey said quickly, dragging his gaze away from the cat. “It’s about to bloom.” He reached for a pot. “Orange.”

Ian rolled his eyes theatrically but smiled as he took the small <a href="https://ibb.co/CK3mW7Ct">Chamaecereus cactus</a> from Mickey. Their fingers brushed, probably by accident, but it sent an electric jolt through Mickey’s body.

Then, just as the air between them got so charged it could spark, the shop bell rang.

Mickey stepped back and cleared his throat. “Uh—just a little water once a month. Likes it warm, lots of light.”

Ian nodded, following him to the counter. “What do I owe you?”

A few hours of sleep, a flower pot, and, technically, a coffee cup.

“$6.99. Don’t let it die, red.” Mickey smirked.

Ian bit his lip, clearly suppressed a wide grin paid and walked to the door. He glanced back over his shoulder before stepping outside, disappearing into the building next door.

As he passed by the doorway between the shop and the hall, he grinned, raising his eyebrows.

Shit. Fuck. Is he cute? 

—

The drive to the wholesaler was quiet. The sky was still gray, and Mickey steered the van through the empty streets. Toby sat beside him, a to-go coffee in hand, his feet propped up on the dashboard, making no effort to start a conversation. No surprise—before nine in the morning, Toby was barely functional. Mickey didn’t mind. He liked the quiet in the morning.

When they reached the wholesaler’s premises, Mickey pulled into a parking space between the delivery trucks and panel vans of other florists. The air smelled of damp earth, pollen, and greenery, and as they stepped through the automatic doors, they were hit by the chill of the air-conditioned warehouse.

Bill Doran Company was a massive hall with towering shelves lit by neon lights, lined with bucket after bucket of cut <a href="https://ibb.co/21FgCLSR">flowers</a>.  

Somewhere in the distance, pallet jacks rattled across the concrete floor, workers pushed carts through the aisles. The scent of freesias, lavender, and eucalyptus filled the air. Mickey took a deep breath.

He loved being at the wholesaler.

Grabbing a cart, he started systematically moving through the rows. The first buckets were filled with standard stock: large-headed Ecuadorian roses in pink, white, and deep burgundy. Next to them, smaller spray roses, perfect for compact bouquets. Mickey picked up a bundle in cream and another in soft pink. Nearby, massive bunches of fragrant peonies—Sarah Bernhardt or something like that with its lush, ruffled blooms, and Coral Sunset, shifting from apricot to soft pink. A few of those went into the cart as well.

Further down, things got wilder. Exotic flowers stood in cool water tanks. Bird of paradise with fiery colors, heliconias with sharply cut shapes.

The next aisle held more delicate blooms. Snapdragons in pastel shades, astilbes with their feathery plumes, trembling grasses, and fluffy bunny tail grass. Here, Mickey selected flowers for wedding arrangements—white lisianthus, ranunculus, a handful of chamomile for an accent. In another bucket, deep purple calla lilies floated, elegant and timeless. Perfect for classic hipster bouquets.

Finally, the greenery. Eucalyptus in various varieties—cinerea with its round, silvery leaves, parvifolia with its long, slender branches. Then ruscus for structure, pistachio foliage for volume. Mickey could never have enough good filler greens.

When his cart was full, he turned to Toby, who was still silently nursing his coffee and managed little more than a nod.

“I was thinking we could get some fancy polo shirts,” Mickey started. The idea had been on his mind since the wedding.

“You mean those faggy-ass shirts like the catering staff wore?”

Mickey just shot him a deadly glare as they made their way to the checkout.

“Y'know I didn’t mean it like that. But whatever you say, boss,” Toby muttered, awkwardly sipping the last of his coffee.

Mickey paid for the flowers, and they loaded everything into the green transport crates he usually used for finished arrangements before stacking them into the van.

“If you order pink shirts, I swear to God I'll kill you” Toby commented as they pulled onto the road. Mickey rolled his eyes “lavender,” he chuckled.

The drive back was just as quiet as the one there, except for the increased traffic at this hour. Still, they made it back to the Southside before opening time and were unloading the van when Mickey saw the front door to the apartment hallway open.

It had been over a week since Ian had bought the cactus, and aside from a few awkward “hi’s” in the hallway, they hadn’t spoken. Even though Mickey heard him coming home at the same time every night, he had smoked by the closed window, instead of storming over in his boxers, fuming. In turn, the usual noises from next door had returned to normal—everyday sounds of life, no loud sitcoms or '90s shows with gunshot effects.

Almost like they had called a truce. Or at least silently agreed to lay down their arms for now.

“Hey,” Ian said, smiling. His reddish hair was still damp, probably from a shower.

Mickey jumped out of the van, holding a bundle of fresh greenery, and gave him a nod in greeting.

He wasn’t going to let himself get drawn in by the Irishman’s broad shoulders or the way his T-shirt clung to his chest. The flowers needed to be in the cooler as soon as possible—the temperature was already rising, even though it was still early morning. So he kept his gaze averted and walked past Ian without looking up.

But he didn’t get far. Toby stepped out just as Mickey was about to enter the shop, and they blocked each other’s path for a few seconds. Long enough for both to chuckle, and for Mickey to mutter, “Fuck off.” Toby placed both hands on Mickey’s shoulders, turning him toward the entrance.

Inside, Mickey brought the eucalyptus to the cooler, Snickers following him to the counter and sitting there, watching him.

When he stepped back outside a few seconds later, Ian was still standing there as if waiting for something.

“You need anything, Gallagher?” Mickey glanced over his shoulder as he took another transport crate from Toby.

He turned back just in time to see Ian shifting from foot to foot, taking a deep breath.

Mickey raised an eyebrow, standing still.

“I, uh… I wanted to ask if you— you know. If maybe after work you’d—”

“Hey, Mick!” Toby called from the van.

Mickey rolled his eyes, turning toward the vehicle with the crate in his hands. “Yeah, yeah, asshole.”

But when he turned back to Ian, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, barely glancing at the screen before sighing. “Shit, gotta go. I’m on call.”

He didn’t wait for a response, already jogging down the street.

Had he just tried to ask Mickey out on a date?

—

Mickey and Toby carried the remaining boxes into the cold storage, and Toby gave him a lot of shit about how he never thought Scots were Mickey’s type and that he must have fallen head over heels because, after the ginger left, he was blushing as red as the fucking roses.

But Mickey barely had time to think about what it all meant and why he felt a warm sensation in his stomach when he thought about the redhead because as soon as he unlocked the shop, customers kept coming in and out. The entire morning was busy. One customer came to pick up a funeral wreath Mickey had finished arranging the night before, a couple stopped by to ask if he could do the flowers for their wedding next May, and three more walk-in customers wanted him to make bouquets or needed advice on succulents and cacti. It was exhausting—but in a satisfying way. Still exhausting, though.

When he finally got an hour's break at midday, his back and legs ached from standing for so long. He grabbed his lunch from the small fridge and sat at the little table in the back room. Snickers emerged from her cardboard box bed, rubbed against his legs, and then jumped onto the second chair, meowing.

"What?" Mickey asked before swallowing, as if she would answer him.

She meowed again, and Mickey rolled his eyes. "Hungry too?"

In response, she stared at his sandwich and licked her lips.

"Fine," he muttered with his mouth full, standing up to pour some food into her bowl.

Satisfied, she strutted across the small room and purred as Mickey sat back down.

As they ate, Mickey pulled out his phone and searched for local print shops that did custom workwear. He found two and decided to close an hour early today so he could visit them before they shut.

Then he opened an online florist supply store and browsed through the inventory catalog while finishing his sandwich.

Besides flowers—guaranteed for next-day delivery—the website also offered pots and vases in various sizes and colors.

Mickey currently sold his succulents in small, plain brown clay pots that were practical but not particularly exciting. He had considered expanding his selection before. If he moved a few shelves around, he could place a small table in the center of the room and display some decorative plant pots there.

Mickey kept scrolling and found a few quirky <a href="https://ibb.co/rRfjnhDH">pots</a>. That was definitely his kind of humor. Now he just needed a new table or a small shelf to display them properly.

That was the best thing about working alone and being his own boss. He could make all the decisions—what to stock, what changes to make in the shop—without needing approval from anyone.

Mickey still remembered when he first brought a succulent home from the wholesaler, and Ronan had been skeptical. After all, they were a flower shop, not a greenhouse. In Ronan’s opinion, soil belonged outside.

Mickey had taken the succulent upstairs to his apartment, cared for it, watered it, and eventually repotted it. Before long, the tiny plant had grown much bigger.

He had read a lot online, learning about the best locations, fertilizers, soil types, watering needs, and how they propagated through their roots underground. Then he had cut off a few leaves, planted them in separate pots, and grown two new succulents from the original. He had developed a passion for it, picking up different succulent varieties from the wholesaler and letting them grow in his apartment.

He had tried to convince Ronan to experiment with selling them, arguing that customers and target demographics had changed over the years. But Ronan had remained stubborn, insisting on keeping things exactly as they were. Because "that’s how it’s always been."

When Ronan officially signed the shop over to Mickey shortly after his cancer diagnosis, Mickey didn’t change anything. Not right away. He didn’t want Ronan to feel like he had made a mistake or that Mickey had just been waiting to take over so he could turn everything upside down. He only made small adjustments—changes Ronan would have approved of.

When Ronan was gone, it felt strange. Like a betrayal. Like making decisions without consulting him was somehow wrong.

It had taken many conversations with Ester to get Mickey to where he was now.

To believe that he was in charge.

Now, he could make all the decisions himself. And he loved it. Being his own boss. Being independent. Standing on his own two feet.

At least as far as his work life was concerned. His private life, however…

He added a few more items to his cart: floral wire, new pruning shears, a blue vase with black stripes, some seeds, and fertilizer for the herbs.

Snickers had finished her lunch just as Mickey wiped the crumbs from his chin.

She jumped onto his lap, and he absentmindedly ran his hand through her brown fur.

By the time he had placed and paid for the order, the stray cat had curled up in his lap.

Mickey sighed. "Come on. Get up, I need to reopen the shop."

Meow.

"Go back to your box and let me work."

Snickers jumped down and trotted over to her box. But instead of lying down, she dramatically sat in front of it and stared after Mickey as he rolled his eyes and returned to the shop.

The afternoon was quieter, thankfully. Mickey was able to arrange the <a href="https://ibb.co/DgQjTHP1">bouquet</a> for tomorrow’s order during business hours, meaning he wouldn’t have to stay late.

He started with roses in various shades of pale pink and lilac, added deep purple stock flowers, and included astrantia, which he had bought that morning, with their delicate, star-like blooms. Lady’s mantle with its fine, greenish-yellow flowers provided an airy texture.

Just as he placed the bouquet in the cooler, two young men entered the shop.

One was about Mickey’s height, lanky, with black hair and glasses. The other was slightly taller, with blond curls, blue eyes, and dark freckles scattered across his face.

They were browsing the vases when Mickey came back from the cooler and noticed they were holding hands.

"Can I help you?" Mickey asked, stepping closer.

The dark-haired one looked at the blond and beamed.

They were clearly younger than Mickey—both around twenty—and happy. Truly happy.

The blond grinned. "We need a florist for our wedding."

Mickey smiled. Not just out of politeness or because he had to be friendly to customers—he smiled because their happiness was contagious.

The dark-haired man wrapped an arm around his fiancé’s waist, his grin widening.

"Come with me," Mickey said, motioning for them to follow him to the counter. "When’s the big day?"

They discussed the details—the date, the colors. Mickey noted everything on his tablet.

A wedding in October at the courthouse followed by a small family gathering at a restaurant. Two boutonnieres for their suits, three small bouquets for the bridesmaids, three table arrangements for the reception.

Mickey showed them a portfolio of color palettes, and they settled on white and cream roses with orange <a href="https://ibb.co/HL1tjgQb">lilies</a>.  

"I’ll call you a week before to confirm the delivery and payment," Mickey said after they exchanged contact details.

The blond nodded. "Thank you!" he said, while the dark-haired man smiled at Mickey and took his fiancé’s hand.

They were so young and so happy—and maybe a little naïve—but Mickey was happy for them, and not just because they are paying customers.

As they left the shop, laughing and glowing, he felt the bitterness creep back in. Mickey saw happy couples every day, he helped couples choose flowers for their weddings and he guided clueless guys on what flowers to buy for their date. Every day he made other people happy.

Where’s his bouquet? 

He should be happy.

He had a great job, was his own boss, had friends like Ester and Toby, and even Emilio, in a way.

Yet, the bitterness persists. Like a blazing flames, roaring up out of nowhere and leaving a black veil over everything it touches. 

Maybe It was all about sharing the last slice of pizza and cuddling on the couch. It is what happiness means, wasn't it?

He should have someone too. Someone to beam up at, to wrap his arms around. Every other fucker manages to find someone to put up with them.

He should have someone to be happy with.

But all he had was an old, hard-of-hearing lady, a stray cat, his employee, and a tamale boy. No offense, they were great but… not this… something.

There was a time when Mickey had convinced himself that he didn’t deserve to be happy, that it was better to keep everyone at arm’s length because he was simply unlovable—too broken and fucked up for anyone to love him.

Over the years, that belief had changed, shifted. It had faded. The poor kid from the heart of the South Side, beaten and abused by his father, was gone. In his place stood a proud, gay man with a sharp tongue and knuckle tattoos—rising from the ashes like a goddamn phoenix or something like that.

But the insecurities remained. Deep inside. Beneath the surface.

He never let anyone get too close. Of course, partly because he thought it was a waste of time if the heart wasn’t in it—but also because, deep down, he was afraid. Afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of hurting others. Like his father did.

But those two boys who had just walked out of his shop were happy.

Mickey wanted that too.

Enough destructive fire and black ash.

—

That thought lingered in his mind until he collapsed into bed that night.

He had stopped by the print shop and ordered two dark green polo shirts with Mickey’s shop logo embroidered on them. Then, he’d picked up tamales from Emilio, gone upstairs, propped his aching feet up on the coffee table, washed down his tamales with a cold Old Style, and eventually dragged himself to bed.

But he was alone. No one there to share his weed with and no warm lap to rest his tired feet in. 

Mickey turned onto his back, slipping a hand beneath his head. He had fought his way out of hell, worked his ass off, shed blood, sweat, and tears to get where he was now. People came to him because he made them happy.

He smiled when he heard the TV turn on in the apartment next door, immediately lowered to a quiet murmur.

And fuck his father for all the insecurities he had planted in his son. Mickey was nothing like him, and he sure as hell wouldn’t give him the power to make him believe he could hurt someone the way Terry had.

Mickey sat up so abruptly that he nearly got dizzy.

Gallagher, Ian, had wanted to ask him out this morning, right? He probably would have said no. Or maybe he would have said yes and then chickened out like a coward.

But now, after spiraling through these thoughts until he was nearly sick, he had made up his mind. He was going to say yes.No—he was going to ask him out.

Right now.

Immediately.

Because why the hell not?

It might be the pot talking, but he doesn’t think so.He wants that something. Lazy Sundays, cuddling and kissing on the couch and physical touch just to be close. 

And he has to at least try to get that. If not through grindr, maybe though the guy next door.

He got up, barefoot against the wooden floor, and made his way to the door and knocked.

The agonizing minutes that followed had Mickey’s heart pounding in his throat, his palms sweating, until the door finally opened.

Gallagher—wearing that worn-out bathrobe as always, but this time paired with gray sweatpants and a dark blue tank top—looked at him with a frown.

"Too loud again?" He sounded annoyed, but also a little amused. And for that damn smirk, Mickey would kill.

"No. Actually—" Mickey bit his lip.

Yeah, he definitely hadn’t thought this through. But at least this time, he was grateful Gallagher wasn’t eating stracciatella ice cream.

"You wanted to ask me something this morning before you bolted."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been on call all day." Ian gave him an apologetic smile, his hand resting on the doorknob.

Mickey caught the scent of smoke a second before Ian did, but the panic was written all over both their faces as they saw thick clouds of smoke rising up the stairwell.

Chapter Text

Adrenaline is the engine of survival, rushing blood through the veins and putting the body in a state of high alert. It is the hormone of flight or fight, especially when a life is in danger.

When adrenaline is released, the body reacts instantly: the heartbeat accelerates, breathing becomes shallow, muscles tense up. The brain switches gears—away from rationality, toward instinct.

It’s like fire, uncontrollably blazing in all directions. Adrenaline spreads through the body like a chain reaction.

Mickey felt it coursing through his veins when he saw the thick smoke through the small window in the door. He had run down the stairs and now stood in front of the inner door to the shop, where smoke was seeping through the crack beneath it.

His body was ready to fight, and he didn’t hesitate for a second when he smashed the glass with his elbow to reach in and unlock the door from the inside. Even though he wasn’t wearing a shirt, he reached through the shattered glass and undid the lock.

He had to go in. He wasn’t sure if Snickers had gone out with him that evening or if she had snuck back into the shop behind him like she had so many times before.

Mickey pushed the door open. Dark smoke hit him in the face, and he raised his hand to cover it. It smelled like burnt plastic and sulfur.

His eyes burned, the power was out, and he could barely see. The light coming in from the hallway wasn’t enough.

“Snickers!” he called out and coughed, then stepped forward into the thick smoke.

But a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. “Mickey! Get outta here!” Ian coughed, holding the sleeve of his bathrobe over his face.

He had to go in. That stray was his friend. Even if she wasn’t in there, Mickey had to be sure.

He tried to shrug off the hand, but Ian pulled him again. “C’mon!!”

“I have to get her out,” Mickey coughed and broke the grip on his wrist.

A beat. A look.

It probably lasted only a few milliseconds, but to Mickey, it felt like an eternity.

“Where?” Ian mumbled through the fabric of his sleeve.

“Side room maybe. Or under the counter. I’m not sure. I don’t even know if she’s in there.” Mickey’s lungs and eyes burned, and he coughed again. He had nothing to filter the smoke, and it all poured into his lungs.

“Wait outside for the fire department,” Ian said, muffled, and disappeared into the thick smoke.

The smoke was dark gray, but Mickey didn’t see flames. Still, he knew the smoke could be more dangerous than the fire itself.

But Ian was a firefighter, right? He knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Normally, he should’ve waited for his team. That was the rational way. But Ian, just like him, was flooded with adrenaline, and instinct had taken over.

Mickey watched him for a few more seconds, then felt the burn in his lungs again and stumbled to the door.

He stepped outside and gasped for air.

His thoughts spun along with his stomach, and he coughed the toxic smoke from his lungs, spat on the ground, and held on to the wall of the neighboring building. His eyes burned, tears flooding them, trying to flush out the sting as his body doubled over from coughing.

He heard sirens getting closer, and the blue lights reflected in the shop windows. Late-night passersby called out, stopping to watch the spectacle. A woman asked if he was okay and if she could help.

But Mickey’s thoughts were with Ian.

He’d been in there too long. How long has it been? Seconds? Minutes?

Firefighters jumped from the truck. One of them ran straight to Mickey, the others forced the door to his shop open with brute force.

“Is anyone still inside?” the man asked.

Mickey nodded, still coughing. “Ian—he went in—” But he couldn’t speak any further. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his lungs were on fire. Another man approached. Everyone was shouting, the blue lights blinding Mickey’s irritated eyes. He pressed his palms into them. His stomach ached from coughing, and his head throbbed.

He felt a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders and someone tugging at his elbow.

A paramedic led him to the ambulance and helped him up onto a stretcher. Then he felt a mask over his face and something cool rushing into his lungs.

Oxygen.

But where was Ian? Was he still inside? Had he made it out?

It was stupid. So stupid. It hadn’t been a rational decision, risking a human life for a cat. It was dumb to go in there.

Why had Ian done it?

Where was he?

He had to check.

Mickey stood up and ripped the mask from his face. He jumped out of the ambulance, stumbled, but regained his balance. The paramedic grabbed his shoulder.

“Sir, you should—”

“I need to- look for my-,” Mickey insisted.

The paramedic looked past him. Mickey followed his gaze.

He saw a firefighter coming out of the shop—behind him, in a faded bathrobe, covered in soot and dirt, was Ian. In his arms, a small brown bundle of fur.

“Jesus,” Mickey exhaled, relieved.

He took a few steps toward them, saw Ian flash him a brief smile before handing him Snickers.

“Where the hell have you been, asshole?” Mickey muttered, looking up at Ian as he stroked the animal’s head.

They walked back to the ambulance and sat side by side on the stretcher.

The paramedic gave Ian a mask as well.

Ian shrugged. “We were in the freezer. Waited there until the fire department came. Didn’t take long.”

Mickey nodded, inhaled the oxygen, and let his lungs calm down.

They just sat there, side by side, both quiet and avoiding eye contact while the paramedic scribbled something on a clipboard. Snickers purred softly in Mickey’s lap as the burning in his chest slowly eased.

Ian kept his eyes on the ground, breathing heavily through the mask, but Mickey didn’t miss the fact that he kept sneaking glances his way.

A firefighter came over to the ambulance. He had his helmet under his arm and looked directly at Mickey. “You were lucky,” he said. “Small fire, probably a short circuit from a tablet under the counter. No open flames, just a lot of smoke. Mostly from melted plastic and cables.”

Mickey nodded silently.

“The water from the hoses did some damage though,” the man continued. “It’ll take a few days before you can reopen. But the place isn’t totally wrecked.”

Mickey exhaled. That was something.

“Thanks,” Mickey said quietly.

“Thanks, Pete. See you tomorrow,” Ian added in a soft voice.

“You’re staying home tomorrow, Gallagher. If I see your ass at the station, I’m calling Allison,” the firefighter said sternly, and Ian just rolled his eyes.

Then Pete headed back to his colleagues.

“One of your coworkers?” Mickey asked curiously.

Ian nodded. “Not in my unit, but same station. We know each other.”

Mickey nodded.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said after a short pause.

“I know,” Ian replied, not looking at him.

A paramedic stepped up to Mickey, “you need to come to the hospital. Your lungs took a hit, and I want to make sure—”

“No.” Mickey shook his head, pulling the oxygen mask off. “Can’t afford that. I don’t have health insurance, and I need every cent for the store.”

The paramedic looked at him for a moment, “What about you?” he asked Ian, who also shook his head.

The paramedic nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But if anything gets worse—shortness of breath, dizziness, anything—call emergency services immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey mumbled, already getting up, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

The firefighters were already rolling up hoses, the smoke had mostly cleared. A few windows were shattered, water leaked from under the door, and the sidewalk glistened in the blue lights. Mickey felt a lump in his throat, tears welling in his eyes.

It could have been worse. Yes, it could’ve been much worse, but still—it looked like a lot had been destroyed.

Everything Ronan had built could’ve burned to the ground. It was a stroke of luck that the damage was minimal and everyone had made it out alive.

Still. Seeing the store like that, everything he’d helped build, broke him.

“Need a smoke,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. His cigarettes were upstairs, goddammit.

A freckled hand held out a pack and a lighter. Mickey took them without a word, and Ian took the cat from him. He pulled a Marlboro from the pack, stuck it between his lips, and sighed.

“Stupid idea to smoke right now,” he muttered, annoyed. The nicotine would’ve helped calm his nerves.

“Yeah, probably,” Ian agreed with a shrug. “Want a drink?”

Mickey shoved the cigarette back into the pack and nodded.

He’d deal with the chaos tomorrow.

They traded again, Ian taking the cigarettes and Mickey taking the cat, and together they made their way upstairs. “You wanna sleep at my place tonight?” he asked the furball in his arms.

“You’re bleeding,” he heard Ian say behind him as they stood on the landing. He turned around, confused.

“What?”

Ian pointed to Mickey’s forearm. “There. There’s a cut.”

Mickey lifted his arm. A long, superficial gash ran along his forearm, red and sticky. Now that he saw it, he could feel it—the pulling pain of the wound.

“Shit,” Mickey muttered, grimacing. Must’ve happened when he broke the door open from the inside.

“Come on,” Ian said calmly. “I’ve got first aid stuff.”

Mickey hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

He’d had worse injuries, but it still needed disinfecting. Plus, it was in an awkward spot to treat on his own.

He dropped Snickers off in his apartment, then followed Ian to his. It was Ronan’s old place, same layout as Mickey’s, and not much had changed. New furniture, fresh paint. But Mickey didn’t pay much attention to the furniture or the walls. He was exhausted, it was well past 2 AM, and he’d had a hell of a day.

Ian led him into the kitchen, and he sat down on one of the bar stools by the counter. “Surprised the EMT didn’t see it,” Ian commented as he pulled a small first aid kit from an overhead cabinet. He placed it on the counter, then poured a glass of whiskey and set it down in front of Mickey.

“Not drinking?” Mickey asked, reaching for the glass.

Ian shook his head.

“Arm,” he said, patting the counter. Mickey obeyed and twisted his arm to give Ian better access, then took a sip of whiskey. It burned his throat, similar to the smoke, but it gave him a warm feeling in his stomach.

Ian took out disinfectant, gauze, and a bandage, neatly lined everything up, then stepped close to him.

The warmth from his body was comforting against Mickey’s still bare chest. He wore only boxers and the blanket over his shoulders, and even though it was hot tonight, Mickey felt cold and got goosebumps as Ian’s warm hands touched his skin.

“This’ll sting,” the redhead said calmly.

“I can take it,” Mickey muttered, trying to breathe through the pain.

Ian smiled briefly and began cleaning the wound with a damp swab. As soon as he applied the cold liquid, Mickey flinched slightly.

"Oh, really?"

“Shut up,” Mickey said through gritted teeth. God, what a pussy he’d become.

He used to stitch his own damn eyebrow after Terry threw a beer bottle at him.

“All right, tough guy.”

Ian grinned, but his gaze stayed focused. His fingers were steady, moved with precision, and Mickey had the feeling Ian was working slower than necessary.

He watched Ian’s face, calm and concentrated. The freckles above his right eyebrow, the little brown spot in his green iris, the symmetrical, rosy lips. Holy fuck, he was handsome. And he’d just walked through fire for Mickey.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mickey murmured after a few seconds.

“Hmm. You said this already.” Ian replied quietly, dabbing the smeared blood from Mickey’s forearm.

“So why did you?”

Ian looked up, paused briefly in his motion, and looked at him. Their eyes met for a few seconds, then he cleared his throat and looked back down at Mickey’s wound.

“When I was 14, my dad gave my little sister a turtle. It was dumb, none of us knew how to take care of it or what it needed to eat, but my sister loved it. It was from our dad, and if you knew him, you’d know how rare affection or interest from him was.”

He ran the swab along the edge of the wound, gentle but thorough. Mickey flinched, but stayed quiet. He looked from his arm to Ian’s face. He seemed miles away.

“Long story short, my sister loved that thing. Then, when my two older siblings were out with my youngest brother, it was just Debbie, my brother, and me at home. And the turtle. We put it in an old fishbowl and fed it green Twizzlers and Skittles.” Ian shrugged and smiled at the memory.

“A small fire broke out in the living room. Nothing big, just a smoldering cigarette in the armchair that no one noticed. Probably from our Dad. I got the kids out. Debbie screamed bloody murder about her turtle. I put the fire out with a half-full beer bottle and got the fishbowl out.”

Ian soaked the swab in alcohol again and dabbed at the wound. The burning intensified, and Ian held Mickey’s wrist to keep him from pulling away. It was such a small, natural gesture, but Mickey’s skin tingled where Ian touched him, under the warmth of his strong, freckled hands.

“Don’t know if that’s when I decided to join the fire department, but when my sister saw that bowl with the turtle still inside, something hit me, you know? You like the cat,” he said and shrugged. “If we’d waited for the fire department, she wouldn’t have made it.”

Mickey’s stomach tightened uncomfortably, but he nodded. He knew that—hearing it still sucked.

“You could’ve gotten pretty fucked up too,” Mickey noted and took a sip of whiskey.

Ian shrugged and looked back at Mickey’s arm, then his gaze flickered to Mickey’s chest. “Nice tattoo.”

Mickey glanced down at his bare torso and nodded, but with his other hand, he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, hiding the blue stargazer lily. The colors had faded a little, but it still hurt just as much as it had thirteen years ago when he’d had it inked.

“What does it mean?” Ian tried to sound casual, but Mickey looked away. Ian had just told him something personal too, but this wouldn’t compare. Maybe one day he’d talk to Ian about his mother. But today wasn’t the day.

“How many siblings do you have?” Mickey asked suddenly, trying to change the subject.

Ian seemed surprised by the question. “Five.”

Mickey nodded again. “I’d do anything for my sister too,” Mickey muttered. “She’s a bitch and I wouldn’t share my pizza with her, but I’d donate her a kidney any day. Weird, huh?”

Ian looked up and nodded. Their eyes met for a moment and they were so close, Mickey could’ve easily…

“Almost done,” Ian said then, quickly looking down at Mickey’s arm. The tension between them snapped, like it had a few days ago in the store when Ian bought the cactus and that customer walked in.

He covered the wound with a sterile pad, then grabbed the bandage from the kit. Their eyes met again, briefly, not as intensely. 

“Is the cactus still alive?” It was pathetic to ask now, just to draw out the conversation, but Mickey couldn’t help it.

Ian just nodded and wrapped the bandage around Mickey’s arm then he fixed the end of the bandage and took a step back, let go of Mickey’s arm.

“So, will I survive, doc?” Mickey asked.

Ian nodded and smiled this ‘not reaching his eyes’ - smile and Mickey wondered why. But he was tired and exhausted and he just wanted to go into the shower, then fall into bed and sleep. There was not much space in his mind to wonder about things.

“It’s late.” Ian said, zipping up the med kit and moving to put it back in the cabinet.

Mickey's head pounds and his feet arched and he nodded. “Thanks.” 

“You're welcome Mickey.” Ian said and it was polite. 

Mickey was asleep the second his head hit the pillow.

—

The next morning, Mickey was up early. He’d slept like shit, kept waking up, coughing, cursing the cat that kept shoving its tail in his face.

By six, he’d given up, made himself some coffee, and put out his cigarette after just three drags because his lungs were burning like fire. 

Then he walked past the inner door without even glancing at the chaos in the store and went over to Ester’s.

He wanted to warn her, because she’d have a damn heart attack if she opened up the bookstore and saw the broken door to Mickey’s shop.

“I hope you brought coffee,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she opened the door.

Mickey scratched the back of his neck. “Nope.”

“Everything okay? You’re never up this early to see me.” She shuffled aside in her slippers and Mickey stepped into the store. Ester lived above her store too, but she had a doorbell for her apartment right next to the shop entrance.

She closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock.

“You didn’t see it last night?” Mickey asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Ester furrowed her brows. “See what? What’s going on?”

“There was a fire in the shop.”

Her eyes went wide, and she stepped up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“I’m fine,” he rolled his eyes.

“Come upstairs, honey. You can tell me everything.” She passed him and headed for the stairs behind the counter.

Ester made coffee, and Mickey told her what had happened. He told her about the smoldering fire and how the ginger had played hero and saved the cat.

She listened, looked at him worriedly, and gave him shit for not going to the hospital.

When she pulled the scones out, Mickey sighed. “Fuck, E. That guy’s driving me nuts.”

“Oh yeah?”

“One minute it’s like this, the next like that. It’s like a goddamn rollercoaster. Yesterday I thought we had some kind of connection or whatever. And then suddenly—” Mickey mimed an explosion with his hands. “Gone. Like someone flipped a switch.”

“What were you two talking about?”

Mickey bit into the scone and gestured. “Nothing special. Family stuff, you know.”

Ester looked at him over her glasses and made a hm noise.

“He told me about how he saved his sister’s turtle when they had a little fire at their place and he was home alone with his younger siblings.” He shrugged. 

Another hm. Then Ester tilted her head, watching him and sipped her coffee. “You like him.” 

Mickey sighed, nervous looking between Ester and his mug.

Ester raised her eyebrows at him but said nothing.

Mickey took another scone and bit off a chunk. “What?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Is it possible you’re falling for the boy?” she smiled teasingly, like she already knew the answer.

“No” Mickey rubs his nose with the back of his hand, his biggest nervous tick.

Ester just smiled.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Mickey stood in a puddle of extinguishing water. Snickers sat on the cushioned chair he had dragged to the middle of the room, trying to save the remaining bits of his shop from drowning.

He had spread out some rags after pushing most of the water out through the front door with a broom.

Meow.

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

Meow.

Mickey rolled his eyes, picked a soaked rag up off the floor, and wrung it out over a bucket.

He yawned and tossed the rag back down with a wet splat.

The night had been restless — not just because the cat had climbed on him and purred into his ear — his thoughts had been circling the redhead.

The friendly, gay guy next door. The friendly, freckled, gay Adonis who’d been nice and had saved his cat from choking.

Snickers licked her paws and looked at him questioningly.

“What?”

She glanced toward the counter and then curled up into a small ball on the chair.

Some time later, Mickey had mopped up most of the extinguishing water. He sighed and looked around.

The counter was completely trashed. Most of the plants could still be saved; his cacti and succulents in the back hadn't taken any damage, but a few broken flowerpots lay scattered on the floor — likely knocked over by the firefighters. The side door’s window was broken, and the lock on the front door was busted. The cut flowers in the buckets were drooping, but the ones in the cooling room were intact. In the storage room, the water had soaked into the cardboard boxes, and one of the shelves had absorbed a good amount of water.

There was a lot to fix, and it would take quite some work before he could reopen the shop to customers.

The bell above the door tore him from his thoughts.

“We're closed,” Mickey called over his shoulder without looking. Hadn’t he locked the door?

“Figured as much.”

Mickey spun around. It hit him like a bucket of ice water, setting his whole body buzzing. His heart skipped a beat.

A half-audible “Hey” was all he managed to get out, because the friendly, freckled, gay Adonis from next door — who’d saved his cat the night before — stood in the middle of his shop, looking at him.

He got a shy “Hey” in return.

Ian wore his navy-blue Fire Department shirt and black pants. He stepped further into the shop and looked around.

“Damage’s not as bad as it could’ve been, huh?”

Mickey snorted and looked back down at the little pile of broken glass at his feet. “Thought you weren’t working today?”

Ian shrugged. “Still going in. We're short-staffed and all…”

And then Mickey saw it. Ian let out a nervous sigh, his lungs visibly shuddering, and glanced around the room like he was trying to avoid Mickey’s eyes.

He was nervous.

Mickey felt a grin sneaking onto his face and quickly looked away, sweeping the floor again.

Ian cleared his throat. “Wanted to apologize. For last night. I...”

Mickey bit his lip, awkward, and finally looked up. He couldn’t help it.

“I was tired, and it was just… a lot. I didn’t mean to kick you out.”

In his hand, Ian held a small succulent in a brown clay pot. His gaze flickered between the plant and Mickey’s eyes.

“Didn’t know if—well, if the others made it. Thought you—uhm.” He lifted the pot, then set it on the counter. “It was a dumb idea. I’ll just—” He reached for it again, but Mickey cut him off.

“No, hey. It’s cool.”

He reached out like he was going to place a hand on Ian’s—but quickly pulled it back and grabbed onto the broom instead.

Ian beamed at him and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Mickey stifled a small smile, set the broom aside, and picked up the succulent. It was a red houseleek, its leaves pointed sharply toward the center.

“Thanks,” he said, eyes dropping to the floor. A few seconds passed, and the awkwardness thickened.

They were, essentially, just two boys — unsure and nervous.

“Can I help?” Ian finally asked.

Mickey nodded and placed the pot on the counter, then handed Ian the broom.

He lifted a soggy box full of wilted flowers and carried it toward the entrance where the rest of the trash was, then returned to the counter, where Ian was sweeping up the damp remains of Mickey’s belongings.

Their eyes met. The air between them was charged — just like during their first encounter, the cactus purchase, or the night before. That something was hanging in the air.

But there it stayed. It lingered above them, never fully settling — because then, like a rubber band snapping back, Ian kept sweeping and Mickey kept taking out the trash.

When Ian finished sweeping the shards, Mickey had already emptied the shelves under the counter.

“I thought you were going to work?” Mickey asked, wiping his hands on his apron. It was nearly noon, and Ian had been there for over an hour.

Ian shrugged again and leaned the broom against the wall. “Figured… one day off won’t hurt.”

He smiled nervously and bit his lower lip.

Mickey looked at him, surprised. “And you’re spending it here?”

Ian shrugged once more.

“Are you hungry?”

“I guess I could eat.” Ian’s smile shifted from nervous to cheerful.

Mickey liked it when he smiled. It looked cute, especially when it reached his eyes.

Fuck.

“Tamales? Emilio across the street makes the best,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the shop door.

Ian nodded, and after washing their hands together at the small sink next to the workbench, they crossed the street to Emilio’s stand.

“Mick! Hombre hermoso! Who’s your friend?” Emilio beamed, his white teeth gleaming in the hot midday sun as his brown eyes looked Ian up and down.

“Ian. My neighbor,” Mickey said, scratching the back of his neck.

Emilio was working alone, without his sister at the tamales stand. “Belleza pelirroja, what can I get you?”

“Uh—four tamales.” Ian looked from Emilio to Mickey and back again.

“And you, mi querida?” He smiled at Mickey.

“Give me three.”

Emilio turned around and prepared two bags.

“Me gustan tres,” he winked at Mickey as he handed them the food.

Mickey didn’t speak great Spanish, but he understood enough to roll his eyes at the innuendo.

“Jesus, Emilio.” Mickey shook his head and pulled out his wallet, but Emilio waved it off.

“On the house.” He smiled at both Ian and Mickey, and Ian thanked him politely.

Mickey smiled and took his bag. “Gracias, hermosa.”

“Hermoso,” Emilio corrected with a laugh.

“No, I said it right,” Mickey grinned over his shoulder as they headed back to the shop.

Once they sat down on the workbench and unwrapped their tamales, Mickey could feel Ian’s gaze on him again — so intense, it felt like it was cutting right through him.

“Spit it out. What is it?” he asked, biting into a tamale.

Ian unwrapped his first one from the foil and shrugged. He tried to sound casual, but failed. “Emilio’s nice.”

“‘Nice’ is the little sister of ‘shit.’ What are you trying to say?”

“He likes you.”

“So?”

Ian shrugged again. “And you don’t like him?”

It was half a question, half a statement.

“No. Emilio would just be… something casual.”

“Why nothing serious?”

Mickey took a deep breath and sighed. “First of all, he flirts with every dick that walks by. And second — if there’s no spark, it’s a waste of time.”

“And there was no spark?” Ian had leaned back against the wall so he could look directly at Mickey.

Mickey shook his head and looked back at him. Somehow, he had the feeling this wasn’t about Emilio anymore.

“I think if you know, you know, you know?”

Ian smiled again — that wide grin he’d worn on the stracciatella night.

God, he was catching a real, massive crush. He was falling. Hard. Unexpectedly. Because there was a spark.

They ate the rest of their tamales in silence. Ian’s long legs dangled off the workbench; Mickey sat cross-legged on his right ankle.

"Are you rebuilding everything the same as before?" Ian asked with his mouth half full.

"Good question," Mickey replied and thought about it for a moment. He’d always liked his job. But most of the time, not because of the customers, but because of the flowers and the arrangements — and for the last two years, the succulents and cacti too. Still, it was the customers, the ones who came in wanting a bouquet in hand or just a single red rose for their sweetheart, who paid the bills and the rent for the shop.

"Guess I’ll have to." Mickey shrugged. "If I could, I’d only do weddings and stay behind my workbench."

"What’s stopping you?" Ian asked casually.

Mickey sighed. "Walk-ins bring money too. The rent for the shop’s fucking insane, and I pay extra for the apartment, man."

Ian nodded in understanding but stayed quiet afterward.

When both of them had finished their three tamales, the last one sat between them. "Want to share? I can't eat a whole one," Ian asked, reaching for it as he rubbed his full stomach.

And suddenly, they were sharing the last tamal. It might not have been the last slice of pizza from Luigi’s, but still, Mickey felt this warm pull in his chest, and his heart sped up as Ian handed him half. Something about it felt so… intimate. Sharing food, just sitting here.

When they finished, Mickey hopped down from the workbench and grabbed two colas from the little fridge, handing one to Ian before sitting back down next to him.

“How’s the cut?” Ian asked, nodding toward Mickey’s arm.

Mickey shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”

Ian nodded and left it at that. They drank their colas in silence.

When Mickey set his empty can down and jumped off the counter, Ian sighed.

“We should get back to work, or you’ll have to kiss Christmas business goodbye.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and smiled.

Ian then helped him start putting the counter back together with the cordless drill.

Mickey wanted to knock it down with a sledgehammer, but Ian figured brute force wasn’t the best idea in a shop full of fragile flowerpots.

---

A little while later, when the charred wood and trash were piled outside on the grass strip by the street, Mickey started clearing out the shelves and wiping the soot and dust off the racks and flowerpots. Ian had grabbed a mop and a bucket of water and was scrubbing the tile floor.

They were mostly quiet, but kept stealing glances across the room. Mickey could feel that Ian wanted to say something. He cleared his throat a few times, but never spoke—just turned away again.

Just as Mickey took a breath to ask him what was up, Ian beat him to it.

“Why did you come to me?”

“Huh?” Mickey turned to him.

“Yesterday, before the fire—you came to my place. You said it wasn’t because I was too loud, so what was it?”

Ian leaned on the mop and looked at him. The green in his eyes sparkled, and he was chewing on the corner of his lip again.

Mickey sighed, deciding to be brave.

“I know you were going to ask me out.”

He placed the flowerpot back on the shelf and shoved his hands into his pockets before walking closer to Ian. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest and his breath came shallow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Mickey scratched his eyebrow with his thumb, but then smiled—bolder than ever.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Why’s that?” Ian smirked too, like he got that Mickey was messing with him.

God, he was cute when he smirked.

Mickey shrugged and stepped even closer.

“I think we should keep being those polite and friendly neighbors who drive each other up the wall.”

Pause.

A damn long pause.

Longer than Mickey liked, because even though he played it cool, his heart was in his throat now as Ian stepped toward him.

“Oh yeah?” Ian grinned.

Mickey nodded. “Yeah.”

Ian came closer. Closer—right into Mickey’s personal space. The air felt charged, buzzing with electricity.

Was this it? Were they about to kiss?

In Mickey’s peripheral vision, Ian’s hand lifted and lightly brushed his forearm. It was just a graze of fingertips on cool skin, but Mickey’s whole body lit up.

He stepped half an inch closer, so their shoes almost touched at the tips. Ian was so close, Mickey could’ve counted his freckles. But his head was filled with static, and his ears were ringing. He saw the nervousness in Ian’s eyes, could feel his breath—cherry cola—warm against his skin. They were just a breath apart, and Mickey could feel his pulse pounding in his throat.

Ian leaned in a little more, eyes scanning Mickey’s face for permission, discomfort, any kind of sign. And Mickey’s gaze drifted from his eyes to his lips. Soft and gentle, glowing under the store’s neon lights.

Ian’s hand had moved up to his elbow now, and that fire under Mickey’s skin had spread to his stomach, leaving a warm, tingling glow.

Just an inch left between them, and their lips would touch.

And Mickey wanted it. So he leaned in—

The bell over the door shattered their little soap bubble, and Ian jumped back at least three steps.

Mickey bit his lip and wiped his eyebrow with his thumb, trying to play it cool.

"We’re closed,” he called toward the door, voice pitched oddly high, then cleared his throat. He glanced at Ian, who ran a hand down his face.

It hadn’t left Mickey untouched either—his cheeks were burning, and his heart was still racing.

“Fuck you, Mickey. I need this job for my probation offi—oh!”

Toby had walked into the shop and froze when he saw Ian standing there, face flushed red and looking panicked.

Toby’s eyes flicked between Ian and Mickey, and you could hear the moment the pieces clicked together.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he mumbled.

And Mickey kind of hated him, even though it wasn’t really his fault.

It was Mickey’s own fault, really—he hadn’t locked up.

“I gotta go,” Ian muttered beside him, and then bolted for the door.

The moment Ian was out, Mickey smacked Toby on the upper arm. Hard.

“Ow! Bitch! What the hell was that for?”

“You know what that was for!”

“Sure, I should’ve known you were back here making out,” he said sarcastically. “Seriously? The guy from the wedding? That asshole?”

“He’s not actually an asshole,” Mickey muttered and busied his hands with the broom, even though the damn floor was already clean. “And we weren’t making out.”

“Sure,” Toby said. Without even looking, Mickey could hear the smirk in his voice.

He was still dazed from the almost-kiss, so he absentmindedly swept the floor while Toby looked around.

“Not too much damage.”

“Hm?” Mickey glanced up.

Toby was grinning wide.

“What the hell are you grinning at?” Mickey snapped, and Toby leaned against one of the shelves, still grinning. Grinning like an idiot.

“You’ve got a crush,” he observed.

Mickey’s heart jumped, and his cheeks burned, but he tried to play it cool.

“Fuck you.”

“Mickey Milkovich is in love with a redheaded Scottish asshole.”

“I think he’s Irish,” Mickey mumbled, his face on fire.

“You didn’t deny it, man.”

“Again—fuck you. Now help me get rid of this crap.”

Mickey stomped past him into the afternoon heat, popped open the van’s tailgate, and started loading in the trash and charred planks. Toby appeared next to him, leaning against one of the rear doors.

“You like him?” he asked, taking a sip from a can of cola he probably swiped from the mini fridge in the back room.

Mickey didn’t answer, but he was burning up even more than the Chicago heat already had him.

“You like him.”

This time it wasn’t a question—it was a statement. “That’s good, right?”

Mickey sighed, tossed one of the longer planks into the van, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Mind your own damn business.”

And it came out way snappier than Mickey had meant.

“Okay,” Toby said, looking down at his can. He actually looked kind of hurt.

“Sorry, I—fuck, I don’t know—It’s just... complicated.”

“What’s complicated? You like him, he likes you. That’s the simplest shit in the world, Mickey.” Toby smirked.

“I’m not sure he likes me,” Mickey muttered.

And fuck, if that didn’t sound pitiful and insecure.

Then Toby laughed. Loudly, from the gut.

And Mickey’s face burned all over again.

“What the hell are you laughing at, bitch?”

“I think you’re both dumbasses. Did you see his face just now? I mean, I have no idea what the hell happened in here and I really don’t wanna know, but his face was beet red and he had that sparkle in his eyes, man. He’s into you.”

Mickey bit his lower lip. He wanted to ask so many things—if Toby really thought that, what sparkle he’d seen, how he could be so sure—but all he mumbled was,

“You think?”

And Toby laughed again, this time more like a giggle.

“Yeah, goddamn it.”

That really could’ve been the end of it. Mickey would’ve been fine if Toby had just shut up.

But on their way to the dump to get rid of the scorched mess, Toby looked out the van window and said offhandedly,

“Being in love’s a beautiful thing, you know?”

Mickey didn’t respond—because what the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Yeah, thanks, dumbass, I figured that out?

No. Because Mickey didn’t know.

Mickey had never been in love. Not really. He’d never had more than a hookup, honestly. But he wanted it—all of it. The stupid grins, the embarrassing blushes, the inability to hold back, the flirting. Hell, even dating.

He wanted to be in love.

He wanted to split the last tamales or the last damn pizza from Luigi’s. He wanted all that cuddling and getting high and—hell yes—he wanted all of it with that dumb ginger.

Because if being in love felt like that almost-kiss just now, then he wanted it.

Then he didn’t want anything else ever again.

“Jesus, Milkovich. Talk to him already. Go get your man,” Toby said, clearly noticing how deep in thought Mickey was.

“Yeah yeah, fuck you, Toby.”

—

The ceiling fan turned, slow, more decor than function. Mickey lay on his back, sheets bunched somewhere between his knees and hips, naked except for his boxers. His thoughts spinning like the shitty useless fan. Full of fire. Full of him. Ian.

He stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes and all he could see was that fucking neon light from the shop, glinting off Ian’s lips. Those fucking inches. How close they’d been. How bad he’d wanted it.

And how bad he still fucking wanted it.

He turned onto his side, muttering a curse. His body was hot, burning, and not just from the weather. Ian had touched him—just barely—but fuck, Mickey had felt it everywhere. Fingertips on skin like a spark that lit up everything inside.

You should’ve kissed him, you coward.

He growled into his pillow, fist clenched in the fabric. Something twisted deep in his gut—hot and sharp—his heart racing. Ian’s breath had been so close, Mickey could almost taste it again—sweet, cherry cola, and pure fucking nerves. And want.

There had been so much want.

Fuck.

He shoved a hand under the waistband of his boxers, because he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. The heat, the pull, the pressure. Ian in his head, under his skin. His voice, his smile, his fingers on Mickey’s arm. That look, right before he leaned in, right before—

His hand wrapped around his cock, already slick with precum. His thoughts were racing as he started jerking himself—fast, with just the right pressure.

Every damn thought was Ian. How he smelled, how close he had been, how his voice trembled when he was nervous. Mickey groaned softly, biting down on his lower lip. His hand moved faster, rougher, matching the way his heart slammed against his ribs.

He imagined Ian kissing him—not shy, not hesitant, but hungry. Wild. Hands in his hair, on his skin, everywhere. He pictured how he’d sound when he moaned. How his breath would feel on Mickeys neck, hot and heavy against while he pressed against him, in him.

“Fuck…” Mickey gasped, his hips lifting into the rhythm. He was close, too fucking close. The pressure was unbearable. And in his head, it was only Ian—Ian leaning over him, lips on his, tongue deep and demanding. So vivid it hurt.

His body tensed, muscles locking as the heat in his stomach snapped—

He came with a stifled sound, trembling, his stomach sticky, hand wet. He groaned into the pillow, panting, breathless, as the aftershocks rolled through him.

For a few seconds, there was only silence. The soft whir of the ceiling fan above him.

Then reality crept back in. The heat. The emptiness. Being alone. 

He lay there, head half-buried in the pillow, hand still resting on his stomach.

“Shit…” he murmured into the quiet.

He’d had a few guys, a few nights, always skin on skin. But this? This was something more. Something. This wasn’t some simple fuck. This was wanting him. To touch him. To hear him laugh. To kiss him. Over and over.

Maybe it was sharing junk food, high on his couch. Maybe it was lazy Sundays in bed. 

And it was tearing him up.

Shit, he was in love.

And that scared him more than anything.

Chapter Text

Mickey hated assembling shelves. But this counter—this counter was even worse.

He shouldn't have bought it off the rack; then at least he could’ve had it installed by a damn carpenter or something.

Because why the hell were there three screws left over?

But he hadn't had a choice—every other counter had a delivery time of weeks, and he wanted to reopen the shop as soon as possible. So he had ordered it online and paid extra for express delivery.

He rolled the screws around in his hand and sighed. He wasn't completely hopeless with tools—sure, he’d assembled all the shelves in the shop himself and had helped Ester mount a few things in her apartment—but this? This had nothing to do with craftsmanship.

Mickey was pretty sure any office clerk or hipster student could screw this junk together.

So why did he still have three screws left over? Maybe because he wasn’t entirely focused? Because his mind kept drifting back to the redhead he hadn’t seen since their almost-kiss three days ago?

Every evening, he'd climbed the stairs, glanced at the rug in front of Gallagher's door to see if the shoes were there, rustled his keys—maybe on purpose—maybe took his sweet time unlocking the door, and when nobody came out, he’d sighed and trudged into his apartment. Like a damn pussy.

The thought that Ian maybe didn’t even want all this had crossed his mind more than once, since Ian never made the first move. But Mickey had pushed those thoughts away every time. He kept telling himself he’d talk to Ian the next time they bumped into each other—by the mailbox, in the hallway, wherever.

Last night, he’d even been on the verge of crossing the hall to knock and ask him what the hell all this meant. But he chickened out. Like a damn pussy.

Now he stood in his shop, lost in thought, rolling the screws in his palm and thinking about that almost-kiss.

Jesus Christ. How pathetic. Nothing had even happened, and here he was, acting like a teenage girl crushing on some senior in high school.

Goddamn it.

Mickey shook his head, trying to distract himself.

Why were those screws left over?

You’d think that for the ridiculous price he paid, the instructions would be more than a single page with four pictures, right?

He placed the screws on the tiny piece of paper and sighed.

Maybe it was time to accept that all of this was a goddamn mess.

Not just the counter—but also the whole situation with Ian.

Should he apologize? For the almost-kiss? The one that hadn’t even happened?

Fuck, no. Nothing happened—so there was nothing to apologize for.

The chime over the door jolted him out of his thoughts, announcing a new customer. He’d just reopened today and had already expected some curious regulars to come in, wanting to see if there were any traces of the damage left.

The damn newspaper was to blame—apparently, a fire in a flower shop was a real attraction for hipsters.

A few years ago, not even a shooting in this neighborhood would’ve made the news. Funny how quickly things change.

Mickey looked up and saw Ester approaching with her cane.

"Won’t be long. Just dropping this off," she said with a mischievous smile, holding up a small, colorful gift bag.

“Fuck, Ester, you know I—”

“Say nothing, and I won’t either. I’ll just put the bag here, you say thank you, and I crawl back into my shop like a turtle.” She placed the confetti-printed bag on a small table and smirked. “Couldn’t resist for your thirtieth.” She shrugged and turned to go.

Mickey sighed. “Wait,” he murmured, walked over to her, and paused awkwardly. Then Ester opened her arms, and Mickey hugged her briefly.

“Thanks,” he mumbled into her gray hair—and as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone again.

She’d remembered every year, but Mickey had always refused gifts. He knew she had little money—the bookstore ate away at her savings more than it added to them—and he didn’t want her spending any on him.

Besides, he hated birthdays and wished he could treat this day like any other.

In the second year, Ester had stopped buying him things and instead given him full access to the literature in her shop. But Mickey had never been a fan of words and paper—he downright hated reading and wasn’t good at it either.

So he borrowed books, returned them unread shortly after, and avoided discussing characters or plot points. It wasn’t exactly a lie—more like pretending to be someone else to make an old lady happy.

Even if Mickey had always suspected she knew the truth.

He hadn’t even carried the gift bag into the back room when the bell over the door rang again. He stepped back into the shop and saw two women by the vases.

“Hey. I’ll be right with you,” he said, smoothing down his apron.

Mickey was grateful for every customer. He’d only been closed four days, and he already felt the hit in revenue—not to mention the war he was fighting with the insurance company to get even a portion of the damage reimbursed.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a smile as he approached.

One of the women, about Mickey’s height with curly red hair, spoke in a bright voice. “We’re both bridesmaids at our brother’s wedding,” she explained.

The other, brunette, taller and slimmer, looked older than Mickey. “We’re looking for a florist to do the wedding decorations.”

Mickey nodded. “Usually, the couple comes in themselves to pick things out.”

The redhead laughed. “Our brother would get married at a drive-thru if he could.”

“I’m sure they do that in Vegas,” Mickey laughed back. “Come on, I’ll show you some stuff.”

He led them to the back of the shop. “Normally I’ve got a portfolio with all my wedding arrangements—but there was a fire here, so…” He placed a new tablet on the counter, synced with his cloud. “Hope you don’t mind it being digital. Just scroll through and tell me what you like.”

The brunette nodded and started swiping through the gallery. “Oh, look at these, Debs. They’re lovely.”

“Not my style,” the redhead commented. “How about classic white and red roses? That’s simple.”

Oh, for the love of—Mickey could throw up over classic arrangements.

The women debated roses, other flowers, color schemes, and whether they matched the cake and bridesmaids’ dresses, when the door chime rang again.

“I’ll be right back,” Mickey said and turned to the older lady who had just entered.

“Hello, how can I help you?” he asked kindly.

“Oh, I’m not sure. I was hoping to find a nice flower pot or a vase,” said the lady with a smile.

She was probably around Ester’s age and shorter than Mickey. Her black handbag hung in the crook of her elbow as she walked toward the shelf with vases.

“Of course, take your time,” Mickey said. He could be polite—and even nice—when he wanted to.

It was good that the shop was busy. It kept him from thinking.

Thinking about…

Gallagher?

Holy shit.

Ian was standing on the sidewalk in front of the shop—not like he was about to come in, more like he was watching a spot above Mickey’s shop.

His living room window, facing the street.

Then he looked away, walked a few steps down the sidewalk, sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets, and glanced toward the shop door. Then he walked back up, closer to the entrance, but suddenly stopped and shook his head.

What the hell is he doing?

He was visibly nervous, his forehead glistening with sweat. Despite the overcast sky, his hair glowed in the daylight, and Mickey could clearly see through the shop window that he kept biting his lip, exhaling heavily, and closing his eyes.

It was a little amusing to watch—and when Ian started moving his lips like he was talking to himself, Mickey chuckled.

“Young man?”

Mickey jumped as if electrocuted when the older lady touched his elbow.

“Oh shit. Sorry,” he mumbled and looked at her, then quickly glanced back at Ian, and then at her again.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought. Did you find something?”

The lady bought one of the pale blue vases that had been sitting on the shelf forever. Mickey wrapped it in dark gray paper, put it in one of the printed paper bags with his logo, then thanked her and wished her a nice day.

But his eyes kept drifting back to Ian—still standing on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the parking lane, hands buried in his pockets.

Why wasn’t he making a move? It would be easy for Mickey to make his customers wait a second and go ask what the hell was going on—but he wanted to see if Gallagher had the balls to ask him out again.

Three days ago, their conversation had been cut short by Toby, and they hadn’t actually agreed on a date.

Even then, Mickey had made the first move—he’d leaned in, tried to kiss him.

Why didn’t Ian make a move? They’d gotten along fine eating tamales and cleaning the shop.

When the older lady opened the door to leave, Ian quickly turned away as if trying to hide—but Mickey couldn’t stop watching.

Idiot.

“I think we’ve made a decision,” said the brunette, smiling at Mickey.

He walked over and they finalized the arrangements—classic white roses, but red dahlias instead of red roses.

Still painfully traditional.

“Okay, when’s the wedding? Probably should’ve asked that first.” He shrugged and opened his calendar.

“Oh, this is probably the problem,” the brunette said, biting her lip.

“Saturday?”

Mickey couldn’t help but gasp. “That’s in four days, lady. That’s really short notice.”

He glanced at the calendar. Two bouquets tomorrow, a funeral wreath Thursday, nothing yet for Friday or Saturday. Still.

“I’ll have to charge a rush fee,” Mickey explained, pulling out his calculator and typing away.

“Let me see—one bridal bouquet, two for bridesmaids, four boutonnieres, two table arrangements, and a flower basket for the flower girl, right?”

The redhead nodded while Mickey entered his usual prices and added a 40% rush fee.

“Do you want delivery?” he asked. The older one nodded.

He added the delivery charge and showed them the total.

It was a hefty sum. Mickey knew that—and wasn’t surprised when both raised their eyebrows.

“You won’t find a florist who can do it cheaper by Saturday. But you’re welcome to try your luck at the gas station,” he shrugged.

The older one nodded. “How does payment work?”

“Full payment up front,” he said, standing tall.

He’d have to call Toby, go to the wholesaler, and spend all Friday making classic arrangements.

The older woman nodded again, pulled out a checkbook, and started writing while the redhead watched.

“I’ll need some more info from you,” Mickey said, going to the back room and grabbing a clipboard, which he placed on the counter.

He created an event in his calendar while the brunette filled in the name and phone number on the clipboard.

When she was done, she pushed it to him and thanked him. Mickey looked at the name at the top—and his breath caught. His heart started racing.

He swallowed hard and tried to keep his expression neutral.

“Oh, Ian and Liam will love the flowers too,” the redhead chirped.

Mickey took a deep breath as they left, then stared again at the name.

Gallagher. Fiona Gallagher.

He exhaled sharply, all the air rushing from his lungs, and looked out the window toward the grass strip.

Ian was gone.

His whole body felt sick. A knot formed in his stomach, and a lump was stuck in his throat. He couldn’t swallow. His eyes started to blur, and he blinked before pressing his palms into his eye sockets.

This couldn’t be happening. Fucking hell, this had to be a bad joke, right?

Was that why he didn’t make a move? Had he even planned to ask him out the day before at the shop?

Fuck.

He felt his blood start to boil, and when he let his hands drop and balled his fists, he snorted.

This couldn’t be real. That asshole had walked into his life, stolen his sleep, and left him standing in the rubble. Twice. And now he’d steamrolled over his heart like a fucking bulldozer and left it shattered in a thousand tiny pieces on the ground. Didn’t even bother to grab a broom and clean the mess up. Fucking asshole.

He shook his head and snorted again before walking to the front door, turning the key in the lock, and stomping toward the other door that led to the hallway.

He took the stairs up, and when he stood in front of Gallagher’s door, he smacked his flat hand hard against it. “Hey!” he shouted loudly.

“Congratulations,” he spat the second Ian opened the door. Mickey barely registered the puzzled, confused expression on his face.

“Uh—hi. For what?” the redhead stammered.

Ha. Funny. Really fucking funny.

Mickey crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Were you gonna tell me you’re getting married?”

“Uh—”

But Mickey didn’t even let him speak. “Who is it? That guy from the wedding?”

“What?” More confusion on the freckled face.

“Or some other rich prick?” Mickey stepped forward challengingly, his heart racing, his face hot with anger and disappointment. “What kind of name is Liam anyway? Is he a figure skater or some shit?”

“Mickey, what the hell are you talking about?”

Mickey snorted. “Your sister just picked out fucking flowers for the wedding.” He fought back the tears. No way in hell he was gonna cry like some pussy on Gallagher’s carpet.

“Mickey,” Ian said gently. He seemed to finally get what he was talking about. About fucking time, genius.

But the softness in Ian’s voice wasn’t the reaction Mickey had hoped for. “So, congrats,” he kept pushing.

He wasn’t even sure why it bugged him so much that Ian was engaged. Nothing had even happened in the four weeks since he’d moved in.

Was that the problem? Was that what really bothered Mickey—that nothing had happened yet?

“Mickey!” Ian’s voice was sharper now, but still gentle.

“What?”

But then Ian started laughing, a full, belly laugh, wiping tears from his eyes.

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey’s anger surged again at the sound of Ian laughing. This was not funny. He was about to yell again when Ian cut him off.

“I’m not getting married.”

Wait, what?

Yeah.

Exactly Mickey’s type of joke. The kind he couldn’t laugh at. Asshole. He took another step forward until he was right on the doorstep. “I can screw with myself just fine, asshole. Your sister—”

“My brother’s getting married,” Ian interrupted, more serious now, though he was still chuckling a little.

Silence.

All the anger drained from Mickey’s body in one breath. “Your brother?” he asked, confused. He hadn’t seen that coming. “No fiancé?”

“No fiancé,” Ian confirmed with a smile.

That stupid grin on his face—the one that challenged him, the one that stole his sleep.

Then Ian licked his lower lip and raised his eyebrows, and suddenly, nothing around Mickey mattered anymore.

It didn’t matter that the shop was closed. It didn’t matter that Ian was in work clothes. It didn’t matter that the air in the hallway was sticky and hot or that Mickey’s heart was pounding like mad. None of it mattered. He could only think of one thing. Ian’s lips. And how they felt on his.

So he didn’t hesitate, uncrossed his arms, and closed the distance between them.

The kiss was instant heat, all fire—hands and heavy breathing everywhere as Ian’s back hit his own front door.

His heart was racing like it was on the run, and Ian’s breath was hot against Mickey’s lips. No hesitation, no careful buildup.

Mickey’s hand slid to Ian’s neck, pulling him closer.

Ian’s hands were everywhere all at once—first at Mickey’s hips, then his back, then buried under his shirt and at his neck.

Mickey gasped when Ian’s teeth caught his lower lip.

His whole body was buzzing, and his fingers clenched Ian’s shirt, bunching the fabric, pulling him closer, closer.

No fiancé. No wedding.

They stumbled backward together, hitting the wall.

Mickey’s shoulder slammed into the doorframe, but he grinned against Ian’s mouth, let himself be pulled, grabbed. The heat of Ian’s body was everywhere—his legs against Mickey’s, their hips colliding, chests, mouths, breath.

A sound escaped Ian, deep from his chest, and he kicked the door shut behind them. It fell closed with a loud thud.

“Shhh, the neighbors,” Mickey laughed, pulling back just enough to see Ian’s face—flushed, tousled, that look that drove him insane.

Ian laughed quietly, deep in his throat, his forehead pressed against Mickey’s. “Idiot.” Then he kissed him again. Harder. Deeper. And they tumbled again, until Mickey felt the edge of the bed hit the backs of his legs.

He fell back, pulling Ian with him. Ian was over him, knees on either side of Mickey’s hips, straddling him, pressing him down.

“I’ve been waiting forever for this,” Ian whispered, looking him deep in the eyes.

“Why didn’t you—” Mickey started.

But Ian cut him off. “Shut up.”

Their kiss was unrestrained, like they’d been holding back for four weeks. Mickey’s fingers found the hem of Ian’s uniform, pushed it up, felt bare skin underneath. Ian gasped softly when Mickey’s thumbs found the waistband of his pants, and Mickey felt his whole body respond to that sound.

He could feel Ian between his thighs, and he wanted nothing more than to feel him in him.

They both gasped when Ian started grinding against him in a steady rhythm. This wasn’t slow or romantic. This was raw tension—weeks of nervous glances and unsaid words.

Ian kissed along Mickey’s jaw, bit down briefly on his neck, and Mickey bit his lip, his fingers burying themselves in the red hair. His hands wandered down Ian’s back, under his shirt, clawing at his shoulder blades. He wanted more. Now.

“Come on, Gallagher,” he said, rough and breathless. “I’m not a fucking virgin.”

“Shut up, Milkovich,” Ian grinned, leaning back just enough to undo his belt. “Let me enjoy this.”

Mickey’s eyes followed Ian’s hands. The moment the belt came undone was electric.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows as Ian yanked his pants down almost frantically, then stood up to undress himself.

“Don’t put on a show, get back here.”

When Ian was on top of him again, Mickey pulled him down and kissed him hard. Their teeth clashed briefly, then they found their rhythm again. Ian’s hands yanked Mickey’s shirt up roughly, and Mickey raised his arms, letting it be pulled over his head—and then they were both down to just their boxers.

Mickey’s heart was hammering so loud, he was sure Ian could feel it.

“Are we really doing this?” Ian asked, suddenly unsure.

“We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for fuckin' weeks,” Mickey rolled his eyes, reaching for the waistband of Ian’s boxers.

“I mean—” Ian exhaled sharply when Mickey’s hand brushed over his erection. “We barely know each other.”

“We can play twenty questions, but I bet you won’t make it to ten before you lose your mind.” Mickey palmed him through the fabric.

Ian moaned. “Your favorite color?”

Mickey smiled and pushed him off. “That’s your first question?” He knelt beside Ian and pulled his boxers down to his knees. “Red.”

Fuck, he was big and damn, he was perfect.

“Favorite flower?” Ian managed to get out, just before Mickey spat into his hand and started jerking him off.

“Chrysanthemums,” he replied, and with his other hand, began pressing against himself through the fabric of his boxers.

“Oh fuck,” Ian breathed, looking down at himself. “Which one do you hate?”

“Hydrangeas,” Mickey answered and exhaled sharply as he picked up the pace a little. Pre-cum mixed in, and it was a glorious mess.

Mickey couldn’t stand the pressure in his own boxers anymore and freed himself without hesitation.

Ian smirked and bit his lip, and then his gaze slowly drifted lower, paused briefly—his lips slightly parted, his breathing uneven.

“Holy shit,” Ian murmured as he shifted the pressure slightly.

Mickey smirked. “Next question?”

Ian didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbed Mickey firmly, pulling him down into a kiss and placed his big warm hand on Mickey’s hips, pushing and pulling until Mickey was between his legs and Ian had wrapped his freckled hand around both their cocks.

“When was the last time you did something like this?” Ian panted between kisses.

Mickey kissed his neck. “Not recently.” He rolled his hips just enough to make them both moan. “Not like this.”

“Like what?” Ian asked, digging his fingernails into Mickey’s back as he moved against him again.

“Like with…” Mickey paused, panting against Ian’s neck. “Feelings.”

That was more than he’d intended to say. But it was out now. And it was true.

Ian stared at him. “Fuck, Mickey.”

Mickey wanted to say something—a joke, anything to break the tension—but it was too late. Ian yanked him down, kissed him so hard Mickey could only moan, and pulled his hips in close. Their bodies rubbed together, hot and slick, and Mickey lost all sense of direction as Ian flipped them, and he landed on his back.

“That’s what you meant?” Ian panted between gasps. “Feelings, huh? This?” Another kiss, one that set everything ablaze. And Ian’s hand moved faster, with more pressure.

“Fuck.” Mickey’s voice was barely more than a breath, but he had to claw his hands into the sheets.

It wasn’t a fall—it was a crash. Heat, friction, heartbeats, breaths. It all melted into one overwhelming sensation.

“Shit, Mickey…” Ian closed his eyes and buried his face in Mickey’s neck as he came, hard, loud, his whole body tensing—and Mickey followed moments later, digging his fingers into Ian’s strong back as everything inside him exploded.

Afterward, there was only silence for a moment. Their bodies stuck to each other, hot and sweaty. Then, very quietly:

“Lost the bet,” Ian whispered hoarsely, kissing his neck.

Mickey ran his hand along Ian’s side. “I have to get back to the shop.”

With one last kiss, Ian got up and handed him a few tissues.

He hated this part—the cleanup, getting dressed again after you’d basically attacked each other—and was grateful that Ian turned away to pull on his boxers and shirt.

Ian walked him to the door, and it felt weird when Mickey turned back on the doormat and grinned at Ian like a fool.

“Dork,” Mickey muttered, feeling the blush rise to his neck.

“You coming by after closing? I’ll make us something to eat.”

That sounded like a date. That really sounded like a date, didn’t it? Did he want a date with Ian?

“I’ve still got a few questions left,” Ian smirked, like he had to convince Mickey.

Mickey rolled his eyes, but finally nodded. “At six?”

Ian’s grin somehow grew even wider.

Just as Mickey turned to leave, Ian grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and pulled him close. Then he cupped Mickey’s cheek and kissed him.

This kiss was soft this time. Slow. Nothing like before. No rush, no fight, just warmth and closeness and the quiet thud of Mickey’s heart in his chest. Ian’s thumb stroked his cheek so gently, like he was afraid Mickey might break.

Ian laughed softly but didn’t let go. “Be on time.”

Mickey looked at him for a moment, then nodded. Ian loosened his grip and let him go.

Mickey couldn’t help grinning as he walked back to the  shop.

---

When Mickey returned to the shop and unlocked the front door, he looked up at the clock above the side room door and sighed in frustration. There were still painfully long four hours to go until it was finally five minutes to six, and not an outrageous time to knock on Gallagher’s door.

And to make things worse, the afternoon was quiet. It was damn silent. Snickers was curled up in her new cardboard box—one Mickey hadn’t thrown out from the last online order—his new sound system wasn’t installed yet, so the music was off, Esther was at her bookstore and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow to complain about her arthritis.

It was quiet. No customers, no people, just Mickey alone with his thoughts and the workbench full of flowers and greenery.

Normally, he would’ve loved and appreciated this time, savoring every quiet minute, but now the time couldn’t move fast enough.

He didn’t want quiet, didn’t want a second to think about what it meant that Ian had invited him to dinner at his apartment today. And he definitely didn’t want to think about those kisses, those hands, and that body on top of him.

He shook his head and played his playlist from his phone to drown out the thoughts, then turned his attention to the flowers in front of him.

Black ranunculus, dark red anemones, garden roses in plum, almost black dahlias, some hydrangea, astilbe, cotinus leaves. Deep, dark stuff for some lesbian gothic wedding. Dramatic, but not cheesy, and definitely not classic.

Mickey was looking forward to the challenge, even though it was only two bouquets.

He started as always: ranunculus and anemones first, the big eye-catchers. Then the roses—not too many. With practiced hands, he spiraled the stems, held everything loosely in his left hand while his right reached for the next flowers. Hydrangea for volume, astilbe for structure, the reddish cotinus foliage around the outside.

He freshly cut the stems at an angle so they’d absorb water better.

But again and again, his thoughts circled back to Ian. The kisses. Ian’s breath on his skin, his naked body pressed against his own.

Holy fuck.

He pulled the black florist tape tightly around the binding point. One pull, a clean knot. Then scissors, stems cut to the same length, done.

Mickey placed the bouquet in a bucket of water. The colors looked like blood and ink. He glanced at it briefly, then turned away, wiped his hands on his apron, and began the next bouquet.

Still painfully long to go, and he was already nervous and excited about what might still happen between them.

---

At half past four, Mickey had finally locked up, swept the floor, and hung his apron on the hook.

The print shop had called to say the shirts were ready, so he’d gone over and picked them up for himself and Toby. They were light green, with his logo and name embroidered in white.

He had paid for them and brought them back to the shop, sat down on Ester’s chair, and ran his finger over the logo.

He had come a long way since his 18th birthday, twelve years ago, when Ronan had brought him here. Mickey smiled, then went upstairs, smoked three cigarettes in a row, and took an extra-thorough shower.

He had tried on a ridiculous number of outfits before finally settling on dark blue jeans and a simple burgundy T-shirt. They weren’t going to a restaurant or anything, after all.

And now Mickey was pacing nervously. For about thirty minutes already, and he’d taken one drag from a joint just to calm his nerves, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans while cursing the useless fan.

Christ, why was he so damn nervous? It wasn’t his first date, and today wouldn’t be his first kiss either, and it wouldn’t be his first time, if it came to that. So why was he like this? They’d already gotten close. Christ, Mickey had been in his bed just a few hours ago, messing up the sheets.

He sighed, then remembered Ester’s gift.

The bag with the confetti print wasn’t bigger than a sheet of paper, printed on both sides and with white fabric ribbons to hold it, a small note attached, written in shaky old-lady handwriting that simply said “Mickey.”

He opened the bag and pulled out an envelope. He rolled his eyes because she could’ve just given him the envelope directly, but he figured that’s just how old ladies were.

Curious, he opened the envelope and pulled out the gift card. On the front was a picture of a beer bottle, next to the word “thirsty” in black letters, where the “s” had been crossed out to leave only “thirty.” He smirked before opening it, and inside, in the same shaky handwriting, it said:

“Whether you read or listen, I don’t care, but don’t let your brain rot, boy. Imagination in books is a wonderful thing. If you need help setting it up, I know a young man who would be happy to help.”

On the other side of the card was a code, framed on a black gift card with orange letters. It was a one-year Audible subscription so he could listen to audiobooks.

Crafty old lady must be in cahoots with Gallagher, because there was no way Ester had come up with the idea of buying an online subscription by herself.

Mickey’s smirk turned into a grin. Did Gallagher know it was Mickey’s birthday today? Was that why he’d invited him?

He bit his lip. It was only a quarter to six, but fuck it, he couldn’t wait another minute.

With two—or maybe eight—deep breaths, Mickey left his apartment and stepped into the hallway, outside Ian’s door.

He knocked, and it took only two seconds before Ian opened it. He was also wearing blue jeans, a black tank top, and over it an open, dark green short-sleeved button-down that emphasized his biceps and eyes ridiculously well.

Ian smiled. “Hey,” he said and stepped aside to let Mickey in.

“Hey,” Mickey replied, heart pounding, licking his lower lip and biting it nervously.

Mickey stepped inside, and the scent of rosemary and other ingredients hit him.

“You’re actually cooking? Like, for real?” he asked as he entered the kitchen and saw the pots on the stove.

“Of course. What did you think? That I’d serve you frozen pizza?” Ian smiled and stepped next to him. Then he smiled again, leaned in, and kissed him. Just like that, out of nowhere, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He pulled back, looked into Mickey’s eyes for a few seconds, then stepped around the kitchen island to stir a pot.

Mickey bit his lip. Something about the whole situation was… nice. Ian opening the door, smiling, kissing him just like that, moving around his place naturally.

“Beer? Cola? Water?” Ian asked, turning toward the fridge.

“Beer, thanks.” Mickey smiled and took the bottle.

“Wanna tour?” Ian asked. “I mean, you already know the bedroom.” He grinned. “This is the kitchen, living room, bathroom.” He pointed toward the doors. “That’s it, really.”

Mickey leaned against the kitchen island. “I know the place already. My—Ronan, the guy who used to own the shop, used to live here.”

Ian nodded. “The lady who rented it to me mentioned that.” He stirred again.

“I only know Mel from the phone. She lives in New Jersey. Didn’t even ask for a social security number when I moved in. But I have to fix everything myself.” Mickey shrugged, and Ian nodded.

“Uh—the previous guy, Ronan, was he your dad?”

“God, no. Ronan took me in.” Mickey sipped his beer.

Ian nodded. “Siblings?”

“You’re really into this twenty-questions thing, huh?” Mickey smirked. “Three. Two older brothers, one younger sister.”

“We’re a whole pack too.” Ian laughed, and Mickey joined in.

They chatted casually while Ian finished cooking, and it was nice. No awkward silence, no weird pauses or tension, no need to hold anything back.

As comfortable as it was, it was also strange in a good way. Mickey wasn’t wearing shoes, just socks, standing in a kitchen he knew like the back of his hand, with a guy who had driven him nuts just a little while ago—and who was now cooking for him. On his thirtieth birthday. It felt… right. Like how things were supposed to be. It felt like that something.

He smiled, and Ian must’ve noticed because he asked, “What?” as he sipped his cola.

“Are you in cahoots with Ester?” Mickey asked bluntly, and Ian nearly choked on his cherry cola.

“Ester?” he asked, turned to the pots, pretending to save them from burning.

“Don’t mess with me,” Mickey chuckled and stepped up beside him at the stove.

Ian sighed, staring into the pot. “She asked me what gay guys are into these days.” His gaze flicked to Mickey’s face, then back to the pot, and he grinned.

“Mhm,” Mickey murmured, taking another sip of beer.

Ian shrugged. “She said a good friend of hers had a birthday, and we talked about the person a bit, but she said he doesn’t like birthdays and she’d never had much luck with book gifts before, so I suggested Audible.”

Mickey had never heard him ramble so nervously, and he chuckled when he noticed Ian blushing a little.

“She had no idea what it was, so I got it for her,” he defended. “I hope the person likes it, ‘cause I really don’t want to mess this up. He already told me he has some feelings, and I’m trying to figure out—”

Mickey cut him off with a kiss, and Ian sighed into it.

He had once read in one of Ester’s gossip magazines that the second kiss was much more important than the first. The first was usually rushed and heated, but the second was deliberate, slower, full of meaning.

Even if this wasn’t technically their first or second kiss, he wanted it to feel like that. Full of meaning, intentional, slow.

So Mickey pressed his lips to Ian’s, pulled him closer by the back of the neck, tilted his head slightly, and let their lips touch. He felt Ian’s quick breath, his fingertips, his tongue against his own, and felt his heart leap out of his chest.

It didn’t take long before Ian gently pulled back and grinned ear to ear.

Mickey exhaled audibly. “Happy birthday to me.”

“What? You’re the birthday guy?” Ian laughed and turned back to the plates.

“Idiot,” Mickey laughed and reached for his beer again.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Mickey stifled a smirk, then nodded toward the plates. “What’s on the menu, chef?”

“Pasta carbonara,” Ian said with a smirk.

Sneaky bastard. Had to be Ester who told him that was his favorite dish.

“I don’t usually cook, but—”

“But what, redhead?” Mickey bit his lip and locked eyes with him. The air was starting to sizzle, charged with something electric.

Ian smirked and plated the pasta. “Special occasions call for special actions.”

“Oh, so this is a special occasion?” Mickey took another sip of beer.

Ian just shrugged. “Nah. Not really.”

Mickey grinned. “Asshole.”

After a short, loving exchange of insults, they took their plates to the living room, sat at the small coffee table, and picked a movie. They both laughed when Netflix suggested The A-Team.

They went with an action flick starring Dwayne Johnson and ate the surprisingly good carbonara.

When the movie ended and they’d finished eating, Mickey stood to carry the plates to the kitchen. He felt a small touch of domesticity. It was almost… something. That something?

Maybe.

“Everything okay?” Ian asked, standing there with an empty cola can in one hand and Mickey’s empty beer bottle in the other, looking at him.

“Yeah.” He smiled and nodded, setting the plates in the sink.

“You been keeping count?” Ian asked out of the blue.

“Huh? Count what?”

“How many questions I’ve asked.” His smile widened as he stepped closer, placed his hands on Mickey’s hips, and looked at him.

“None left,” Mickey said with a teasing smirk.

Ian raised his eyebrows. “Oh really? You sure?”

Mickey started counting on his fingers. “Favorite color, favorite flower, most hated flower, beer, cola, water, siblings… should I keep going?”

Ian's eyebrows rose. “You counted beer, coke, and water as separate questions?”

“There—another question. I think you're out of ammo. My turn,” Mickey grinned.

“That’s unfair,” Ian pouted.

“Yeah yeah. Favorite color?”

“Blue,” he said instantly, without hesitation.

Mickey smiled. “Favorite flower?”

Ian thought for a moment. “Dandelion.”

“Really? Why?”

“That’s two questions. Yes, really. And because they turn into puffballs.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “What are you, five?”

“No, twenty-eight, bitch. That was another question, by the way. You're already at five,” he grinned, and his hands moved from his sides to Mickey’s hips.

The air between them changed, tightened. “Have you done this before?”

Ian shook his head. “Not like this.”

Mickey didn’t ask further—he already knew what Ian meant—and pulled him down into a kiss.

Things escalated quickly, and before Mickey could blink, he was on his back in Ian’s bed, the tall ginger over him like a warm, soft blanket, his tongue in his mouth, his hands on his skin.

Mickey let his fingers glide over Ian’s shoulder blades, feeling the muscles shift under the skin. Every inch of contact stole his breath. Ian kissed him, deep and hungry, like he'd been holding back and now had no reason to.

Their bodies moved in sync—skin on skin, lips finding lips, fingers exploring. Ian’s thigh slid between Mickey’s legs, rubbing at the right spot, and Mickey arched his back, a suppressed sound vibrating in his throat.

Ian pulled back briefly just to yank Mickey’s shirt over his head and toss it aside. Mickey’s hands slid under Ian’s shirt, skimming over chest and stomach until that shirt, too, was gone.

“Please tell me you’re a bottom,” Ian whispered against his lips.

“Fuck, yes.”

“Jackpot,” Ian gasped.

The kiss that followed was different—wilder, more urgent. As if shedding their clothes had also stripped away the last of their restraint.

Ian moaned quietly against Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey wrapped his legs tighter around him, pulling him closer. Creating friction. Moaning again.

“Take your clothes off,” Mickey groaned, starting to work on Ian’s pants between their bodies. “Come on, get naked.”

They were both hard, completely lost in each other and themselves. And amidst the heat of the moment, Mickey felt something that went beyond lust.

He felt... at home.

Ian propped himself up on one hand while the other fumbled with his belt. Their movements were uncoordinated, rushed, almost greedy. The pants slid down to his knees, then were gone. Boxers followed. Mickey pushed his own down blindly, one knee between Ian’s thighs, rubbing against him.

They moaned at the same time—brief, raw. Ian’s forehead rested against Mickey’s, his breath hot against his lips.

Mickey gripped Ian’s hips, pulling him down, deeper, closer.

Ian kissed him again—slower now, with a tenderness that contrasted the hunger of their bodies. His hands moved along Mickey’s sides, downwards, and then he pulled away just long enough to reach into the bedside drawer.

Mickey watched, breathless, legs slightly parted.

Ian returned with lube and a condom, his movements calm, almost practiced, but his eyes stayed ravenous on Mickey’s body.

He knelt between Mickey’s legs, running his hands along his thighs as if to memorize every inch. Then he leaned down, kissed his thigh, slowly, tongue trailing across the skin. Mickey’s muscles twitched. His fingers dug into the sheets.

Ian spread the lube over his entrance, and when the first finger slid in—slow and careful—Mickey exhaled deeply, chest rising and falling unsteadily.

Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s lower belly, looked up at him, his other hand stroking from belly to thigh to knee, soothing.

“It’s been a while,” Mickey mumbled.

Ian smiled gently. “Same here. But I heard it’s like riding a bike, so...”

“Idiot,” Mickey breathed.

The second finger followed, circling, stretching.

Mickey moaned quietly, biting his lip, hips instinctively pushing back.

“Okay?” Ian asked softly.

Mickey just nodded, eyes half-lidded.

A third finger, slower pressure, a brief sting, a sharp inhale. Mickey’s head dropped back into the pillow, his muscles trembling. He was open. His skin was burning.

“Come on,” Mickey panted. “Come on, Gallagher.”

Ian withdrew, rolled on the condom, added more lube, and moved closer. Placed one hand on Mickey’s hip, the other on his thigh.

Their eyes met. Mickey planted his feet on the mattress. Ian sat back on his heels, lined himself up, and pressed the tip against Mickey’s hole.

The moment of entry was slow, hot, overwhelming. Mickey sucked in air sharply, holding his breath for a second. It was a lot. Full. Not deep yet. But good. So good.

Ian paused, waited, leaned down to kiss him before pushing in deeper. Inch by inch.

Mickey gasped, arms wrapping around Ian’s back, fingernails dragging across sweaty skin, feeling every muscle, every movement.

When Ian was fully inside, he didn’t move—only their breathing could be heard, shallow and quick.

Then he started moving, and it was heaven.

Slowly at first. Deep, even thrusts. The rhythm built and grew, and Mickey was so full.

Ian held himself above him. Mickey pulled him closer, wanted him nearer, felt every motion vibrate through his whole body. The friction against his prostate, the pressure—it was like electricity surging through his veins.

Mickey moved with him. Lifted his hips, tilted his pelvis, met Ian’s rhythm, legs wrapped around his waist.

“Faster.”

Ian obeyed, bracing himself on his elbows. The angle shifted, more intense now. The sounds between them got dirtier, louder. Their bodies slick with sweat, skin, breath. Mickey’s legs tightened around Ian’s waist, pulling him in deeper, letting him vanish inside.

“So good,” he moaned into Ian’s neck. “Fuck, you're fucking me so good.”

A hand found Mickey’s cock, wrapped around it tightly. Mickey cried out—loud, uncontrolled. He was so close. And Ian knew it. He sped up, thrust harder, hit just right, just where Mickey’s brain stopped functioning.

“I’m coming,” he gasped.

The wave crashed over him, hard. Mickey clung to Ian’s back, his name on his lips as he came, hard, twitching, hot and messy between them.

Ian didn’t last long after—his face buried in Mickey’s neck, a deep, raw sound escaping him as he followed, body tensing, hands gripping tight, then collapsing on top of him.

It took time before either of them moved. Or could breathe.

Ian lay on him, heavy, warm. Mickey’s hands rested on his back, stroking over the slick skin. Silence. Just their breathing and pounding hearts.

Ian kissed his damp skin and finally rolled off. They cleaned up and curled together under the blanket.

They lay there for a while until Ian propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Do I get one more question?”

Mickey just rolled his eyes, tucked a hand under his head, and waited.

Ian traced Mickey’s tattoo with a fingertip. “What does it mean?”

Mickey sighed and stared at the ceiling while Ian’s finger brushed over the lily. “I didn’t grow up far from here. In a total shithole. My old man was a real bastard. A Nazi, homophobe. He abused us in ways you can’t even imagine. On my 18th birthday, he—he drank so much he couldn’t stop, and he—he attacked my mom. I pulled him off her, then he came after me. It was bad. I managed to run. Ronan found me, patched me up. I never went back. There was nothing left for me. I only stayed for Mom. My sister ran away when she was thirteen. Someone had to look out for her. So I stayed. When Mom died, there was nothing left holding me. Stargazer lilies were her favorite flower.”

"He- he killed her on your birthday?" 

Mickey didn’t say anything, just stared at the ceiling.

Ian stayed quiet for a long time.

“My mom's dead too,” he whispered into the dim light of the room. “I told you how I saved my sister’s turtle.”

Mickey nodded.

“I told you that wasn’t the moment I decided to become a firefighter.”

Mickey nodded again, looking over at him. Ian stared at his chest, tracing patterns on the bare skin.

“My mom was bipolar. Manic depression, unmedicated. Add psychosis and a drug problem on top.”

“Shit,” Mickey murmured.

“Yeah, shit. She was never really there. And when she was, she tore everything up like a hurricane. But she was our mom.”

He paused a few seconds before going on. “When I was sixteen, she had one of her ‘mom moments.’ She took me out for a drive. Promised me ice cream and candy like I was ten.” He smiled faintly, like it was a good memory. “I knew she was sick, but I went along. We spent the whole day driving around the city, and I actually had fun with her. Real fun. It might’ve been the first time it was just the two of us.”

He swallowed hard.

“What happened then?”

“She drove me across the Skyway Toll Bridge, and we could see Chicago at night. She suddenly stopped and got out. In the middle of the highway.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “She jumped and hit one of those concrete beams. The fire department helped with the recovery. No one brought me home. I told my siblings myself.”

“Fuck.”

They said nothing for a while. The room was quiet, only their steady breathing filling the space. Mickey turned his head, watching Ian in the soft light.

“Her death triggered it in me.” Ian whispered. “I'm bipolar too.”

Mickey reached out, cupped Ian’s cheek, leaned up, and kissed his lips.

Ian pulled Mickey closer, wrapped an arm around his waist, and pulled back. 

“I'm sorry.” Mickey said. “You good?” 

Ian nodded. “I'm stable.” 

Mickey just kissed him again.

“My turn with the last question,” Mickey whispered, biting his lip. It was time to be brave. “What is this between us?”

Ian smiled and kissed him, soft and sweet. Then laid his head on Mickey’s shoulder, tracing patterns on his skin. This time on his forearm.

They lay there, tangled together, while outside, the rain tapped softly against the window.

Ian didn't have to answer. It was, what felt right.

It was something.

Chapter Text

The tables were already lined up in long rows across the lawn. White cloths, rectangular plates, golden glasses in between.

Mickey wore his light green T-shirt, the one with the white logo on the chest. He held a bucket of dahlias in one hand, scissors in the other. He was working quickly, but not rushed. Just a few small details left. Three more tables, then he’d be done.

The sun was still low. It was early, and the breeze was soft, but it was already warm.

He was leaning over a centerpiece when two arms wrapped around him from behind. Warm and familiar.

“If you don’t head inside now, you’re going to miss your own wedding,” Ian whispered at his ear and kissed just beneath it.

Mickey closed his eyes for a moment, took in the warmth, and exhaled softly.

Then he turned his head, just a little, and kissed him. Short and gentle.

“I have to finish this,” he murmured.

“It looks perfect, Mickey.”

“No, it doesn’t. And nobody’s going to start without me, right?”

He pulled away and kept working. Ian could only roll his eyes.

A moment later, Toby came walking across the grass. “I’ll take over. Go get changed, Mick.”

Mickey hesitated. Looked at the unfinished arrangements.

“Mickey,” Ian said, gently warning.

“I got this,” Toby added. “Promise.”

Mickey sighed. Handed him the scissors. “If you cut the dahlias too short, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Got it.”

Mickey nodded briefly, but Ian was already tugging him toward the house by the hand.

Upstairs, the bathroom smelled like lavender and hairspray. His shirt was neatly ironed, draped over the back of a chair. Ian had followed him into the room.

It had been over a year since they’d first slept together.

Everything moved quickly after that.

Snickers had moved in with Mickey first. Ian came a few weeks later.

They’d fallen for each other headfirst, and it was almost scary how close they were after just a few months.

Mickey had remodeled the flower shop after a quiet winter. He stopped keeping fresh cut flowers for walk-ins and only did bouquets by order. Instead, the shop was now full of succulents in every shape and size, and cacti in little, colorful pots. It worked better than expected. And it made him calmer.

In March, Ian had asked him to marry him while they were eating tamales. They were both on lunch break, sitting in the shop, on the workbench between leftover eucalyptus from a half-finished order.

Mickey had looked at him like he’d misheard. Then, after a “you’re insane,” came a “seriously?” And then they had sex.

Choosing the flowers for the wedding had been a nightmare.

You’d think Mickey would know exactly which flowers, which colors he’d want for his own wedding.

He made lists, deleted them again. Stayed up at night scrolling through Pinterest. He wanted it to be perfect.

Ian eventually told him to just pick what made him happy.

It turned out far from traditional. It was nearly autumn, and Mickey had gone with warm colors. He combined deep red dahlias with orange gerbera.

They matched the venue Ian had found—the one that cost them all their savings.

And now everything was ready. Except for him.

He was just pulling on his shirt when the door to his room opened. Ian poked his head in.

“Can I come in?”

“Not sure if that’s bad luck.”

Ian stepped inside anyway. He had a small, flat package in his hand, wrapped in paper.

“I wanted to give you something. Before we don’t have a minute to ourselves anymore.”

Mickey frowned. “A gift?”

“Just something small.”

He took it. Opened it slowly.

It was a mug. But not just any mug.

He looked at it. Then at Ian.

“Is this…?”

“The mug from back then,” Ian said. “The one that fell when we bumped into each other.”

Mickey turned it in his hands. The cracks had been glued, but a few little pieces were missing.

“I found it in the trash back then and wanted to buy you a new one. As an apology. But I couldn’t find the same one again, so I glued it. Then I thought I’d give it to you for your birthday, but Ester said you'd hate that. So I just stuck it in the back of a cabinet. You probably can’t even drink from it—I’m terrible at puzzles.”

He smiled and laid a hand on Mickey’s hip.

“I’ve got something super cheesy prepared. Want to hear it?”

Mickey could only nod, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Let’s always fix what’s broken, okay? Whether it’s just a mug or our marriage.”

Mickey didn’t say anything at first.

Then he carefully set the mug on the windowsill and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“If you make me cry one more time, I swear I’ll kill you, asshole.”

He chuckled, and Ian did too, leaning in to kiss him.

“Promise,” Mickey whispered against his lips.

Debby knocked on the doorframe. “Ready?” she asked.

Ian nodded at her, then turned back to Mickey.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you at the altar.”

Mickey smiled and watched him disappear outside.

He glanced back at the mug on the windowsill. Ran his finger over one of the cracks.

Ian hadn’t just fixed the mug.

When the music began to play, Mickey smiled and left the room.