Blooms and the Man Next Door

The bell above my door chimed, but I didn’t look up from the funeral arrangement I was wrestling into submission. White lilies—always white lilies—and they were being stubborn bastards today.

“That bad, huh?”

I recognized his voice immediately. Smooth as the whiskey my granddad used to sneak when Grandma wasn’t looking. I straightened, pushing a strand of hair from my face with what I hoped looked like grace rather than the sweaty reality of wrestling with flowers in July.

“Mr. Chen.” I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving green streaks across the faded fabric. “Come to gloat about stealing my customer?”

Julian Chen leaned against my counter, arms crossed, looking like he’d stepped out of one of those men’s magazines my best friend Sarah was always leaving around. Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, dark hair that somehow looked perfectly styled despite the humidity that had my own curls staging a rebellion.

“Mrs. Henderson specifically requested my services. Something about wanting everything to be ‘just so’ for her Harold’s send-off.”

Of course she had. Julian had been running Chen & Sons Funeral Home for three years now, ever since his father had semi-retired to Florida. In that time, he’d transformed the place from a dusty Victorian relic into something that looked more like a high-end hotel lobby. I’d watched the renovations through my front window, telling myself I was just being neighborly.

“Well, I hope you’re planning to pay full price for those lilies.” I gestured at the half-finished arrangement. “They’re not cheap, and Henderson was very specific about wanting the best.”

“Wouldn’t dream of haggling.” He moved closer, and I caught his scent—cedar and something citrusy that made my mouth water. “Though I was hoping you might have some roses. The deep red ones. I have a… special arrangement in mind.”

My heart did a stupid little flutter. It was business, I told myself. Just business. The man probably needed roses for a casket spray or something equally morbid. Except when I looked up, he was watching me with those dark eyes that seemed to see too much, and my carefully constructed professional distance started to crumble.

“I might have some in the cooler.” I turned toward the back, needing to put space between us. “How many do you need?”

“Two dozen. Long stems.”

I paused at the cooler door. “That’s a lot of roses for a funeral.”

“Who said anything about a funeral?”

When I glanced back, he was grinning. Actually grinning, and it transformed his whole face from handsome to something that made my knees feel like overcooked pasta.

“Maybe I want to brighten up the place,” he continued. “All those somber colors get depressing after a while.”

“You’re a funeral director. Depressing is literally in the job description.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to live in it twenty-four seven.” He moved closer again, close enough that I could see the lighter brown flecks in his dark eyes. “Besides, I was thinking they might look nice on my desk. Something alive among all the… not alive.”

I busied myself selecting roses, checking each stem for imperfections. It was easier than trying to interpret the way he was looking at me, like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Julian Chen had been my neighbor for three years, and in all that time, our conversations had been strictly professional. Cordial nods across the parking lot we shared, the occasional discussion about coordinating services for mutual clients. Nothing that would explain why my hands were suddenly shaking as I wrapped the rose stems in damp paper.

“Here.” I held out the bundle, careful not to let our fingers touch. “That’ll be sixty-eight fifty.”

He pulled out his wallet, and I noticed he paid with cash. Old school. Like the way he still wore a watch instead of checking his phone, or how he’d restored the original brass fixtures in the funeral home instead of replacing them with modern alternatives.

“You know,” he said, accepting the roses, “we’ve been neighbors for three years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you close up shop before seven. Don’t you ever take a night off?”

I shrugged, suddenly aware of how pathetic my life sounded. “Flowers don’t arrange themselves. And Grandma left some big shoes to fill.”

“Margaret was a force of nature,” he agreed. “My dad still talks about her. Said she could make a cactus bloom in December if she set her mind to it.”

The mention of Grandma made my chest tight. She’d been gone six months now, leaving me the shop and a mountain of debt that kept me awake most nights. Julian had sent flowers—not from his own stock, but from mine. A massive arrangement of her favorite peonies in shades that made me cry when I’d unwrapped them.

“She taught me everything I know,” I managed.

“Then she taught you well.” He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. “But I don’t think she’d want you to work yourself into the ground trying to prove something.”

“It’s not about proving anything—”

“Isn’t it?” He set the roses on the counter, giving me his full attention. “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not because the shop needed it, or because a customer requested it, but because it made you happy?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it. The truth was, I couldn’t remember. Since Grandma’s death, my life had been a blur of early mornings and late nights, trying to keep Bloom & Blossom afloat in a world that was increasingly ordering flowers online. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone out with friends, or read a book that wasn’t about business management, or done anything that didn’t involve the shop.

“That’s what I thought.” He picked up the roses again, moving toward the door. “I’m closing up early tonight. Around six. Thought I might grab some dinner at that new place on Maple. The one with the string lights and the terrible wine list.”

My heart started pounding. Was he… was he asking me out? Julian Chen, whose funeral home probably made more in a month than my shop made in a year, was asking me to dinner?

“I don’t—”

“Just think about it.” He paused at the door, roses in hand. “No pressure. But sometimes the best arrangements happen when you stop trying to force every stem into place and just let them fall naturally.”

The bell chimed as he left, leaving me standing among the lilies and baby’s breath, wondering if I’d just imagined the whole conversation. But the receipt was still in the register—two dozen red roses, paid in full—and the scent of his cologne lingered like a promise.

I looked around the shop, seeing it through his eyes. The vintage cooler that hummed too loud, the ancient cash register that only worked when it felt like it, the buckets of flowers that needed rotating and the books that needed balancing. It was overwhelming. It was beautiful. It was mine.

At five-thirty, I made a decision that would have given Grandma heart palpitations. I flipped the sign to ‘Closed’—three hours early—and locked the door. Then I stood in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom, trying to do something with my hair that didn’t scream ‘I’ve been wrestling with greenery all day.’

The woman looking back at me was tired, but there was something else there too. A spark that had been missing for months. Maybe it was just the prospect of human interaction that didn’t involve discussing casket sprays or sympathy cards. Maybe it was something more.

I changed into the dress I kept hanging behind the door for emergencies—a simple navy wrap that made my eyes look bluer and my waist look smaller. Added some lip gloss, ran fingers through my curls, and slipped on the sandals I kept in my purse for days when my feet couldn’t handle another minute in work boots.

The walk to Maple Street took ten minutes. I told myself I was just going for a walk, clearing my head. That if Julian wasn’t there, or if he’d changed his mind, I’d grab some takeout and head home. No harm, no foul.

But he was there, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, looking like he belonged in a magazine spread about successful young professionals enjoying their city’s nightlife. He’d brought the roses, I noticed—they sat in a simple glass vase in the center of the table, catching the light from the string lights overhead.

He stood when he saw me, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. Not surprise—I think he’d known I’d come. It was something softer. Satisfaction, maybe. Or relief.

“You came,” he said simply.

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.” He pulled out my chair, and I caught another whiff of that cedar-and-citrus scent. “That’s what matters.”

The dinner was easy. Easier than it should have been, considering we’d barely spoken beyond business transactions for three years. But Julian had a way of drawing stories out of me—about growing up in the shop, about Grandma’s impossible standards and her secret recipe for keeping roses fresh for weeks. About the terror of taking over a business I loved but wasn’t sure I could save.

“She believed in you,” he said, refilling my glass from the bottle of wine we’d agreed wasn’t terrible at all. “Your grandmother. She told my dad once that you had more talent in your pinky finger than most florists develop in a lifetime. Said you just needed to trust yourself.”

I blinked back tears. “When did she say that?”

“About a year before she got sick. She came over to discuss arrangements for Mrs. Kowalski’s service. Stayed for coffee and proceeded to brag about her granddaughter for an hour straight.” His smile was gentle. “I was half in love with you before I ever met you, just based on her stories.”

The confession hung between us, heavy with possibility. I studied his face in the candlelight, looking for signs that this was just a line, another part of his polished charm. But his eyes were steady, honest.

“Julian—”

“Don’t say anything yet.” He reached across the table, fingers barely brushing mine. “I know you’ve got a business to save. I know you’re probably not looking for complications. But I’ve been watching you for three years, working yourself to exhaustion because you think you have to do it all alone. You don’t.”

“You’re my competitor.”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “I sell coffins and sympathy cards. You sell life and beauty and things that bloom. We’re not competitors, Rose. We’re two people who happen to work next door to each other, both trying to make the best of what we’ve been given.”

I stared at our hands—his fingers long and elegant, mine still bearing the tiny scars from years of thorns and wire cutters. Such different hands, such different lives. But his skin was warm against mine, and when he traced a gentle circle on my wrist, I felt it everywhere.

“One date,” he said quietly. “That’s all I’m asking. One evening where you don’t think about invoices or cooler temperatures or whether hybrid tea roses are worth the markup. One evening where you just let yourself be.”

I should have said no. Should have reminded him that I was barely keeping my head above water, that the last thing I needed was romantic complications. But the wine was warm in my veins, and his thumb was drawing lazy patterns on my pulse point, and for the first time in months, I wanted something that had nothing to do with obligation or responsibility.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “One date.”

His smile was worth the momentary loss of sanity. Worth whatever complications would come tomorrow. He paid the check despite my protests, and when we stood to leave, he didn’t let go of my hand.

We lingered outside the restaurant as the evening settled into a soft, warm darkness. The string lights above us cast a golden glow, and the distant sounds of the city felt muffled, private.

“I should get back,” I said, not moving. “The cooler needs checking.”

“Does it?” His thumb stroked the back of my hand. “Or are you just looking for an excuse to run?”

I looked down at our joined hands. “Maybe a little of both.”

He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to brush a curl from my cheek. His fingers were warm against my skin. “What are you afraid of, Rose?”

“That this is a distraction I can’t afford. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and the shop will be worse off because I took an evening for myself. That you’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble.”

His expression softened. “You think I don’t know trouble? I deal with grieving families every day. I know what real trouble looks like. This?” He gestured between us. “This feels like the opposite of trouble.”

We started walking, our pace slow, meandering. We took the long way back, through the park where the fireflies were just beginning their evening dance. We didn’t talk much, but the silence between us felt charged, alive with things unsaid. Every brush of his shoulder against mine, every glance exchanged, felt like a promise.

When we reached the shared parking lot between our businesses, we stopped by mutual unspoken agreement. The security light cast long shadows, and from inside my shop, I could see the faint glow of the cooler light I’d left on.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to face me. “For giving me a chance.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything beyond dinner.”

“Yet.” He stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “You haven’t agreed to anything beyond dinner yet.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and my breath caught. The air between us felt thick, electric. I could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat, could smell the lingering scent of wine and his cedar cologne mixed with the night-blooming jasmine from the plant by my door.

“Julian,” I whispered, and it sounded like both a warning and an invitation.

He didn’t kiss me. Not yet. Instead, he brought his hand up to my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The touch was so gentle it made my chest ache. “I’ve wanted to do this for three years,” he murmured. “Just this. Just to touch you.”

I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, he was watching me with such focused intensity that I felt completely seen, completely known.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me this is too fast, and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll be your neighbor, your business associate. Whatever you need.”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all the permission he needed. His mouth found mine, and the world narrowed to the feel of his lips—soft at first, questioning. Then firmer, more certain. He tasted of wine and something uniquely him, something dark and sweet. His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my curls as he deepened the kiss.

I rose on my toes to meet him, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders. The wool of his suit jacket was rough under my palms, but the muscle beneath was solid, real. He made a low sound in his throat, and the vibration of it traveled straight through me.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. His forehead rested against mine, and his hands had settled on my hips, holding me steady.

“Come home with me,” he said, the words whispered against my lips. “Just to talk. Just to… I don’t know. Be. No pressure, no expectations. Just…”

“Yes.”

The word was out before I could overthink it. Before I could list all the reasons this was a terrible idea. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it either, then smiled—slow and bright and devastating.

His house was a fifteen-minute drive, a converted carriage house behind the funeral home that I’d never seen before. It suited him—exposed brick and wide windows, books everywhere and a kitchen that looked like it actually got used. But what made my chest tight were the flowers.

They were everywhere. Not funeral arrangements—I’d done enough of those to recognize my own work—but living things. African violets on the windowsill, a peace lily thriving in the corner, herbs growing in small pots along the counter. And on the coffee table, in a simple ceramic vase, the roses I’d sold him that afternoon.

“You keep flowers,” I said stupidly.

He shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his tie. “I work with death every day. Sometimes I need reminders that things still grow.”

I crossed to the roses, touched a petal gently. “These won’t last long in this heat. Not without refrigeration.”

“Nothing lasts forever.” He came up behind me, hands settling on my shoulders. His touch was warm through the thin fabric of my dress. “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? We appreciate beauty because we know it’s temporary.”

I turned in his arms, studied his face in the lamplight. “Is that what this is? Appreciation of temporary beauty?”

“This,” he said, brushing hair back from my face, his fingers catching on a tangle of curls, “is me appreciating you. Temporary or otherwise.”

He kissed me again, slower this time. Like we had all the time in the world, like the shop and the funeral home and all our responsibilities weren’t waiting just a few blocks away. His hands were careful, respectful, but I didn’t want careful. I wanted the man who’d looked at me across the dinner table like I was the answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.

I pressed closer, let my hands slide under his shirt. His skin was hot, the muscles of his back shifting under my touch. He made a sound—part groan, part surrender—and suddenly careful was gone.

“Rose, wait—” He caught my hands, held them against his chest. I could feel his heart racing beneath my palms. “If we do this, I need you to know it’s not… this isn’t just…”

“What is it?”

“I’ve wanted you for three years. Watched you through the window, made excuses to buy flowers I didn’t need, timed my smoke breaks to coincide with your deliveries.” He laughed, self-deprecating. “I’m not looking for a one-night thing here. I’m looking for…”

“What?”

“Everything. I’m looking for everything.”

The confession should have terrified me. Should have sent me running back to the safety of my shop and my predictable, controllable life. Instead, I rose up and kissed him again, putting everything I couldn’t say into the press of lips, the slide of tongue.

“Everything,” I whispered against his mouth. “Okay. Let’s have everything.”

He carried me to the bedroom—not the dramatic sweep I’d imagined, but a slightly awkward, laughing stumble that ended with us tangled on his bed, shoes kicked off and hands everywhere. He undressed me slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he untied the wrap of my dress. The fabric whispered open, and cool air brushed my skin, followed by the warmth of his hands.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed, and I believed him. Believed the way his breath caught when he looked at me, the reverence in his touch as his palms slid down my sides.

I reached for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. When I finally pushed it from his shoulders, I let my hands explore the planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair, the scar just below his collarbone. He shuddered under my touch.

“Motorcycle accident when I was twenty,” he murmured when my fingers traced the raised skin. “My dad nearly killed me himself.”

I kissed the scar, then his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. He rolled us over so I was beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure. His mouth traveled down my neck, my collarbone, lower. Everywhere his lips touched, my skin came alive. When he took my nipple into his mouth, the sensation was so sharp and sweet I cried out, my fingers clutching at his hair.

“Julian…”

“I’m here,” he whispered against my skin. “I’ve got you.”

He continued his slow exploration, his hands and mouth learning me. The rough texture of his palms against the soft skin of my inner thighs. The hot, wet stroke of his tongue. The sound of his breathing, ragged and close. I was trembling by the time he moved back up to kiss me, my body humming with need.

When he finally entered me, we both gasped. The feeling was so much—the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it. He stilled, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot on my face.

“Okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that built gradually. The slide of his skin against mine created a delicious friction, warm and slick. I could hear every sound—the soft rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, our mingled breaths, the low, broken sounds he made when I tightened around him.

I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. His pace quickened, and I matched him, movement for movement. Pleasure coiled tight in my belly, building with every thrust. His hand slipped between us, his fingers finding the exact spot that made me arch off the bed.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with strain. “Let go, Rose. I’ve got you.”

The climax broke over me in waves, sharp and sweet, pulling a cry from my throat that sounded foreign to my own ears. He followed moments later, his body shuddering above me, my name a prayer on his lips.

Afterward, we lay tangled in his sheets, city lights filtering through the windows. He traced lazy patterns on my back, and I listened to his heartbeat, steady and sure beneath my ear. The scent of us—sex and sweat and his cedar cologne—filled the air.

“Stay,” he murmured, half-asleep. “Just tonight. Just… stay.”

I did. And when I woke to morning light and coffee brewing and Julian humming in the kitchen, I stayed for breakfast too.

The next few weeks passed