1. Zahard might sing
The chime of vintage bells brings with it a wintry draft and the fragrance of spring-kissed cherry blossoms through the old, creaking front door. Daybreak has barely stretched its first legs over the horizon, no more than a shy lemon blush in the vast blue and already, the sound of impending work comes knocking. Akraptor yawns, tensing and untensing, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It’s rare for a customer to show up this early. There’s usually enough time for him to finish his first cup of tea before they arrive.
“Good morning, welcome to Hon’s Four Seasons,” he mumbles from the back of the store, hair-tie between unwatered lips, fingers making a haphazard scramble at containing his long dishevelled loose curls into some semblance of a high ponytail. “I just need a second, I’ll be right there with you.”
His greeting is met with nothing but unnaturally light footfalls upon concrete. The timid type. All the better. It’ll give him time to slip into a mood more suitable for service. He exhales, ceasing haste, giving his rigid fingers time to find their dexterity before re-tying his hair into a more presentable state. Breathe in. Straighten out his apron and uniform. Breathe out.
Rising to his feet, he shakes the weight of last night’s wine from his legs and makes his way around the tulip shelves, the lilies, the lavenders, the roses, before shuffling behind the front counter. All the while, the customer has somehow managed to avoid him, navigating the opposite end of what is already a relatively quaint space.
“I—” He chokes on a dry spell, coughing the morning rasp out of his throat before continuing. “I’m at the front if you need me…”
He trails off, catching a glimpse of small dainty feet in flats through the gaps under the shelves. A lady? Or a child? He traces his jaw with a thumb. There was a whiff of perfume when they entered. A lady it is, then? A lady whose scent captivates him more than any flower he’d ever grown.
“Umm—”
Her voice breaks him out of his daze. Slender. Her legs are slender, lean muscle hidden behind a sheen of the fairest skin he has seen in all the years he’s travelled the Outer Tower. A loose-fitting, light-blue cotton skirt falls just short of her knees, and tucked neatly under the hems of the dress is a plain white button-up shirt.
“Just let me know when your eyes have feasted their full,” she sighs.
Akraptor jerks his head away, cheeks warming.
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“Sorry.” He mutters.
“What was that?” she moves closer, stopping just across the counter.
“I didn’t mean to look—I mean stare—or look for that long.”
“Right.” She doesn’t sound convinced. Akraptor winces.
“I don’t usually—” He draws a line from his temple and points in her general direction. “I’m not that kind of—it’s just early for me. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her laughter is birdsong to end the longest night. There is no sweeter melody, no richer tune, a sound that might end all wars, and those to come, with notes that might spur all the flowers in his shop into dance and convince Zahard to sing for them. The pink in his cheeks melt away, his heart becoming a hearth for an emotion he has never felt before.
Fingers curling around the edge of the counter, Akraptor finds the courage to lift his gaze. As soon as he brings it level, his breath catches in his throat, the beat in his chest jumping to speeds that escape rhyme or reason. He is terrified; that if he breathes out, he might blow her into dust, that she might be some figment of his imagination and vanish into thin air, that the winds of Fate might steal her from his modest floral abode, or some inexplicable phenomenon of the Tower might whisk her away this very moment.
She raises both brows, playful silver eyes glimmering with the ephemeral sparkle of a diamond, lips settling into a gentle smile.
“A bouquet of roses, please.”
Who’s the lucky guy? Akraptor wants to ask. He decides against it. Professionality comes first and foremost.
“Who shall I address them to?” he asks instead.
“Hmm.” She places her hands on her hips. “I was thinking, maybe they could go to you?”
The blank expression on Akraptor’s face does not do the ab-workout beneath his shirt justice. It takes every fibre of his being just to prevent what would have been a disastrous reaction on his part.
“I’m kidding,” She throws her head back dramatically in a fit of what sounds like forced chuckles, hair like strands of moonlight swaying with the tilt of her head. “Can’t a girl buy flowers for herself?”
“Of course.” Akraptor nods, resigned to a courteous smile. He pulls an order form from the stack underneath the counter and retrieves a pen from his shirt pocket. “May I get your name?”
“Gwy—” she pauses mid-syllable.
Akraptor looks up. Gweh?
“Gwen.” She is resolute the second time she says it. “My name is Gwen.”