London, Bloomsbury – 8:07 a.m. – Blue and Ribbon
The bell above the door had been broken for weeks, and Aria still hadn't fixed it. Every time someone walked in, she relied on instinct—usually the scent of rain-soaked coats or the muffled footsteps on her wooden floor.
That morning, the shop smelled of lavender and wild roses, and her apron was already stained with streaks of green from clumsy fingers. She hummed along to a half-forgotten tune, snipping the stems of peonies with more enthusiasm than precision.
"Aria, that's not how you trim them." Millie leaned on the counter, sipping from a paper cup that said coffee makes miracles.
Aria glanced up, scissors still in hand. "They look fine. Flowers like a little chaos, don't you think?"
"You're the only florist in London who thinks butchering stems is an artistic choice."
Aria laughed, a bright, bubbling sound that filled the small shop. She placed the uneven peonies into a ribbon-tied vase and admired them as though they'd won a medal. Outside, sunlight dripped lazily through the wide windows, catching dust motes and painting everything golden.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Another reminder she hadn't paid the electricity bill. Another sigh. Another reason to sell three bouquets before noon.
Still, she brushed it off, tucking the phone under a stack of floral magazines. "Business will pick up," she told Millie, and maybe herself too. "People fall in love more in the summer. More weddings, more flowers."
Millie raised a brow. "You're so optimistic it hurts."
"I'm not optimistic." Aria grinned, tying a sky-blue ribbon around the vase. "I'm… eagerly waiting."
"For what?"
"Love. Real love. The kind that walks into your shop and—"
The door creaked open. Aria looked up, expecting a customer. Instead, it was the postman, grumpy and dripping from the remnants of last night's rain. He shoved a stack of envelopes onto the counter. "Bills. More bills."
Aria sighed, dramatic, clutching her chest. "Not the kind of love I was waiting for."
Millie nearly spit out her coffee.
..
London, Midtown – 10:32 a.m. – Ainsworth Architecture Firm
Aria balanced three vases of white roses in her arms, the blue ribbons dangling dangerously close to unraveling. The order slip had said Ainsworth & Co., which she assumed was some kind of wedding planning business. Weddings meant romance, romance meant flowers—it made sense.
What didn't make sense was the size of the glass building now towering over her. Sleek lines, steel edges, windows that looked polished enough to cut. It screamed… not weddings. More like board meetings, stern voices, and men in suits who thought flowers were "too decorative."
"Wrong address?" she whispered to herself, adjusting the vases against her chest. But her pride (and the weight of roses threatening to slip) pushed her through the revolving door.
Inside, the marble lobby was too cold, too silent. Her shoes squeaked as she approached the front desk.
"I—I have a delivery," she said, smiling hopefully at the receptionist.
The receptionist gave her a once-over, from messy bun to flower-stained apron. "For who?"
"Ainsworth."
"Which one?"
Aria blinked. "Um… the… main one?"
Before the receptionist could reply, the elevator dinged. Out stepped a tall man in a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled neatly to his wrists, a sketch tube under one arm. His hair was dark, his jaw sharp enough to shame the marble floors. He looked at her as though she had wandered into his private blueprint.
And for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
"Who let this in?" he asked, voice low, clipped, British in the kind of way that sounded expensive. His eyes swept over the roses as though they were intruders, then lifted to her face.
"I—hello!" Aria found herself blurting, the roses wobbling dangerously in her arms. "I brought flowers. For… you."
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
She blinked. "Because… people like flowers?"
The receptionist coughed to hide a laugh.
Aria hurried to set the vases on a nearby table before she dropped them. "Look, maybe it's not for you. Maybe it's for your—office? Ainsworth & Co.? That's what it said."
"You're in an architecture firm," he said flatly, as if that explained everything.
"Oh." She tilted her head, squinting at him. "So… no weddings here?"
His lips twitched—maybe irritation, maybe the faintest shadow of amusement. "Definitely not."
"Well," Aria said, brushing dust from her apron and trying not to wilt under his stare, "if you ever decide to marry your blueprints, at least you'll know who to call."
And just like that, she turned on her heel and marched toward the elevator, cheeks burning, leaving behind three perfect vases of roses on his polished table.
...
London, Midtown – 10:45 a.m. – Ainsworth Architecture Firm
Roan stood still long after the elevator doors closed on her. The faint scent of roses lingered in the air, stubborn and intrusive. It didn't belong in this space—his office was meant for graphite lines, clean angles, the smell of ink and paper. Not ribbons and petals.
He stared at the three vases on the table as though they were trespassers.
"Talia." His voice carried across the lobby.
His secretary appeared instantly, heels sharp against the floor. "Yes, Mr. Ainsworth?"
"What is this?" He gestured to the roses.
"Flowers."
"Obviously. Why are they here?"
Talia shrugged, suppressing a smirk. "Because sometimes the universe decides you need them."
Roan's jaw tightened. "Send them back."
"Already tried. The girl practically sprinted out. No return address, except… 'Blue and Ribbon.' A flower shop in Bloomsbury."
He exhaled through his nose, long and controlled. His staff was staring—he hated being stared at. With one motion, he pulled the nearest vase closer, studying it as if it might reveal blueprints. The stems weren't even trimmed properly. Amateur. Messy.
And yet… the roses looked alive. Not sterile, not forced. Unapologetically imperfect.
Like her.
He frowned, shutting the thought away before it could take root. "Fine. Leave them here. But don't let it happen again."
"Yes, sir."
But Talia's smile suggested she knew something he didn't.
...
London, Bloomsbury – 11:18 a.m. – Blue and Ribbon
By the time Aria pushed back into her shop, she was red-faced, breathless, and very aware that her grand "delivery" had been a disaster.
Millie was behind the counter, now nibbling on a croissant. She eyed her friend suspiciously. "Well? Did you spread floral joy to the universe?"
Aria groaned, collapsing onto a stool. "I spread humiliation, if that counts."
Millie perked up. "Oh? Tell me everything."
Aria buried her face in her hands. "Tall. Suit. Architect or… some kind of building overlord. He looked at me like I'd committed a crime against steel and glass. And I told him—" she peeked between her fingers—"that if he ever wanted to marry his blueprints, he should call me."
Millie's croissant nearly fell apart in her lap. "No, you didn't."
Aria's muffled voice rose higher. "I did. And then I left three vases of roses behind like a floral burglar."
There was silence. Then, Millie burst into such violent laughter that even the sunflowers by the window seemed to shake along.
Aria peeked up, pouting. "It's not funny."
"It's the funniest thing you've ever done." Millie wiped tears from her eyes. "So, who is he?"
"I don't know. Some Mr. Ainsworth. Cold as marble. He'll probably throw the flowers in the trash."
But secretly, Aria hoped he wouldn't.
....
London, Midtown – 2:14 p.m. – Ainsworth Architecture Firm, Roan's Office
Roan's office stretched wide and severe, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, every surface polished, every corner sharp. His desk was immaculate—lined papers, sharpened pencils, not a single item out of place.
Except for the roses.
They sat in the middle of his conference table, defiantly colorful against the steel and charcoal tones.
Leon pushed through the door without knocking. His younger brother never knocked, never cared for rules. He flopped into one of the leather chairs, loosening his tie. "Christ, Roan, your office looks like a morgue. You ever think of getting a rug? Or a plant?"
Roan didn't look up from his sketch. "A rug collects dust. Plants die."
Leon's gaze landed on the roses. "Well, well. What's this, then?"
"An accident." Roan kept his pencil moving.
Leon smirked. "That's a very attractive accident." He stood, circling the table like a detective. "Roses, with ribbons. And don't tell me you bought them yourself. Not even in another universe."
"They were delivered to the wrong address," Roan said, clipped.
Leon plucked a petal, twirling it. "Mm-hm. And you just… kept them? Interesting."
Roan shot him a look sharp enough to cut. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything." Leon grinned, tossing the petal in the bin. "But for the first time in months, this room doesn't feel like a prison cell. You should thank whoever sent them."
"I don't do thank-yous."
Leon shook his head, amused. "You should. Whoever she is, she's either insane or brilliant for thinking you needed flowers."
"She didn't think. She was reckless," Roan muttered. But his mind betrayed him, flashing back to her messy bun, her unapologetic smile. The way she'd spoken to him like he wasn't some untouchable architect, but just… a man.
Leon noticed the flicker in his expression. "Ah. So it was a she."
Roan returned to his sketch, shutting the conversation down. But the roses stayed, glowing defiantly in the corner.
...