Blossoms and Heated Lies

Delphine was elbow-deep in a bucket of peonies when the shop bell jangled and Franklin strode in like he owned the damn humidity. Two years. Two whole years since he’d left for that ridiculous architectural fellowship in Portland, and here he was, six-foot-something of charming smiles and that same stupid dimple, looking at her like she was the rarest orchid in the place.

“Delphine,” he said, voice warm enough to wilt the roses. “Still pretending these flowers listen better than people?”

She flicked water at him. “They complain less. What do you want, Franklin? And don’t say ‘just catching up’ because you only show up when you need something catastrophic.”

He laughed, that low rumble that had ruined her for every other man since they were seventeen and he’d accidentally kissed her during a game of truth or dare. “I need flowers. A lot of them. For a wedding.”

Her stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. “Whose?”

“Mine.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly boyish. “To Petra. Next month. Big venue downtown. I told her my best friend was the only florist who wouldn’t make it look like a funeral for good taste.”

Delphine kept her smile bright and lethal. “How flattering. The secret crush I’ve been nursing since high school gets to decorate his exit from my emotional life. Perfect.”

He didn’t hear the last part. Or pretended not to. They bantered for an hour while she showed him sample boards—lush garden roses, trailing jasmine, dramatic cascades of orchids. Every time their fingers brushed over a petal, the air thickened. She was still hopelessly, idiotically in love with the man she was supposed to help marry off to someone else. Petra. Beautiful, sensible Petra who probably never got dirt under her nails.

That night they met at the empty venue to measure the archways and check light. The place smelled of polish and possibility. Delphine climbed a ladder in her jeans, arms full of greenery, while Franklin held the base and made terrible jokes about load-bearing bouquets.

“You’re going to fall and sue me,” he said.

“Then you’d have to visit me in the hospital instead of honeymooning. Win-win.”

He went quiet. When she climbed down, he was staring at her like the punchline had turned sharp. “Delphine. This wedding… it’s a mistake. Loneliness dressed up in a tux. I said yes because it was easier than admitting I’ve been in love with you since we were teenagers and I was too chickenshit to risk the friendship.”

Her heart hammered. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I’ve rewritten every blueprint of my life around the shape of you and then pretended it was coincidence. Tell me I’m alone in this and I’ll shut up forever.”

She stepped in, grabbed his stupid perfect face, and kissed him. He kissed back like a man drowning and finally surfacing. Tongues, teeth, desperate little sounds. They deepened it on purpose, choosing each other after years of heated lies and careful distance.

Rose petals from the sample boxes spilled everywhere when they knocked a crate over. Franklin laid her down on the soft carpet of red and cream, peeling her clothes off with reverent hands and running commentary that made her snort-laugh even as she arched.

“God, these freckles. I’ve sketched them from memory like a creep.”

“Shut up and put your mouth where it matters.”

He did. He settled between her thighs and licked her open with slow, worshipful strokes, humming against her clit until her hips jerked. Two fingers slid inside, curling just right, and he sucked gently while she fisted the petals and came with a broken laugh that turned into his name. He kissed her through it, tasting herself on his tongue, both of them grinning like idiots.

Delphine pushed him onto his back, straddled his hips, and sank down onto his cock inch by thick inch. They both groaned. She rode him slowly at first, hands braced on his chest, watching his eyes go dark and soft. They kissed between laughter—“Two years of this and we spent it texting memes, absolute morons”—and the slide of her body over his felt like coming home.

Franklin flipped them in one smooth move, settling into missionary so he could keep looking at her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He thrust deep and steady, forehead pressed to hers, whispering filthy endearments mixed with tender ones. “My favorite florist. My best friend. The only person I’ve ever wanted to ruin wedding plans for.” She laughed, then moaned when he angled just right. The pressure built until they shattered together, gasping and clutching, petals stuck to sweaty skin, both of them mumbling how ridiculous and perfect it was that they’d waited this long.

Afterward they lay tangled, catching breath, trading soft jokes about the mess and the stolen night.

Morning light slanted through the venue windows. They sat on the floor amid the wreckage of blossoms, hands linked, and called Petra together. Gentle honesty. No theatrics. The wedding was off. Franklin told her the truth without cruelty; Delphine stayed quiet support beside him. Petra was hurt but gracious in the end. It was done.

Six months of actually dating followed—late nights in the flower shop, blueprints spread across her bed, laughter that turned filthy and soft by turns. They planned an intimate garden ceremony behind the shop, string lights and every bloom Delphine had ever loved.

On the day, under an arch of jasmine and garden roses, Franklin slid the ring onto her finger. He leaned in, voice low enough for only her, and whispered a filthy callback about petals stuck in inconvenient places and the heated lies they’d finally stopped telling. She was already laughing when he promised a lifetime of more of exactly that—laughter, love, nights that smelled like crushed blossoms and honest sweat.

Delphine kissed him, joy sparking bright—

Then she pulled back. The smile stayed, fond and finished. She touched his cheek once, gently.

“I love you,” she said. “I really do. But I think I’ve loved the almost more than the real thing. And I’m done.”

She turned, walked down the petal-strewn path in her simple dress, and kept going out the garden gate without looking back. Not angry. Just done.