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“You are fired,” Thee said, eyes glinting, smile stretching wide, on the night of his wedding.
Music spilled from the ballroom behind them. Laughter. Glasses clinking. Somewhere inside, Peach was probably glowing like the moon. And here stood Mok, staring at his boss, trying to understand how those three words fit into such a happy night.
“Did I do something wrong? I mean, if I did something, we can talk it out first, boss.” He sounded very calm. He wasn’t.
His mind ran through every detail at lightning speed. He couldn’t remember anything that could possibly cost him his job. He was good at being Thee’s bodyguard and assistant. Exceptional, even. He handled threats before they bloomed. He planned events like military campaigns wrapped in silk ribbons.
Security? Perfect. Guest list? Checked three times. The cake arrived on time. Aran and Tawan did not get into a fight. That alone deserved a medal. He did his job. He always did his job perfectly.
Thee only smiled more, watching him squirm.
“Boss?” Mok tried again, softer this time.
“I’m happy now, Mok. We finally broke every rule Dad set.” Thee’s voice carried that familiar warmth. Teasing, but sincere. “It’s time for you to choose your own happiness. Follow your heart, Mok.”
Follow my heart?
Mok blinked at him like he’d just been handed a weapon without instructions. His heart was unreliable. His heart beat faster whenever Rome walked into a room and that alone felt like poor judgment. What happens now?
And so here was Mok, five months later, lying flat on his bed inside the Arseni mansion, staring at the ceiling like it personally owed him answers.
Because apparently being fired as Thee’s bodyguard did not equate to being kicked out of the family too, like what his stupid brain had assumed at first. He had mentally packed his bags. Considered moving out and look for apartments. Briefly imagined himself wandering the streets like some tragic ex-mafia side character. None of that happened.
He stayed. The whole Arseni member made sure his dramatic-ass stayed.
It had also been five months since he last saw Rome. The last time was at Thee and Peach’s wedding. Rome had finally gathered the courage to ask Mok to be with him. Actually ask. Words formed and everything. Mok could still see the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was bracing for impact.
Then the phone rang. The Italy base was attacked. Rome left that night immediately.
Mok stayed behind in the mansion, slowly rotting in his room like an abandoned side quest. He rolled onto his side. Then onto his stomach. Then back again. He had rotated around this house so many times he could map it with his eyes closed.
He tried helping train the trainees. The head officer shooed him away with a stiff smile. “It’s our job. You’re not part of it anymore.” Harsh.
He tried cleaning. The helpers gently but firmly pushed him out of the way. He cooked once. Only once. Peach’s favorite helper nearly cried and physically escorted him out of the kitchen like he was a threat to national security.
He spent hours at the mansion gym. Lifted. Ran. Punched. Sweated until his shirt clung to his skin. Even he admitted he couldn’t stay there all day unless he wanted his muscles to revolt and file complaints.
“Should I learn a new language?” Mok muttered, staring at the ceiling again. “I already know Russian, Thai, Chinese, Japanese, English, French… well, except Korean. Should I just do that?”
Silence answered him.
He sighed. He must be out of his mind for talking to himself, but what else was he supposed to do? The mansion felt huge when everyone was busy. Thee and Peach were on their honeymoon. The Arseni patriarchs were on some world tour. Rome… Rome was drowning in cartel business that never seemed to end.
Mok pushed himself up from his starfish position and reached for his phone.
That was when he noticed them. The bouquets. All the flowers Rome had sent over the years. Even the recent ones. Carefully dried. Pressed. Preserved. Arranged like quiet memories lining his walls.
“Oh,” Mok murmured, walking closer. “I almost forgot about you.”
He picked up the bouquet of daisies sent two days ago. The petals had already begun to curl, soft white edges fading.
Mok gathered his preservation kit and spread everything across his desk with quiet focus. His movements shifted, steady and practiced. He trimmed the stems cleanly. Separated petals with careful fingers. Pressed them flat. Mixed resin. Poured slowly, watching it settle like captured sunlight.
Time slipped by without him noticing. When he finished, he held the preserved daisies up to the light. They looked untouched by decay, frozen in a moment Rome had chosen for him. He placed them in the glass vitrine with the others.
There were… a lot.
Hundreds of preserved flowers. Roses in deep crimson. Pale tulips. Baby’s breath. Peonies that probably cost more than some people’s rent. All made by his own hands over the years, without him even realizing he’d been building a collection.
“Wow,” he breathed. “I didn’t realize it was this many now. I could open up a shop from this.”
He blinked.
“Wait. Why not?” Something sparked in his chest. Just a small, steady flame.
When a bored man finds a new obsession, things tend to escalate quickly. Mok grabbed his iPad and phone, fingers flying across the screen as he searched everything he could about opening a flower shop. Licensing. Suppliers. Interior layouts. Branding ideas. Delivery systems.
He’s no stranger to flowers or their countless kinds. Not at all.
With Thee as his boss, overly dedicated to sending Peach every possible variation of romantic bouquet, and Rome who seemed physically incapable of going a week without sending Mok flowers at least three times, Mok had absorbed knowledge whether he liked it or not. Every type. Every meaning. Every seasonal bloom. At this point, flower taxonomy had him in a chokehold. Force-fed knowledge, perhaps? Mok leaned back in his chair, eyes bright for the first time in months. Florist Mok. It sounded ridiculous. It also sounded right.
Somewhere far away, Rome was probably negotiating with dangerous men, unaware that the love of his life was about to trade bullets for bouquets. The whole Arseni generation wouldn’t see it coming.
And Rome definitely wouldn’t either.
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When all his plans were carefully organized into a neat file, tabs labeled, budget sheets color coded, projected revenue calculated down to the last baht, Mok didn’t hesitate. He made a presentation. Slides. Clean layout. Minimal text. Visual samples of preserved arrangements. Market research. Even a five year forecast because if he was doing this, he was doing it properly.
Regardless of his unemployed status and lack of official position in any Arseni operation, he was still part of the family. That mattered. In this house, nothing moved without the patriarch’s awareness. Not shipments. Not alliances. Not new ventures. Certainly not a flower shop opened by the former right hand of the future mafia boss.
Even if he was, technically, the future husband of said mafia boss. Which was still a sentence that made his ears burn.
Vassili and Nathaladia weren’t that strict when it came to business ideas. They valued initiative. Independence. Strength. As long as you could take responsibility for what you built, manage it well, and not embarrass the family name in the process, they would listen. They might question you for three hours straight, but they would listen.
Still, protocol was protocol. You could only contact the patriarch directly during emergencies, gunshots, betrayals, and political disasters. Not “hello, I would like to sell flowers.” So Mok did what everyone with survival instinct did.
He called the matriarch. The phone rang twice before it connected.
“Mae?” Mok said, straightening unconsciously even though she couldn’t see him.
“Hi, darling!” Nathaladia’s voice burst through the speaker, warm and theatrical as ever. “I bought you souvenirs and clothes. This would really look good on you, sweetheart. The color will make your skin glow. You’ve been too pale lately. Are you eating properly?”
Mok’s lips curved before he could stop them.
She always did this. Every trip and every country. Souvenirs for him. Shirts she claimed matched his aura. Scarves she insisted would elevate his presence. She fussed over him the same way she did her own sons, maybe even more, because he let her.
He leaned back against his desk, presentation file open on the screen in front of him, and for a moment the tightness in his chest eased.
“Thank you, Mae,” he said softly.
“I also bought something for Rome, but don’t tell him. I want to see his face when he realizes it’s not for business.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “That giant baby works too much.”
Mok swallowed. Of course he does. He didn’t say it out loud tho.
“Mae,” he continued, shifting slightly, fingers tapping against the desk, a habit when he was nervous. “Will you come home this weekend? I have some proposals to talk about with you and Dad.”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
“A proposal?” Nathaladia repeated, curiosity blooming in her tone. “Are we discussing marriage, business, or something that will give your father a headache?”
Mok huffed quietly.
“Business, Mae.”
“Ah,” she hummed, pleased. “You sound serious.”
He is.
In his room, the preserved flowers lined the wall in silent witness. The glass caught the afternoon light. Soft colors. Quiet proof that he had built something with his own hands, even when he didn’t realize he was building it.
“I prepared everything properly,” he added, almost defensively. “Research, cost projections, suppliers. I won’t be reckless.”
He could practically hear her smiling.
“I know you won’t,” Nathaladia said gently. “You’ve never been reckless, Mok. That’s why we trust you.”
His fingers stilled. Trust. One thing he had put so much value on, especially in this family. It settled heavily in his chest. Not suffocating tho, just warmth.
“We’ll be home this weekend,” she continued. “Dad will pretend he is too busy, but he will sit down. He always does when it’s you.”
Mok exhaled slowly, tension slipping from his shoulders.
“Thank you, Mae.”
“Prepare tea,” she added lightly. “And wear something nice. If you’re presenting, at least look handsome. First impressions matter.”
He almost laughed.
“Yes, Mae.”
After the call ended, Mok stared at his presentation again. Florist Mok. Business owner. Not bodyguard nor assistant but a florist. A genuine smile bloomed in his face.
He adjusted one slide. Tweaked a number. Closed the file with deliberate calm. If he was going to do this, he would do it right. And if Vassili Arseni asked why the future husband of the mafia boss wanted to open a flower shop, Mok already had his answer. Because flowers, unlike bullets, were meant to keep people alive.
When the weekend arrived, Mok tore through his wardrobe like a man on a mission, hunting for the perfect business casual outfit. What he found instead were his old bodyguard suits, all crisp, black, and painfully boring. Wow. He hadn’t realized his life had been so… dull. So he dug through box after box of designer clothes, gifts from everyone who adored their little Mok, each piece more colorful and extravagant than the last, like a rainbow he’d been ignoring for years.
A knock at the door pulled him from his frantic rummaging.
“Khun Mok? Khun Vassili and Mistress Nathaladia are waiting for you in the conference room,” one of the helpers called from outside.
“I’ll be there in a minute! Thank you!” Mok replied, adjusting a scarf that might have been a bit too dramatic, but hey, first impressions mattered. Specially when you are proposing a business deal.
The conference room smelled faintly of old leather and polished wood, a hint of Nathaladia’s signature rose perfume lingering in the air. Mok entered to find Vassili already seated, his expression unreadable, while Nathaladia smiled warmly, hands folded neatly on the table.
“Sit, Mok,” Vassili said, voice calm but carrying weight. “Tell us about your proposal.”
Mok cleared his throat, spreading his files and tablet before them. “I’ve been researching preserved flowers, uhm, methods, suppliers, market potential. With proper management, I believe we can open a boutique that not only caters to high-end clients but also integrates seasonal arrangements and online delivery. I’ve projected costs, revenue, and break-even timelines.”
Nathaladia leaned forward, eyes bright. “I like that you’ve thought this through. What about staff and operations? You can’t run this alone forever, darling.”
“I’ve considered that,” Mok said, tapping a slide showing workflow diagrams. “We can hire a small team trained in preservation techniques and delivery logistics. I also plan to implement strict quality control to maintain the brand’s reputation. And marketing—social media campaigns, collaborations with events and weddings—can all be managed digitally at first to minimize overhead.”
Vassili’s fingers tapped against the table. “And funding? Are you requesting capital, or will you handle this independently?”
“I can cover initial costs personally,” Mok replied. “But I’d like your approval, as a formality. As part of the family, and to ensure the venture aligns with the Arseni name.”
Nathaladia’s smile widened, almost maternal. “I like it, Mok. Responsibility, foresight… and you’ve thought about the details. Dad will appreciate that.”
Vassili nodded, leaning back slightly. “Very well. Present it in full. Convince me this isn’t just a hobby, but a serious business.”
Mok took a deep breath, heart hammering. He had spent months preparing, and now it was time to show them that Florist Mok was more than just flowers and pretty arrangements. He was a businessman, ready to carve his own place—even in the shadow of a mafia empire.
And so he discussed his ideas for hours, walking them through every detail without skipping a beat. He covered suppliers, staffing, marketing strategies, customer retention, pricing tiers, even potential collaborations with events and luxury brands. He explained the preserved flower techniques, why they were unique, and how the boutique could stand out in a crowded market. He outlined short-term and long-term goals, projected revenue, and even contingency plans for unexpected challenges. By the time he finished, Vassili and Nathaladia had nodded through every point, occasionally asking questions or suggesting minor tweaks, but mostly listening, impressed by how meticulously Mok had thought everything through.
Vassili nodded finally. “Very well. We’ll support this, but you’re responsible for execution. No shortcuts, Mok. Family name, remember?”
“Of course,” Mok said, voice steady. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Nathaladia reached across the table and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “We’re proud of you, darling. Now go show us that Florist Mok is more than just a nickname.”
Mok couldn’t help the small, victorious smile tugging at his lips. Finally, the pieces were falling into place. The mafia life, the flowers, the family… maybe, just maybe, he could have it all.
When you’re a member of the Arseni family, a “one-year plan” could easily become one month or less than that. With their power and overflowing money, everything could happen in a snap. So even though all the capital came from Mok’s own pocket, his shop would finally open in less than three weeks.
He had three weeks to figure out how to tell Rome and Thee. Considering the fact that these two were utterly unstoppable when it came to providing money, support, ergonomics, and basically anything for someone they cared about… well, that meant disaster if he told them too early. Those brothers were like rabid dogs with a cause. Mok decided to wait until the last minute. He would make sure everything was set first. This was going to be his. Something he could truly call his own.
He’d also told the patriarch and matriarch to keep it secret from the two brothers, and, naturally, they happily obliged.
Two days before the grand opening, Mok texted Rome. No reply. Very unusual, huh. Most likely when it comes to Mok, he replies instantly. Don’t overthink. He’s probably still tied up with the enemy.
Later that afternoon, he decided to text Thee too…..and received a call within minutes.
“YOU WHAT?” Thee’s voice was forever dramatic, echoing through the phone like fireworks.
“Opened a flower shop,” Mok said flatly.
“AND WHEN??”
“In two days,” Mok replied, still calm.
“And you only told me now? Mok! Does our friendship mean nothing to you? My heart is breaking! You betrayed me when all I ever wanted was your happiness! I can’t fathom this! Peach, my love, I need your healing kiss! I can’t believe I considered him my best friend and… I mean nothing to him!” Thee’s voice suddenly softened at the last sentence, probably speaking to Peach on his side.
Mok could hear Peach sigh softly in the background.
“And wait—why are you opening a flower shop all of a sudden?? I told you to follow your heart and find happiness! Why a shop? Aren’t you supposed to be with my brother right now? Go and reproduce or something???” Thee’s voice escalated again.
Mok pressed the phone to his ear, mouth a straight line, listening to his ex-boss-slash-best-friend’s endless dramatic outburst. He didn’t interrupt. He just let it happen, letting the storm pass over him while secretly smirking at how predictable Thee was.
“Be with your brother? I can’t even get a hold of him! Now that I have all the time in the world, he’s nowhere to be seen!” Mok muttered to himself, while Thee’s voice continued to ring out on the other side of the phone. Hundreds of complaints, suggestions, and dramatic what-ifs poured through the line, nonstop.
“What about the capital? Can I buy some shares? I can buy the land for you. Or the farm for flowers? How about the design for the shop? Do you have an architect?” Thee’s ranting barely paused for breath.
“P’Kian, it’s opening in two days. Most probably Mok took care of it all,” Peach’s calm voice cut through the chaos from the other end.
“Yeah. Everything’s set. I’m just waiting for the opening day. I just wanted to inform you—that’s all. Enjoy your honeymoon there. Goodbye,” Mok said firmly, forcing calm into his tone.
“Wait, Mok! We’ll be there—” Thee began again, but Mok ended the call before the sentence could finish. There was no way this conversation wouldn’t last hours otherwise.
Now Mok sat on the couch in his room, phone in hand, staring at the screen, waiting for a certain notification to pop up—the customized tone he’d set for a very specific person. The last time he’d heard from him was just last week, when Rome called to check in, asking what he was doing and how he was. Mok didn’t worry much about the silence. He knew Rome was more than capable of handling himself, with Alof right there by his side. And if things went south, someone in the clan would notify the family.
Still, Mok couldn’t help the quiet murmur escaping his lips “Where are you…”
A ping pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. A text from Rome.
Rome
I’m happy for you. I wish you a successful business, my Mok.
received. 5:48pm
Just that. Nothing more. No exaggerated hearts, no follow-up, no frantic “call me!” or rambling explanations like usual. Mok blinked at the screen. Huh.
Was he overthinking? Maybe. But part of him couldn’t help the small, gnawing worry that maybe… something was wrong. Not just the silence, not just the brevity, but the way Rome’s words felt almost too measured. Like he was holding back.
Mok set the phone down, staring at it, fingers twitching. He tried to push the thought away. He knew Rome could handle anything—cartels, chaos, disasters that would have crushed most people. And if something really went wrong, someone would tell him. Right?
Still… just that.
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The opening day finally arrived.
The shop, his very own shop, stood bright under the morning sun, glass windows polished until they reflected the street like a mirror. Soft ribbons framed the entrance. Preserved arrangements lined the walls in careful symmetry, resin catching the light and scattering it across the room like trapped stars. It smelled faintly of fresh blooms and something sweeter beneath it. Calm..
And packed.
The place was full.
Customers drifted between displays, murmuring in appreciation. His old teammates from the bodyguard unit stood awkwardly near a shelf of pastel roses, all broad shoulders and intimidating stares in a flower shop that looked like it belonged in a romance drama. A few businessmen circled quietly, already assessing profit margins in their heads.
Khun Vassili and Mistress Nathaladia arrived together, elegant as ever. Plub showed up with dramatic sunglasses indoors. Aran and Tawan bickered near the refreshment table over who understood floral symbolism better. Thee and Peach came too, along with their two children who immediately tried to poke at the resin displays with sticky fingers.
Thee had nearly brought an entire circus for “guest entertainment.” His words. Apparently he thought juggling clowns would elevate the ambiance. Luckily Peach stopped him before Mok had to explain why a trapeze act above preserved peonies was a bad business decision.
Mok barely had time to breathe.
He greeted guests with a polite smile that slowly turned genuine. He explained preservation techniques. Took custom orders. Discussed delivery routes. Adjusted displays when children bumped into them. His hands moved with practiced ease, steady and confident.
He hadn’t expected this many people. He definitely hadn’t expected to feel… proud. His body ached in that satisfying way that came after long, honest work. His mind replayed the day in fragments. Compliments. Orders. Laughter. The pride in Nathaladia’s eyes. The quiet approval in Vassili’s nod.
Every compliment landed softly in his chest. Every nod of approval. Every impressed glance from businessmen who clearly hadn’t thought much of a “flower shop” until they saw it in person. He moved through the crowd like he used to move through operations. Alert. Efficient. In control.
And somewhere, quietly, beneath all the noise and congratulations, there was one presence he had expected the most.
He hadn’t seen him yet. But Mok didn’t notice that. Not really. He was too busy smiling, too busy explaining, too busy being Florist Mok instead of anyone’s bodyguard. Too busy to realize who was missing.
It was only at closing time that he finally felt the presence he had been missing all day.
The last guest had left. The staff waved goodbye one by one. The laughter faded, replaced by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint scent of flowers settling into the quiet.
He wasn’t worried about getting home. The Arseni head couple had gifted him a Rolls-Royce Cullinan Series II as a congratulatory present for the successful opening. The car key sat heavy in his pocket, almost ridiculous. Open a flower shop, receive a luxury SUV. Normal.
Mok stayed behind to tidy up. He adjusted the displays, reorganized the custom orders, trimmed the stems of leftover fresh flowers before placing them in water. His hands moved slowly now. No rush. Just him and the soft rustle of petals.
He was arranging the remaining roses when he felt it.
A shift in the air.
Someone standing behind him. He turned. Rome leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, suit perfectly fitted to his broad frame. Dark shirt. Sleeves slightly rolled. Tie loosened just enough to look effortless. He looked like trouble disguised as elegance. Like he belonged on a magazine cover titled Dangerous Men You Shouldn’t Fall For.
“Hi…” Mok said. His voice came out softer than he intended.
Rome’s gaze swept over the shop first, slow and deliberate, like he was scanning a map before a mission. Every display, every preserved petal, every careful arrangement caught his attention. His dark eyes lingered on the corners, the edges, the way light caught the resin of a single rose. Then, inevitably, his focus settled on Mok.
“Hi,” Rome said, stepping off the doorframe with quiet precision. His voice was low but carried that familiar weight, the one that made Mok’s chest tighten without warning. “Congratulations.”
He moved closer, shoes soft against the polished floor, the faint click of leather punctuating the quiet of the empty shop. Mok’s eyes followed him, noticing the way Rome’s posture was casual but controlled, every step deliberate.
“It looks… like you,” Rome added, a small smile tugging at his lips as he took in the neat rows of flowers, the polished counters, the faint scent of roses mingling with lavender.
Mok blinked, caught off guard. “Like me?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, like testing a fragile glass surface with a finger.
“Clean. Thoughtful. No wasted space.” Rome’s eyes softened for just a moment before sharpening again with that familiar edge. “Annoyingly perfect.”
Mok huffed, a little exasperated but mostly amused. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, but couldn’t hide the warmth tugging at his chest.
“It is,” Rome said simply, as if stating a fact. His eyes flicked to Mok’s, steady and unyielding.
Silence stretched between them. Not heavy, but loaded, dense with years of unsaid things, of missed opportunities, of distance that neither of them could quite explain.
“You came late,” Mok said finally, breaking the quiet. He placed the scissors down, the clatter sharp in contrast to the stillness. His eyes narrowed slightly, playful but pointed, like he was holding Rome accountable.
“I know.” Rome’s lips twitched, a mixture of amusement and apology. His gaze drifted to the display near the counter, lingering on a bouquet he must have recognized. “I heard P’Kian almost turned this place into a carnival.”
“He tried.” Mok’s tone was flat, but his eyes twinkled. He could almost see the chaos Thee had probably caused in his imagination—the clowns, the juggling, the dramatic theatrics. Mok shook his head slightly, smiling despite himself, letting the tension of the day ease just a little.
The shop around them hummed quietly in the fading light, petals catching the glow of the soft lamps. For a moment, it was just the two of them. Just the quiet, and the weight of everything they hadn’t said, lingering in the air between them.
Rome glanced toward the window, toward the street. Even now, his eyes scanned instinctively. Calculating. Measuring risk.
“I couldn’t come earlier,” he said quietly. “There are still eyes on me. If I showed up while it was crowded…” He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t want your first day tied to any chaos.”
Mok studied him.
He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t sad either. He understood. He always did. Rome carried a storm behind him wherever he went. Showing up in the middle of a grand opening full of civilians would have been reckless. And Rome, despite everything, was never reckless with Mok.
“You texted like a stranger,” Mok said softly, the words barely louder than a whisper. There was no accusation in his tone, just a quiet observation, like noting the sudden chill in a familiar room.
Rome’s brows pulled together slightly, a flash of tension crossing his otherwise calm features. “I was on the move. Didn’t want to say too much over text.” His voice was careful, measured, but the slight twitch in his jaw betrayed that he felt guilty anyway.
“That’s all you had to say?” Mok pressed, a faint edge of teasing beneath the softness.
Rome stepped closer, closing the space until just an arm’s length separated them. His dark eyes searched Mok’s, earnest and serious. “If I started, I wouldn’t stop,” he admitted, and Mok felt his chest tighten at the weight behind those words.
“I’m proud of you,” Rome continued, voice low, almost reverent. “You built this. On your own. You didn’t let me interfere.” His gaze swept over the shop, lingering on the polished counters and perfectly arranged flowers before returning to Mok.
“You would’ve bought the entire building,” Mok said flatly, though his lips twitched at the corner—half teasing, half incredulous.
“I considered it,” Rome said quietly, and Mok could hear the honesty layered beneath the calm tone.
“Of course you did.” Mok let the words fall, a small smile forming despite himself.
A quiet laugh slipped from Rome, soft and almost shy, the kind he only reserved for Mok. Then his expression shifted, warmth breaking through the usual composure, a fleeting softness that made Mok’s heart squeeze.
“You look happy,” Rome said, voice gentler now, lingering on the word as if tasting it for the first time.
Mok hesitated, glancing around the shop, the remnants of the day, the empty spaces, the quiet settling in. He was tired, completely drained from the opening, from welcoming guests, from orchestrating every detail himself—but he was happy. Truly, unreservedly happy.
“I am,” he admitted, letting the words settle between them. They were simple. Honest.
Enough. For now.
Rome’s fingers lingered for a moment on the edge of one of the preserved arrangements, brushing the petals with careful precision, as if even the flowers couldn’t escape his intensity. “I’m glad you didn’t wait for me,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to Mok.
Mok’s gaze rose slowly, catching Rome’s dark, searching stare. “Wait for you?” he asked, voice soft, teasing a little, though the knot in his chest betrayed him.
“For your life to start,” Rome replied, calm and measured, but the weight in his words pressed down heavier than Mok expected.
Mok swallowed, throat dry. “You think I was waiting?” he asked, more to himself than to Rome.
Rome didn’t answer immediately. He just held Mok with his gaze, steady and unflinching, the kind that made it impossible to look away.
“I’m still here,” Rome finally said, voice low, deliberate. “Even if I can’t always stand beside you in the daylight.”
Mok stepped closer on impulse, closing the gap between them without thinking. “I know,” he murmured, the words soft but certain, carrying the weight of everything he had kept inside.
Outside, the street had fallen into quiet, the hum of distant traffic fading into the evening. Inside, the shop felt smaller now, cozier, almost intimate. The air smelled faintly of roses and lavender, of calm and warmth, of a space that belonged entirely to him.
Rome’s gaze swept across the shop, lingering on the displays, the counter, the preserved petals catching the light. Then he returned to Mok. “So. Florist Mok.”
“Don’t,” Mok said immediately, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a small smile.
“I like it,” Rome said, the words low, teasing, but with something warmer under the surface.
Mok let the smile linger, silent. He could feel the tension in Rome ease slightly, the armor slipping, just a little.
Rome leaned in, just a fraction, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Next time you open another branch, tell me earlier.”
Mok tilted his head, studying him, lips twitching. “Why?”
“So I can pretend to negotiate the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”
Mok laughed, the sound soft and real. For the first time that day, he wasn’t Florist Mok. Not host. Not a businessman.
Just Mok.
And Rome, standing there in the doorway, looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth noticing, made the long day finally feel complete.
For a moment neither of them moved.
The shop lights cast a soft glow over Rome’s face, sharp lines gentled by the warm yellow hue. He looked tired up close. Not messy. Not falling apart. Just… worn at the edges. Like someone who hadn’t slept enough and wouldn’t admit it.
Mok noticed. Of course he did. Always does.
“You look exhausted,” Mok said quietly.
Rome gave a small shrug. “Long week.”
“That’s not an answer.”
A faint smirk touched Rome’s lips. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Mok narrowed his eyes but didn’t push. If it were serious, someone would have informed the family. Alof would’ve called. The clan would’ve stirred. Silence meant stability. At least that’s what he told himself.
Rome’s gaze drifted slowly to the display near the counter, dark eyes scanning the rows of preserved flowers with careful attention. “Which one is from me?” he asked, his voice calm but threaded with curiosity.
“All of that side,” Mok replied, nodding toward the wall where dozens of arrangements stood, each one perfectly preserved, a quiet testament to Rome’s relentless devotion.
Rome blinked, incredulous. “All?”
“You send too many,” Mok said flatly, though his lips twitched. A faint amusement tugged at the edges of his voice.
Rome’s expression softened, eyes widening slightly in quiet amazement. “You kept them.”
Mok’s fingers brushed the edge of a glass case, tracing it as if grounding himself. “Of course I did,” he said, tone firm, but underneath, his chest warmed at the reaction.
Something shifted in Rome’s expression then, subtle, almost imperceptible. A softness that only Mok had ever been allowed to see—the quiet break in the armor, a flicker of vulnerability behind the usual intensity.
“I walked past earlier,” Rome admitted, voice low, almost a confession. “During the afternoon.”
Mok’s head snapped up, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. “What?”
“I stayed in the car across the street,” Rome said, his tone calm, measured, almost casual, as if admitting to watching him like a secret ritual wasn’t a big deal. “I wanted to see it full. See you in your element.”
Mok’s stomach flipped. “And?”
Rome’s eyes lingered, unwavering, piercing in a way that made Mok feel both exposed and safe. “You were glowing.”
Mok’s ears heated instantly, a flicker of embarrassment creeping up. “That’s dramatic,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rome.
“It’s accurate,” Rome said simply, the faintest curve of a smile softening his features. There was no teasing in it, just honesty, a quiet appreciation that landed heavier than Mok expected.
Mok looked away for a second, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, heart hammering. And somewhere in that soft glow of preserved flowers and fading daylight, he realized just how much Rome had noticed. How much Rome had always noticed.
He looked away first, pretending to inspect a row of daisies, but his voice carried that familiar edge of quiet reprimand. “You could’ve come in,” Mok muttered, almost under his breath, like testing the waters.
“I know,” Rome said simply, shoulders stiffening just a fraction.
A pause stretched between them, heavy with everything neither had said in months.
“I didn’t trust myself not to make it about me,” Rome admitted finally, voice low, almost vulnerable.
Mok’s eyes flicked back to him, sharp now, curiosity and something softer tangled together.
Rome let out a faint, almost embarrassed huff, the kind that made Mok want to reach out and smooth it away. “P’Kian was already here. Dad and Mom. Businessmen. If I walked in, half of them would shift their attention. I didn’t want your first day to become an Arseni political gathering.”
Mok stared. Really stared. Taking in the tight line of Rome’s jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes, the way he carried himself even when trying to step back.
So he had stayed away. Not because he didn’t care. Not because he was indifferent. But because he cared too much. Idiot.
“You think too much,” Mok said softly, voice low, almost a whisper.
“I learned from you,” Rome replied, eyes flicking away for a moment before locking back on Mok, steady and unflinching.
They stood there, the quiet of the shop wrapping around them. Close enough that Mok could see the faint crease between Rome’s brows, the tension coiled in his shoulders even in stillness.
“Are you staying tonight?” Mok asked finally, voice careful, knowing the answer might sting but needing to ask anyway.
Rome hesitated.
“For a few hours,” Rome said, voice low, measured. “I have to fly out again before dawn.”
Of course.
Mok nodded once, slow and controlled. Calm. Composed. He had expected that answer. He’d seen it a thousand times in Rome’s posture, in the way he moved, in the quiet weight of obligation Rome carried like armor.
“You didn’t tell me,” Rome added, eyes narrowing slightly, a subtle sharpness beneath the usual calm. “Two days before opening, really?”
He didn’t sound angry, not exactly, but there was something tight beneath the surface, like a coiled spring. Something bruised. His jaw flexed once, subtle, controlled. Rome wasn’t used to being the last to know anything important in Mok’s life, and it showed in the tension radiating from him.
“You would’ve interfered,” Mok said lightly, tone even, almost lazy, though his fingers tightened slightly around the stem he was holding. He didn’t look away. He knew Rome well enough to see the flicker of hurt in his eyes—and he hated that he noticed it.
“I would’ve supported,” Rome countered, stepping closer, closing the distance just enough to make the air between them charged. Not defensive. Certain. Like support, in Rome’s vocabulary, came with steel, logistics, and armed escorts.
“You would’ve bought the entire block,” Mok said flatly, arching a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. There was no accusation in it. Just fact. He could already picture Rome signing contracts before the ribbon was even cut, calling in favors, reshaping the neighborhood under the excuse of “infrastructure improvement.”
Rome didn’t deny it. Not a word. His eyes flicked to Mok, dark and amused, shadowed with the faintest trace of exasperation. Mok could feel the pull of it, the familiar gravity of Rome leaning in without actually touching him, dangerous, insistent, inevitable.
His silence was admission enough. A faint huff left him, almost sheepish, though he would never call it that. His hand slipped into his pocket, gaze shifting briefly toward the window as if mentally calculating how difficult it would actually be to purchase the surrounding properties.
Mok watched him, heart thudding in a slow, deliberate rhythm, feeling something warm tug at his chest—a mixture of relief, pride, and the faint sting of how much Rome cared.
“You see?” Mok said quietly, almost to himself, almost daring Rome to argue.
Rome’s gaze softened, flicking back to him. “I would’ve made sure you never had to worry about anything,” he said, voice low, steady, as if stating a fact that needed no emphasis.
“That’s the problem,” Mok replied, crossing his arms, trying to sound casual, but failing. “I wanted to do this myself. No Arseni power. No mafia leverage. Just me.” His eyes met Rome’s, firm, unapologetic.
Rome stepped closer, closing the space until it was barely there, until Mok could feel the faint heat radiating off him, the presence of someone who had always been too close for comfort and just right all at once.
“And you did,” Rome said quietly, voice low enough to skim across Mok’s skin. “You built something clean. Something that doesn’t bleed.”
The words landed heavier than Mok expected. He swallowed, a tight, uncomfortable gulp that wasn’t just nerves—it was everything he had worked for, every lonely hour, every bit of doubt and exhaustion.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Rome continued, eyes unwavering, dark and certain. “Not to me.”
“I know,” Mok said softly, the words true, but they carried the weight of his own stubbornness, of years proving himself in a world that never slowed down.
But even as he said it, he knew the truth. He had needed to prove it to himself. And for the first time, standing there with Rome so close, watching him, feeling the quiet gravity between them, he realized he had.
Rome reached out, this time not for the flowers, but for him. His fingers brushed lightly against Mok’s wrist. Not possessive. Just there. A quiet anchor. His thumb hovered over Mok’s pulse as if checking whether it was steady.
“Next time,” Rome murmured, “let me at least send a bigger bouquet.”
His voice dipped softer at the end, almost teasing, but his eyes gave him away. He wanted to be part of it. Even if just a little. Even if it meant something as small as flowers in a corner with his name attached.
Mok let out a quiet laugh, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. The tension in his shoulders eased.
“You already send too many.”
He remembered every single one. The ridiculous sizes. The rare imports. The ones that arrived at inconvenient hours with Alof standing behind them like a silent delivery service.
“I’ll send more.” Rome didn’t hesitate. He said it like a promise. Like escalation was the only option he knew.
“Rome.” Mok shot him a look. Half warning. Half fond exasperation. He knew that tone. That was the tone that meant trouble disguised as romance.
“What?” Rome replied, almost defensively, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I own farms.”
That earned him an eye roll. Of course he did.
Silence settled again, softer now. Comfortable. Outside, the city lights flickered on one by one.
“Are you happy?” Rome asked suddenly, his voice low, careful, like testing the waters before stepping in.
Mok didn’t answer right away. He let his eyes drift over the shop—over the preserved flowers, each one captured in time, over the clean counters, the little gold-etched sign by the entrance bearing his chosen name. Every detail whispered of the hours he’d poured into this space, the pride and sweat and stubbornness that made it his.
Then he looked back at Rome.
“Yes,” he said honestly, voice steady, carrying the quiet weight of truth.
Rome nodded once, slow, deliberate, like he was committing that answer to memory, storing it in some secret ledger only he could read.
“Good,” he replied simply.
And for the first time that night, Mok realized something he hadn’t before. Rome hadn’t come late because he didn’t care. He had come late because he refused to let the shadow he carried—the danger, the weight, the chaos—fall over something that was finally, completely, Mok’s.
The silence that settled between them didn’t feel heavy anymore. It was suspended, delicate, like something fragile hung there, waiting to be touched.
Rome’s hand remained loosely around Mok’s wrist, warm, grounding. He hadn’t let go.
“For how long?” Mok asked after a moment, voice calm but careful, as if measuring each word.
“A week. Maybe two,” Rome replied, steady, but the uncertainty behind the “maybe” hung in the air heavier than he probably intended.
Mok nodded once, practical, composed. He had lived with that answer before—years of maybes, estimates, timelines penciled in and erased, all of them revolving around Rome.
Rome studied his face, eyes dark and searching. “You’re not asking me to stay.”
Mok met his gaze evenly. “Can you?”
A beat stretched between them.
“No,” Rome said finally, quiet but firm.
“Then what’s the point of asking?” Mok murmured, voice low, almost resigned.
Rome exhaled softly, thumb brushing once against Mok’s pulse before he seemed to realize what he was doing, as if even the smallest touch carried too much weight.
“I don’t like this,” Rome admitted, voice low, almost roughened by frustration. It wasn’t anger, just that dangerous, rare honesty that made Mok’s chest tighten.
“What?” Mok asked, voice low, cautious, trying to catch the weight behind Rome’s words.
“This.” Rome gestured vaguely between them, dark eyes fixed on Mok. “Half sentences. Half time. Always leaving.”
Mok’s chest tightened, the familiar ache of years past curling through him.
“You think I do?” he asked quietly, almost a whisper, his own voice carrying the sharp edge of long-held frustration.
The shop suddenly felt smaller, walls closing in just slightly, air thicker with unsaid words and tension.
“I asked you that night,” Rome continued, voice low, steady, the memory pressing into the present. “At P'Kian's wedding.”
“I remember,” Mok replied, short and clipped, though the ghost of that night lingered in his chest.
“I didn’t get an answer,” Rome said, voice roughening, a subtle vulnerability threading through his usual control.
“You got a gunshot and a phone call,” Mok pointed out, trying to temper the moment with dry practicality, though his pulse betrayed him.
“That’s not the same,” Rome said, a quiet edge in his tone.
Mok gently pulled his wrist from Rome’s grasp, not to push him away, just to carve a little space, to think, to breathe.
“You asked me to be with you,” Mok said softly, voice steady now, “and then you left.”
“I had to,” Rome admitted, the weight of duty threading through every word.
“I know,” Mok replied, quiet, understanding, the words carrying more than agreement, they held forgiveness, patience, and the years they had survived apart.
They both did.
Rome ran a hand through his hair, frustration flashing briefly across his face. “I don’t want this to be something undefined. I don’t want you introducing me as ‘the mafia boss who sends too many flowers.’”
A corner of Mok’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That’s very specific.”
“You know what I mean.”
Mok did.
He leaned back lightly against the counter, folding his arms. He looked at Rome the way he used to look at a target. Assessing. Careful. Except this wasn’t about threat levels. It was about risk of a different kind.
“You’re asking for a label,” Mok said.
“I’m asking for you,” Rome replied with no hesitation nor arrogance. Just truth.
Mok’s heartbeat picked up. Annoying.
“You already have me,” he said softly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Rome stepped closer again. Close enough that Mok could feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar.
“I don’t want to guess where I stand,” Rome said. “I don’t want you guessing either.”
Mok searched his face. This wasn’t a mafia negotiation. There was no upper hand here. No strategy.
Just two idiots who had circled each other for years.
“You stand,” Mok said slowly, “right here. In my shop. After waiting outside like some dramatic movie lead. That’s where you stand.”
Rome’s lips twitched. “That’s still not a label.”
Mok inhaled.
He thought about the years. The flowers. The late night calls. The way Rome always stood slightly in front of him when danger approached, even when Mok was perfectly capable of handling it himself. The way Rome had stayed away today just to protect something Mok built.
He pushed off the counter and stepped fully into Rome’s space.
“You’re mine,” Mok said quietly.
Rome went still.
“And I’m yours,” Mok continued, steady now. “Not half. Not maybe. Not when it’s convenient.”
Rome’s jaw tightened slightly, like he was holding something back.
“Say it properly,” Rome murmured, voice low, a little teasing but edged with something heavier-urgency, need, patience.
Mok rolled his eyes, exasperated but not really annoyed. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Say it,” Rome pressed, voice firmer this time, dark and insistent.
Mok stared at him for a long moment, letting the weight of the space between them settle. Then, slower, deliberate, he let the words out, steady and clear.
“You’re my boyfriend.”
The word hung in the air, almost absurd in its simplicity. Almost ridiculous after everything—the fights, the silence, the years circling each other in half-truths and missed chances.
Rome’s expression softened, shifted. Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just… relief, quiet and contained, something Mok rarely saw.
“Boyfriend,” Rome repeated, tasting the word, letting it settle over them.
“Yes. Don’t make it weird,” Mok muttered, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite himself.
Rome let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh restrained by the careful control he always carried. His hands slid to Mok’s waist, firm but gentle, grounding him.
“Then you’re my boyfriend,” Rome said finally, low and certain. “Officially.”
Mok’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with danger, and everything to do with finally closing the circle they’d been spinning around for years.
Mok snorted lightly. “What, were we unofficially terrorizing each other before?”
“Yes.”
“That tracks.”
Rome leaned his forehead gently against Mok’s. No rush. No urgency. Just closeness.
The shop was quiet now, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound between them, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of roses and lavender. Rome’s forehead rested lightly against Mok’s, warm and grounding. The tension that had lingered for years—the distance, the absences, the unanswered questions—had dissolved into something softer, intimate, real.
“I’ll try to come back sooner,” Rome murmured, voice low, almost hesitant.
Mok tilted his head slightly, brushing his nose against Rome’s. “Don’t get yourself killed trying to impress me,” he teased lightly, though his chest thumped harder than he wanted to admit.
“I would never,” Rome said, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
“You absolutely would,” Mok countered, eyes narrowing playfully, though his heart betrayed him with every glance.
Rome’s smile softened into something warmer, more private. “Maybe,” he murmured, and it wasn’t defiance this time. It was vulnerability.
Mok let a small laugh escape, then leaned forward before either of them could overthink it. His lips brushed against Rome’s, tentative at first, testing. Rome didn’t hesitate. His hand rose to cradle the back of Mok’s neck, fingers threading through his hair. Mok pressed closer, letting the day, the week, the months of distance, melt into that single touch.
The kiss deepened slowly, deliberately. Rome’s other hand found its way to Mok’s waist, steadying him, anchoring him in the moment. Mok felt the warmth, the strength, the quiet intensity of Rome, and realized how much he had missed this, how much he had needed it without admitting it.
When they finally parted, just enough to catch their breath, Mok’s forehead rested against Rome’s again. His lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Next time,” he murmured softly, “I’ll save you a bouquet.”
Rome chuckled, the sound low and content. “Next time, I’ll be there to steal it from you.”
Mok rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push him away. He let Rome stay close, letting himself savor the moment, the smell of flowers and the faint scent of Rome’s cologne mixing together. For the first time in months, maybe years, the world outside the shop didn’t matter. The cartels, the business, the danger—it could wait.
Here, now, in the quiet glow of his flower shop, under the soft lighting that made petals gleam like gems, Mok realized something simple and undeniable.
He was home.
And Rome, with all his danger and charm, was finally here too.
—END