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azureasterart · 2 months ago

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Second post 👉👈 kinda nervous

didn't expect it to be this long tbh, but I love this man.

(no, you did not saw me repost this. stop I was editing it 👹)

btw, I hope y'all enjoy this :) I'll open req after posting this! please check my pinned post! now I shall go and rest because of my fingers.

credit!

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ᛝ Stillbloom 𓇬⠀˖⠀𓂃⠀

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ Casper (from adwd) x GN!Reader

Summary :

You always saw him. Passed by him. Thought nothing of it.

Just a man in black—sometimes with a bouquet, sometimes with a book, often with nothing at all. But life has a way of placing people in your path, again and again, until you finally stop and look. And the worst part—maybe the best part—is that he ended up being the love of your life.

The morning was still shaking off its sleep. Dew clung to every leaf, and the light filtering through the tall library windows made everything look quieter than it was. You were halfway through shelving a cart of returned books—romance novels, mostly—when you heard the bell chime.

Someone had come in.

Not a regular. You knew that just by the weight of his steps—slow, purposeful, like he was walking somewhere sacred. You glanced over your shoulder.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in layers of black. His white snow-like hair was tied half-up, neat but unbothered, and his gloves were still on. He stood in the doorway for a second too long before stepping inside like the room might reject him.

He didn’t notice you right away. He was holding a sticky note. Reading it like it might change if he blinked too fast.

You approached carefully.

“Can I help you find something?” you asked.

His eyes met yours—vivid red, a strange color to see in such a gentle place. But they weren’t cold. Just… alert.

“I’m looking for something called Lysimachia vulgaris,” he said, holding out the note like a peace offering. “I don’t know what section it would be in. Or if that’s even a real word.”

You smiled. “It is. It’s a flower. Yellow loosestrife.”

“…Oh.”

You tilted your head, trying not to smile.

“Sorry, but… why come to a library for a flower?”

He blinked.

“…Is that strange?”

You let out a quiet laugh, not mean—just surprised. “A little. Most people just google things now.”

He looked at the sticky note again like it had betrayed him. “I thought it would be in a book.”

You smiled wider this time. “Well, it is. You’re not wrong.”

He paused, looking down at the note again. Then, almost sheepish, “Someone told me it meant patience. Thought I’d read about it.”

You turned and gestured for him to follow. “Come on. Botany’s this way. Let’s find your flower.”

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You led him toward the botany section tucked in the back. He didn’t speak as you walked. Just followed, footsteps quiet, but present.

When you handed him a book—Floriography and the Language of Flowers—he took it with both hands. Deliberate. Gentle.

“…Thank you,” he said softly.

You nodded, but he didn’t leave.

Instead, he looked around the aisle. Then back at you.

“This place smells… calming.”

You blinked. “Old paper?”

He tilted his head, then nodded once. “Yes. It’s nice.”

And just like that, he sat on the floor between shelves, legs tucked neatly beside him, and opened the book in silence.

You left him there, shelving another book.

Just another quiet customer.

You didn’t think much of it.

Not yet.

The rain was light—soft enough not to bother with an umbrella, the kind that clung to your sleeves but never really soaked through.

You ducked into the café mostly out of habit. The windows were fogged around the edges, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk like a slow exhale. Morning jazz hummed through the speakers, paired with the faint smell of something sweet and cinnamon-heavy.

There were only a few people in line. A man in black had just stepped away from the counter, his drink already in hand. His coat looked vaguely familiar.

You glanced over as he sat near the window.

Sure enough—it was him.

The same guy from the library.

Hair half-tied. Black gloves. That quiet stillness that made him look like he was waiting for something, even when he wasn’t.

He set his drink down and pulled a book from his bag.

Not a new one.

A borrowed one.

Floriography and the Language of Flowers.

From the library.

You blinked.

‘Huh. So he really did check it out.’

You didn’t dwell on it. There were other libraries around. Other copies. Whatever.

You just shrugged a little and stepped forward when the customer ahead of you finished.

The barista greeted you with a practiced smile. You gave your order and glanced out the window again while they prepped your drink.

He stayed focused on his book, resting one hand on the edge of the table while the other turned a page like it didn’t matter how long it took.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t check his phone. Didn’t notice you.

And you didn’t expect him to.

Your drink was called out, and you stepped forward to take it, warm paper against your fingertips.

That was it.

You just pushed the door open and slipped back outside, the morning air brushing against your skin like a sigh. Then you walked across the street, back toward the library.

He was just a guy you saw twice.

Nothing more.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You didn’t expect to see him again. But he came back.

Not the next day. Not even the same week.

But slowly—he returned.

First once, asking where the botany shelf had moved.

Then again, looking for something “more in-depth” about wildflowers.

Then another time, requesting a book on pressed blossoms, adding—without looking up—“It’s not for me.”

You didn’t question it.

He always brought back the books on time. Treated them gently. And eventually, you just stopped pretending to be surprised when he showed up.

Sometimes he borrowed more than one. Usually about flowers, sometimes about meanings. Once, a romance novel tucked in between nonfiction.

When you checked it in, the spine had barely creased.

You didn’t mention it.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It was about the fifth or sixth time that you finally asked:

“You come here a lot.”

He glanced up, one gloved hand sliding a library card across the desk.

His expression didn’t shift. “Do I?”

You smiled. “For someone who claims they’re borrowing these for friends, you sure read through the margins.”

He paused. Then, maybe the slightest twitch of his mouth. “You noticed.”

You stamped the book. “Hard not to.”

You handed it back. “What should I call you, anyway?”

He looked at you properly then—like he hadn’t realized you’d been watching this whole time. Or maybe just hadn’t minded.

“Casper.”

Simple. No hesitation.

You nodded once. “Well. See you next week, Casper.”

And you did.

And sometimes—between those weeks—you started seeing him outside the library.

At Stillbloom. the flower shop.

Not every day. But often enough.

Sometimes trimming stems in the front.

Sometimes standing just inside the window, speaking to no one.

Sometimes sweeping, even if there wasn’t anything to clean.

You never stopped to go in. Not yet.

But something about seeing him there made the flower shop feel... less distant.

It was your friend’s graduation that finally brought you to the door.

You weren’t the “gift” type, not really. And you weren’t about to write some cheesy card.

But flowers? Flowers you could do. Quick. Simple. Pretty.

And besides—Stillbloom was on your way home.

You’d passed it more times than you could count.

It always looked the same from the outside: a little fogged up, a little hidden behind planters, like it didn’t really care if you noticed it or not. A wood-framed sign. No specials listed. No flashy colors. Just warm light and a faint, herbal smell that wafted out when the door opened.

You stood outside for a second too long.

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the street still smelled like pavement and wet soil. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and pushed the door open.

The bell chimed.

And there he was.

Casper.

Behind the counter, arranging a small bundle of freesia in a clear jar. His gloves were off today, fingers delicate and quick as he adjusted the stems.

He looked up the moment the door closed behind you.

Recognition flickered across his face—something quiet, but certain.

“...You,” he said.

Not surprised. Just… acknowledging.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he tilted his head slightly.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You glanced around, feigning casual. “Yeah, well… someone graduated. Thought I’d be a decent friend and bring flowers.”

He nodded, returning his attention to the jar.

“Any colors in mind?”

You shrugged. “Not really. Just… something that says ‘congrats, you did it,’ without sounding like I tried too hard.”

That earned you a faint breath of laughter—barely audible, but there.

“I can work with that.”

He moved behind the counter, scanning the buckets of blooms like he was reading a quiet, invisible language. You watched as he selected a few stems without hesitation—nothing overly bright. A soft peach rose. Some ranunculus. A sprig of something green and feathery you couldn’t name.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” you said, mostly to fill the silence.

“I don’t,” he replied. “I own it.”

That made you pause. “Seriously?”

He nodded once. “It’s quiet. Suits me.”

You watched him for a second.

He worked like he read—calm, unhurried, like everything deserved its own moment.

You looked away before he noticed.

He wrapped the bouquet in kraft paper—tucked neatly, not overly decorative. Just enough ribbon to make it feel like a gift without screaming "look at me!"

You reached for your wallet, but he waved you off before you could open it.

“First one’s free,” he said.

You frowned. “What? No. That’s not—”

“I insist.”

You stared. “Is this a loyalty scam?”

He blinked slowly. “It’s good marketing. If you like it, you’ll come back.”

“Sounds manipulative.”

“Only a little,” he said, and for the first time, there was a real smile. Subtle. Barely there. But real.

You held the bouquet in both hands. It smelled like something fresh and soft—sweet without being sugary. Like rain and petals and… something you couldn’t name.

He turned away slightly, already tending to the next arrangement, but paused mid-motion.

“If you want,” he said slowly, not quite looking at you, “I could let you know when a new batch comes in.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Uh… sure?”

He glanced at the notepad near the register. You stepped closer and scrawled your number down, careful not to let your handwriting get too nervous.

He looked at it once, then nodded.

No follow-up.

Just: “Noted.”

You left with the bouquet cradled in your arm and your heart a little out of rhythm.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You left the shop with the bouquet in your arms, warmth still clinging to your fingertips from where the paper was folded.

It didn’t look like much at first glance—just a few well-chosen stems, soft colors, nothing over-the-top—but something about the arrangement felt right. Balanced. Quietly proud.

You handed it to your friend outside the graduation venue, trying to play it cool.

“Congrats, you didn’t crash and burn,” you said, holding it out like it was a pack of napkins instead of something lovely.

They laughed and took it from you—and then paused.

“Wait—where did you get these? These are actually… so pretty.”

You shrugged. “Stillbloom. It’s down the street.”

Their eyes lit up. “Ohhh, that place? I’ve walked past it like a hundred times. It always looks closed.”

You didn’t answer. Just stuck your hands in your pockets again and watched them turn the bouquet slightly, like they were admiring a painting.

A couple photos were taken. A few poses. Nothing fancy.

You didn’t think anything of it.

Until later that night.

Your phone buzzed, and you opened your social media to find your friend had posted a photo of them holding the bouquet—close-up, with the caption:

Graduation flowers real cute today 🌸 shoutout to Stillbloom

You stared at the screen.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered. “I gave you the flowers.”

You weren’t tagged.

But you watched the comments roll in anyway.

wait i’ve been meaning to check that place out??

stillbloom?? where is that?

damn they eat with the colors here ngl.

You blinked.

This wasn’t supposed to be a thing.

It was just a favor. A bouquet.

But the next day, when you passed by the shop on your way home—

Stillbloom had customers.

Not a crowd. But more than you’d ever seen.

Someone walked out with a wrapped bouquet. Another waited inside.

You paused on the sidewalk, watching through the glass as Casper rang someone up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair a little messier than usual.

You didn’t go in.

But you did keep walking with a weird little flutter in your chest, like maybe you’d kicked off something by accident.

You didn’t expect him to text.

Even after giving him your number, you figured he’d forget—or maybe he was the type to write it down on paper and never do anything with it.

But two days after the graduation post went up—around noon, while you were halfway through a reheated lunch—your phone buzzed with an unknown number.

Unknown

Thanks for the unexpected promo.

Also: new tulip batch came in this morning. Pale pink, if you're into subtle drama.

You blinked at the screen, mouth still half-full.

“…Oh,” you muttered. “It’s him.”

You read it again. Calm. Dry. Slightly amused. Exactly the way he spoke.

You replied without thinking:

You

Guess the “first one’s free” strategy worked faster than expected.

As soon as it sent, you opened your contacts and typed in his name.

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

A few minutes passed.

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Apparently it only takes one flower to summon a crowd. I blame you.

You smiled to yourself.

You

That’s fair. I did light the match. You set the whole table on fire with that arrangement.

He responded almost instantly:

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

And here I thought you weren’t the poetic type.

You paused. Then typed:

You

I’m not. Don’t let it go to your head.

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Too late.

Also: I set aside one of the tulips. You seemed the type to ask eventually.

You didn’t reply right away. Just stared at the message for a while, thinking about how his voice had sounded in person—calm, flat, but always certain.

Then.

You

I’m free this weekend, by the way.

Another pause. Then—

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

So am I.

You stared at your phone.

"...Okay," you muttered. "Was that supposed to be flirting?"

Because if it was, it was the most low-effort, straight-faced attempt you’d ever seen. No emoji. No punctuation. Just three flat words, and somehow you were the one spiraling.

You tapped out a response before you could talk yourself out of it:

You

Is this your version of asking to hang out? Because I genuinely can’t tell.

The reply came faster than expected:

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

If it was, would that make you say yes or no?

Oh.

You blinked.

You

...Depends. Would there be coffee involved?

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Possibly.

And conversation. Can’t promise quality, though.

You

How reckless of you to offer that much.

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

You already gave me your number. I assumed you could handle risk.

You couldn’t help the grin forming on your lips. A little too wide for a “just texting” moment.

You

Fine. Sunday?

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Sunday works.

Another pause. You thought that was the end of it.

But then—

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Meet me near the library. Around ten.

There’s a place I like, a block east—corner cafe with the old blue awning.

You’ll see me.

You leaned back against your chair, rereading the messages, trying to remember when the awkward flower guy became this... quietly bold.

And you weren’t even mad about it.

You typed the last one, fingers light on the screen:

You

Alright. You better pick a good table.

His reply was instant:

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Only the one with the best view.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You didn’t expect anything else after that.

But the next morning, he replied to your story.

A blurry photo of the rain through your window, captioned “cozy but loud.”

He sent:

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

Stillbloom’s roof sounds like that when it storms. Loud. Kind of nice.

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

Later that day, you responded to his story—

A picture of a wilted bouquet and a caption that just said: “retired.”

You replied:

You

tragic. you gonna give them a pension or just emotional support.

He reacted with a skull emoji.

Followed by:

Casper (Stillbloom's Owner)

They lived with dignity. R.I.P. Daffodil No. 4

And somehow, that was the beginning.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You started messaging more.

Nothing intense.

Just... steady.

A meme here. A book quote there.

Photos of weird signs. Flowers that reminded you of terrible moods.

Jokes about naming bouquets like action movie sequels.

Sometimes you sent music.

Sometimes he didn’t reply for a while, but he always came back with something that felt like a continuation—not a restart.

It wasn’t constant.

But it was comfortable.

Like maybe you'd already stepped into each other’s routines without realizing it.

So when Sunday came around—

It didn’t feel like a first meeting.

It felt like picking up the thread.

You were at the library.

Because you said you would be.

And because technically, this wasn’t a date.

You just happened to be here. Early. Holding a book you weren’t reading.

Across the table, one of your coworkers from the shop flipped through a romance novel with ruthless speed.

“I’ll give you my Friday night shift,” you said, low and casual.

“Nope.”

“I’ll throw in lunch.”

“No.”

You leaned forward. “I am begging you.”

They barely looked up. “Is this about the flower shop guy?”

You blinked. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You sighed, dropping your forehead to the table.

There was a beat. Then—

“I want coffee. From that café. You know the one. And something with sugar. Maybe two things with sugar.”

You lifted your head just enough to give them a suspicious squint. “One coffee. One pastry. Friday night off.”

They stuck out their hand. “Deal.”

You shook on it.

The sun through the library windows warmed your shoulders.

You told yourself that’s why you were sweating a little.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Outside, the sky was cloudless.

Bright, but not blinding.

That kind of perfect morning where everything feels too well-behaved to be real.

And there he was.

Leaning against the brick wall, a paperback in one hand, his other tucked in the pocket of his coat. The usual sharp calm on his face, softened slightly by the sunlight.

You paused for a second.

Not because you were nervous.

Just because seeing him there—warm light falling over his shoulders like a quiet highlight—made something in your chest go still.

He looked up.

Not surprised. Just... waiting.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

“You ready?”

Casper’s mouth twitched, just barely. “You’re late.”

You raised a brow. “Wasn’t aware we had a schedule.”

“We do now,” he said. “Walk with me.”

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The sidewalk stretched ahead of you, warm from the sun, scattered with soft shadows of tree branches and old signs. You walked side by side, your arms brushing once—accidental. Maybe.

You looked over at him.

“I think you already knew my name the moment you walked into the library.”

Casper didn’t look surprised. He just nodded once.

“The name tag kind of made it obvious.”

You gave him a side-eye. “And you still let me awkwardly figure yours out weeks later?”

“It built suspense.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’ve heard.”

He didn’t explain himself further. And you didn’t press.

Instead, the conversation drifted off—like a thread left hanging, both of you too comfortable to tie it up neatly.

You kept walking.

The talk didn’t stop there, of course.

It shifted—gradually, quietly—from names and flower shops to books, favorite corners of the city, café loyalty cards you always forget to use. His voice was calm, always measured, but he surprised you sometimes. A dry comment that made you laugh too loud. A quiet pause that let you know he was actually listening.

And by the time the café came into view—small, pale blue awning fluttering in the breeze—you realized you’d stopped noticing the silence between you. Because there wasn’t any, not really.

Not anymore.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The place was smaller than you expected—warm wood, white tile, soft jazz crackling out of a speaker behind the counter. A couple of tables were taken, but the far one by the window was still empty.

Casper glanced around, then nodded toward it.

“Good light,” he said, already walking over.

You followed, slipping into the seat across from him. A small vase sat between you, holding a single stem of baby’s breath.

A server came by. You both ordered without looking at each other.

After they left, there was a beat of silence. Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just… two people trying to decide what this was supposed to feel like.

Casper leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting near the edge of the table. His gaze lingered on the window a second before drifting back to you.

“You always this quiet?”

You raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m quiet, or that you expected me to be louder?”

He thought about it. “Maybe both.”

You smiled, resting your elbow on the table. “Well, you’re not exactly a talk show host either.”

“True,” he said, tone dry. “But I did bring you here. Which implies I wanted to hear you talk.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—but nothing came. So instead, you looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The sunlight caught the edge of his lashes, and for a moment, he didn’t look tired or unreadable—just present. Like someone who’d been waiting for this, even if he didn’t say so.

“I still don’t know why you borrowed that book,” you said quietly.

Casper gave the smallest shrug. “Seemed like a good excuse.”

“To?”

“To see if you’d notice.”

You blinked. “That’s not subtle.”

“I didn’t say I was good at subtle.”

And just like that, it felt like something shifted—not a step forward, but a door left open.

The drinks arrived. You both murmured thanks.

He stirred his with a wooden stick, slow, methodical. You held yours between your palms, letting the warmth seep in.

Outside, the world moved—cars passing, people laughing down the block—but in here, time narrowed to the space between your cup and his voice.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You didn’t need to.

You didn’t see him in person for a while after the café.

Two weeks, give or take.

But you talked. Online.

Casper wasn’t a constant texter, but he had a rhythm—

always responded within a few hours, sometimes immediately if you caught him between deliveries.

He’d reply to your stories with simple things:

a “…” under a book cover,

“that looks cursed” under your coworker’s chaotic breakroom lunch,

or a photo of a flower he thought you’d ask about soon.

You never questioned why it was easy to talk to him.

It just was.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Then one day, you ran into him again.

You weren’t looking for him—not really.

You’d just stepped out of the bookstore with something half-read in your bag when you saw him across the street. Stillbloom apron tied around his waist, holding a small wrapped bouquet like it was nothing at all.

He hadn’t seen you.

But your feet moved before your brain did.

“Oh,” he said, when you reached him.

Not startled. Just surprised.

“You do deliveries?” you asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

“Sometimes. For regulars.”

Then: “You looked like you were going to say hi. I’m glad you did.”

You didn’t remember smiling, but you did.

And he did too—barely.

He nodded toward the café next door. “You free?”

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

That was how it started again.

After that, the silence between texts got shorter.

The visits started—once a week at first. Then twice.

By week three of month two, you weren’t making excuses anymore.

No shift? You went to Stillbloom.

Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes with a drink.

Sometimes just to stand near the counter and talk about nothing.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“You’re always there,” your friend said one night, scrolling through their feed.

You didn’t look up from your phone.

“I like the place.”

“The flowers?”

“The atmosphere.”

They hummed like they didn’t believe you. But they didn’t press.

And you kept going back.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You stopped asking if he wanted anything.

By now, you just showed up with it—

A coffee, still warm.

No name on the cup. No receipt.

Just the right one, handed over wordlessly, like a habit.

Casper looked up from where he was cutting twine at the counter.

His hair was a little tousled, like he’d been rushing or maybe hadn’t slept enough.

He didn’t smile exactly, but something gentler passed through his eyes.

“You always remember,” he murmured, taking the cup. His fingers brushed yours—on purpose or not, you couldn’t say. But neither of you moved away quickly.

“You always order it,” you replied.

He gave a small nod toward the back. “Take a break with me?”

You sat near the window.

Stillbloom was quiet today—just you and him.

The sun filtered in slow through the glass, warming the wood floors, softening the green of the potted ferns beside the shelf.

A breeze moved faintly when the front door opened, but no one stepped in.

Casper leaned against the opposite bench seat, one arm slung casually over the back.

He took a sip from his cup. Closed his eyes for a beat.

You watched him. Not for long. Just… long enough.

“I’m not interrupting anything, right?” you asked eventually.

He opened one eye.

“Even if you were,” he said, “I’d make the time.”

You didn’t say anything after that.

Didn’t have to.

Just sat in the easy quiet that had started to follow you both everywhere now.

It wasn’t heavy.

It wasn’t expectant.

It was just… there. Like sunlight through the window. Like the way he never flinched when you showed up, no matter how often.

He handed you a small stem before you left.

A lisianthus this time—lavender-blue, edges gently curled.

“For me?” you asked, playing at teasing, even though your voice came out too soft.

“For the coffee,” he said.

You reached for it, and again—his fingers lingered.

Yours didn’t let go either.

It stayed like that for a second longer than normal.

Maybe two.

Then you both pretended you didn’t notice.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

A week later, you left the bookstore together. Neither of you had planned it—he’d just been there, you’d just been there, and somehow you’d walked out at the same time.

The crosswalk sign blinked green.

He stepped off the curb.

You reached for his hand. Not thinking. Just needing him close.

And he held it.

No hesitation.

Like it had happened before.

Like it belonged there.

The street bustled. People passed by.

No one cared.

But you felt your pulse in your fingers.

Felt how warm his hand was in yours.

After that, it didn’t feel weird to hold hands.

Didn’t feel new.

It just… was.

Sometimes it happened walking to the café.

Sometimes it happened while waiting for a tram.

Your friends were the first to say anything.

Once, while sitting on the curb outside Stillbloom, your hands resting between you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like it had every right to.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“You’re not dating him?” one asked.

You didn’t even glance up from your phone. “No.”

They stared at you. “You’re sure?”

You hesitated. “It’s not like that.”

But even you didn’t sound convinced.

Especially not the next day—when hee passed you your drink, and you noticed a single flower tucked neatly between the cardboard sleeve and the cup—deliberate, but unsaid.

You don’t remember who brought it up first.

Something about a break. Something about doing something not involving dirt or paperbacks or work shifts.

Next thing you knew, you were walking beside him down a sun-warmed path lined with too-loud speakers and overpriced popcorn.

Casper looked a little out of place in the chaos.

But he didn’t complain.

He just walked beside you, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes half-squinting against the bright signs overhead.

“I haven’t been to one of these since…” he trailed off, thinking.

You grinned. “Since you were alive?”

He shot you a look. “Since high school. Barely counts.”

You played games. The kind no one ever really wins.

He beat you at ring toss.

You beat him at darts. Barely.

“You let me win,” you said.

“I didn’t,” he replied, holding out the prize—a cheap, soft plush flower, a bit uneven at the seams. “You just got lucky.”

You took it. The petals brushed your fingers. “Still counts.”

By the time the sky dimmed, the lights were everywhere—golden, flickering, catching on the edges of Casper’s hair as he turned toward the ferris wheel.

“It’s getting crowded,” he murmured, glancing around.

“Want to head out?”

“Not yet.”

You stayed.

The fireworks started just after nine.

You were standing near the rail at the edge of the lake, shoulder to shoulder, eyes tilted toward the burst of red-orange-blue.

You could feel the sound in your chest.

And maybe something else, too.

He didn’t look at you, but you saw his fingers twitch at his side. Just once.

You looked down at your own hand.

Then up again.

Then—

“I have something to say,” you both said.

At the same time.

You blinked.

He laughed under his breath.

“I—” he started.

“No, you go—”

He shook his head. “You first.”

You swallowed.

Looked at the sky. Then at him.

And said it.

“I like you. A lot. I think I’ve liked you since... forever ago, I just—didn’t want to mess it up.”

Silence.

Then his voice—quieter, but certain:

“I’ve liked you since you walked into my shop with coffee and didn’t even flinch at the mess.”

You blinked.

He added, “And… I wanted to say it before this felt too late.”

You stared at each other.

The sky behind him was full of gold.

Then—

You reached for his hand.

Fingers threaded. Palms warm.

He didn’t pull away.

Did you kiss?

...Maybe.

Or maybe the fireworks were enough for now.

But the way he looked at you said everything else.

Bonus!!

The movie was still playing, but you’d stopped paying attention ten minutes ago.

Something about spies. Or maybe space? You couldn’t remember.

Casper had stretched out beside you on the couch—at first polite, not touching, just close enough to feel the warmth of him. Then little shifts started happening. A nudge at your arm. His hand brushing yours when he reached for the remote. The way your knees fit together.

Now, he was halfway on top of you—head resting against your chest, one leg draped lazily across yours, like he’d just melted into place and never planned to move again.

You weren’t complaining.

Your hand rested lightly on his back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes through the fabric of his shirt.

“This movie’s awful,” you murmured.

He gave a faint hum, muffled against you. “I wasn’t watching it.”

“Oh?”

His voice was low. “I was watching you.”

You froze—just for a second.

Then your fingers curled gently into the cotton near his shoulder.

He didn’t move, just shifted slightly, like he was getting even more comfortable, like he belonged there. Like he always had.

“You do that a lot?” you asked. “Watch me?”

He tilted his head just enough to look at you.

The lights from the screen flickered across his eyes—blue, then gold, then soft.

“Only when you’re not looking,” he said.

You didn’t say anything to that.

What was there to say?

The room was warm.

His weight on you felt real. Solid. Familiar.

And the movie kept playing.

Your hand was still on his back, tracing idle shapes you weren’t even aware of anymore.

Casper had gone quiet again, cheek pressed against your chest, eyes half-closed. You assumed he’d drifted, the way he sometimes did—just paused, like the world didn’t require him to keep moving.

But then—

He moved. Subtle. Intentional.

One arm curled tighter under your shoulders, the other pressing against the back of the couch, caging you in.

You blinked.

“Casper?”

He lifted his head. Just a little. Just enough.

Your breath caught.

He was above you now, face hovering closer than before, one knee between your legs on the cushion, the other bracing him beside your hip. His weight didn’t crush, but grounded you. The kind of pressure that said stay.

Your brain short-circuited. Completely.

‘Oh he’s leaning in? He’s LITERALLY—HELLO? HELLO?EXCUSE ME, WE'RE HERE TO WATCH MOVIES BTW.’

His forehead gently bumped yours.

Then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not forceful.

Soft. Careful.

Almost like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You didn’t. Couldn’t.

Your heart forgot its job.

Time unraveled.

When he pulled back, just a little, you were still catching up.

And he—

He took your hand.

Lifted it.

Pressed it to his cheek.

His skin was warm.

He closed his eyes, then leaned in—not to kiss you again, but to tuck his head into your shoulder. Hiding.

Like all the bravery it took to kiss you had drained him dry, and now he needed cover.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even breathe, for a moment.

Then—gently—you brought your hand up.

Not to his cheek this time, but to his head.

Your fingers slid through his hair—soft and slightly messy—before you gave the lightest, most careful pat.

Once.

Then again.

A small rhythm.

Affection in its purest, wordless form.

He didn’t react right away.

But then he exhaled—deep and quiet—like whatever he'd been holding in all day finally let go.

And you stayed like that.

Him curled into you.

Your hand resting in his hair.

The movie still playing to no one at all.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Yaay!! it's the end :3 did I cook? (stop, I didn't realize that I already use 10 images here). OKAY BYE BYE!!

#Bonus part I gonna make me lose it actually #Ohhh I need dreams like the bonus part of this fic #This was sweet

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