Word Vomit - One-Shot Book

2) Special Delivery

A Man who delivers flowers vs. A homebody who gets a delivery on Valentine's Day

#fluff #sweet #unlikelyfriendship #friendstolovers #valentinesday

February 14th, 1:37pm

Valentine's day is Antwan's favorite day of the year. Orders come flooding in, the tips are magnificent, and the extra money makes his boss less nitpicky than usual.

Other than that, Valentine's day is the worst. Because Antwan was single. And all the extra orders were the worst reminder.

As a flower delivery man, Antwan saw three types of people every day. Women gushing to receive a gift from their partners, families mourning over lost loved ones, and receptionists accepting flowers that just had to be delivered to a corporate building. It was monotonous and tiring. Antwan's feet ached from so much walking. His fingers were constantly blistered from thorns and damp flower stems.

Yet the best and worst part of his day was when he placed a bouquet directly into someone else's hands. There was always a moment of confusion–people who receive flowers usually don't expect them. Then shock. And finally, the joy. Antwan was painfully single. Has been for too long to count. But he enjoyed giving flowers to lovers. There was a special expression that came over someone's face when they got such a timeless expression of love.

Antwan anticipated that same reaction as he jogged up to this next house. He'd sneaked a glance at the message tucked into the flowers before getting out of the truck.

You are beautiful. You are incredible. You are loved.

The phrasing was incredibly romantic. Just another example of people getting more poetic with the messages these days. But in this economy, buying flowers was a sure fire way to find all the hopeless romantics.

Whoever lived in this small gray house wasn't quick about answering the door. Dark brown fingers fiddled with the buttons on his all black jumpsuit as he waited. It was the standard work uniform. The silver rings and matching studs were the only customization he got away with.

Finally, a young man opened the door. He looked Indian, or at least South Asian. A strong jaw, full lips, and large dark eyes caught Antwan's attention. Then he saw the stray hairs tugged out from his man bun, the faded band t-shirt (Nirvana?), and the complementary pajama pants. He was handsome, tired, and caught completely off guard.

"Flower delivery, sir," Antwan recited robotically. He handed the shorter man the bouquet. Steps 1 and 2 complete, just like usual.

But something went wrong. The confusion came first, like it always does. But there was no shock.

No joy.

In an instant, the young man's face scrunched up. Thick brows drew together, almost as if he were in pain. He gripped the bouquet tightly between smooth, unblemished hands. Antwan's curiosity spiked.

Who was the woman who got him the flowers and how did she get him this upset? No, it was a man. A man got him these flowers.

If Antwan looked past the guy's bare, brown feet and snoopy pants, he could see gay men's pride flags sticking out the flower pots.

The young man trailed a finger over the flower petals, sighing heavily. It was like he forgot Antwan was even there. He was just frowning at those flowers, mouth turned all the way upside down.

"I'm sorry, sir. Are you okay?" Antwan asked. When the man made eye contact with him for the second time that day, he regretted asking. Those dark eyes were too honest, too sad. The stare made him uneasy and Antwan scratched underneath his locs awkwardly.