Raze sat at the wide wooden table in art class, his smock already dusted with charcoal and streaks of dried acrylic from earlier projects. A ragged old button-up—splattered with paint stains in every color imaginable—hung loosely over his T-shirt, sleeves rolled up so he wouldn't drag them through his sketch. Typical art class armor: clothes he didn't care about, but that carried a quiet badge of hours spent making.
The pencil in his hand moved lazily over the page, more absent-minded scratches than actual form. His thoughts had drifted again—back to Raxian.
AkarisLite had invited him to a Discord call. That alone was suspicious enough to light up Raze's "shipping radar." He could already picture Raxian, stiff and defensive, sitting there in voice chat while AkarisLite poked at him. Yet Rax never texted him back about it. Which meant something must've gone down.
Raze had checked: Raxian was still grinding games, still online, so clearly the world hadn't ended. Maybe… maybe it had actually gone well? He could almost laugh at the idea.
His daydream got cut short when someone dropped into the seat beside him. Jules.
"Yo, Raze," Jules said, pulling his own sketchbook free from a messy satchel. His hair was a bit too long, always falling into his eyes, and his black hoodie had paint smudges across the front like he'd wrestled a canvas. "Wanna grab drinks later? I know it's Wednesday, but screw it—midweek's basically Friday if you squint."
Raze smirked, flicking his pencil onto the desk with a soft clatter. "Sign me up. Always down for a fake Friday."
---
Outside the bar, Raze and Jules met up with a couple of classmates who tagged along, laughter spilling out into the street with the faint chill of the midweek night. The place wasn't anything fancy—just their usual spot, tucked between a laundromat and a corner store—but the glow of the neon sign felt like home.
When they stepped in, the smell of old wood and hops wrapped around them, warm and familiar.
Behind the counter stood Elias, the bartender. A man in his forties, tall and slender with a sharp frame that still carried a quiet dignity. His hair had gone salt-and-pepper early, the streaks of silver catching the dim bar lights, and his dark eyes always seemed to weigh more than he let on.
Raze once called him "a man in his best years"—and meant it. A widower, Elias had lost his wife years ago in an accident. Since then, he had become both father and mother to two young kids, splitting his time between raising them and working nights at the bar to keep the bills paid.
Raze had nothing but mad respect for that.
Elias wasn't the kind of guy to mope; instead, he had this steady wisdom about him, a way of carrying grief like it had reshaped him without breaking him. Whenever Raze or Jules came in, Elias greeted them with a wry grin and some dry joke, but if you lingered long enough at the counter, he'd occasionally drop a line of advice that stuck with you for days.
Tonight was no different.
"Look who decided Wednesday is Friday again," Elias said as they slid onto the stools. His voice had that smooth, low cadence that could make even a scolding sound like comfort.
"Guilty," Raze replied, smirking. "Pour us the usual, hero."
Elias only shook his head, chuckling under his breath as he grabbed glasses. "Hero, huh? If only my kids would call me that instead of 'dad, you're embarrassing.'"
"Trust me," Jules said, leaning an elbow on the counter, "they'll figure it out one day."
Raze gave a small nod. He already knew Elias didn't need the reminder. He was already doing more than most people ever could.
---
The time at the bar flew by in a jiffy. Laughter, clinking glasses, dumb stories retold for the hundredth time—it all blurred together until the clock on the wall quietly ticked past midnight. One by one, people began filing out, tossing half-hearted waves and goodnights over their shoulders.
Jules was the first of their crew to call it. "I've got an early class," he announced as he stood, stretching his arms over his head. "Well… early-ish." He glanced at the neon glow outside. "Guess after midnight still counts."
"Early for Jules," Raze muttered with a smirk, earning a laugh.
---
Then it was just him.
Raze stayed planted at the bar. No class until the afternoon meant no reason to hurry. The music was softer now, the crowd thinned, and he liked the quiet hum of Elias tidying up, the scrape of bottles sliding back into place.
Except… the quiet caught up with him. Somewhere between one glass and the next, the weight of the day—hell, the week—pulled him under. He didn't even notice it happening.
When he stirred again, Elias was leaning across the counter, voice steady. "Hey. Closing time, kid."
Raze blinked blearily, forehead still pressed against the crook of his arm. "Right, right…" he muttered, trying to push himself upright. His body disagreed, legs wobbling the second he stood.
Elias caught the sight with that patient, fatherly disapproval of his. He couldn't leave the bar, but there was no way in hell he was letting Raze stumble out like that.
"You want me to call someone?" Elias asked, already pulling a phone out of his pocket.
Raze shook his head, squinting stubbornly. "Nah, I'm fine. Just a walk, I'm good."
He was not good.
---
The night air hit him like a bucket of cold water, at first helping clear his head. He took it as proof he was fine. But the streets were quieter than he liked, and each step felt heavier than the last. His balance was off, his mind a fog.
By the time he reached the bench on the corner, the decision wasn't really his. His body folded into the wood slats, his head drooping forward, breaths uneven.
There, under the dim glow of a streetlight, Raze slumbered down, swallowed by the city's silence.
---
Raze stirred at the sound of a voice cutting through the haze of sleep.
"Hey… you alive there?"
His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open. At first, the world was soft and shapeless, colors bleeding into each other like wet paint. Slowly, it sharpened. The first thing he registered was the pale morning light spilling across the street, washing the world in muted golds and silvers. The second was the figure standing in front of him.
A girl.
Her white bob glinted faintly in the dawn light, like frost catching on glass. Blue eyes—clear, steady—watched him with an unreadable mix of curiosity and concern. She wore a coat buttoned neatly at the front, her hands tucked into its pockets against the lingering morning chill.
Raze blinked, disoriented, his head pounding from last night's drinks. He sat up slowly, the cold metal of the bench pressing against his back where he'd been slumped.
"Huh…" Raze mumbled, his voice gravelly. He blinked, rubbed at his face, trying to chase away the grogginess. The dull throb in his head reminded him he probably wasn't entirely sober yet—alcohol still coursing sluggishly through his veins. His body felt heavy, uncooperative, like someone had slipped weights into his limbs while he slept.
When he sat up, he realized he'd been sprawled across the bench like some washed-up drifter, head tipped back, legs stretched out, jacket half-unzipped. Smooth move. Real classy. He tugged his coat tighter out of reflex.
His brain scrambled to piece things together: art class, Jules dragging him out for drinks, Elias pouring shots, laughter, noise—then… nothing. Just blank spots and the vague memory of cold air.
"Goddammit," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Did my drunk ass really think sleeping here was a good idea?"
Classic. Absolutely classic. He hadn't pulled a stunt like that since his younger years, back when passing out on benches was practically a hobby. Some part of him thought he'd grown out of that. Guess not.
Panic flickered for a second. He patted down his pockets. Wallet—still there. Phone—still there. Relief flooded through him. "Huh. Guess I didn't get robbed. Small miracle."
He looked back up at the girl, still half-squinting against the morning light. She was standing close enough now that he could see the faint blush of cold across her cheeks. She didn't seem threatening. Just… steady. Watching him like she was waiting for him to get his act together.
"…Do I know you?" he asked, his voice rough, the words still slightly slurred.
The girl tilted her head, then gave a small shake of it. "No. I'm opening the shop today," she said, her voice calm, almost delicate. She motioned with a gloved hand over her shoulder to the storefront behind her. The sign above the glass door read Edelweiss & Ivy. "I noticed you were… passed out here."
Raze blinked up at the flowershop, the name taking a second to sink in. A flowershop…? He hadn't even registered it last night—too drunk, too careless. The realization hit him like a delayed punch of embarrassment. Great. Of all the places to crash, he'd picked the bench outside a florist's.
"…Right. That's… classy," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
The girl's lips quirked slightly—though whether it was a smile or just the shadow of one, he couldn't tell. "You look like you could use something warm. Coffee? Or tea, if you prefer. I was going to make some anyway."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, not pitying, but it still threw him off balance. He blinked, then gave a weak laugh. "Guess you're not kicking me out, huh?"
She only shrugged lightly. "It's cold. Better inside than out here."
For a second, he just sat there, weighing his pride against the dull ache in his head and the stiffness in his back. Then he sighed, pushing himself forward. "Yeah… I could use a coffee."
Getting up was a struggle—his legs felt heavy, his body not fully caught up to his brain yet. He swayed once, caught himself, then stood upright with an exaggerated steadiness. "See? Fine."
"Mm," was all she said, already unlocking the shop door.
He followed, still embarrassed, still half-hungover—but grateful, too, in a way he wasn't about to admit out loud.
---
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as Raze stepped inside. The air was different here—humid, fragrant, alive. He blinked a few times, still fighting the sluggish haze of the hangover.
"Just wait here," Fayne said, her voice calm but firm. She hung her coat on a wall hook, then turned back to him. "I'll put something warm on. Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee, thanks," he replied without much thought, his voice gravelly.
She gave a small nod, then disappeared behind a half-open door leading to the staff kitchen.
Left alone, Raze slowly took in his surroundings. The shop was cozy, smaller than he expected, but inviting in a way that made him relax despite himself. The walls were painted a soft, mossy green, the kind of color that felt steady and grounding. Wooden shelves lined the room, dark brown against the green, stacked with potted plants, bouquets in glass vases, and neat rows of small succulents. The floor was polished wood too, worn in places but well-kept, and it creaked gently under his weight when he shifted on his feet.
It smelled like soil after rain, mixed with faint sweetness from lilies and roses. A place that felt alive, even this early in the morning.
When Fayne returned, she carried two steaming mugs. She placed the coffee in his hands—hot enough to sting his palms through the ceramic, but grounding. She sipped her tea quietly, then set it down on the counter beside a neat stack of florist's ribbon.
Raze raised the mug to his lips. One sip told him she knew what she was doing. Not too bitter, not too watery. Just… good. He glanced at her over the rim of the cup. "You don't strike me as a coffee drinker, but this is solid. Thanks."
She gave a faint smile, brushing a strand of white hair back behind her ear. "It's my mom's shop. I pick things up." She began moving with easy rhythm, untying a bundle of fresh stems, trimming them with quick snips, arranging them into neat jars of water. Her movements were practiced, patient.
Raze leaned against the counter, cradling the mug. "So you work here full-time?"
"Part-time." She didn't look up, focused on her hands. "Mornings before school. My mom takes over after I leave."
That made him pause. He studied her again, the white bob, the steady blue eyes, the way she moved. She looked like she should still be in high school—and apparently, she was. "Wait… so you're still a student?"
"Mm." She tied a ribbon around a bouquet, neat and clean. "Classes start later. I open the shop for her first thing, and she covers for me when it's time to go."
Raze sat back a little, feeling a tug of something he couldn't quite place—impressed, maybe, mixed with embarrassment. She looked… responsible, grounded. Like she had her act together. Meanwhile, he'd just woken up on a public bench outside her shop with last night's alcohol still clinging to him.
"…Right," he muttered, scratching at his jaw. "Guess you've already got me beat in the whole 'being a responsible adult' department."
She gave the faintest hum in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and went back to her flowers.
Raze took another sip of the coffee, sinking into the warmth of it, the smell of the shop wrapping around him. Shame or not, he had to admit—it was a hell of a better place to wake up than the bench outside.
Then it hit him. The white hair was rare enough, but more than that—it was the way she carried herself. Quiet, composed, almost… deliberate.
"You're Fayne, aren't you?" he blurted, before he could stop himself.
She froze mid-step, the teacup in her hand pausing just short of the counter. Her brows knit slightly. "...How do you know my name?" Her voice wasn't accusing—just wary, like she was weighing him.
Raze realized how that must've sounded. He straightened in his seat, lifting his hands a little in apology. "Sorry, that came out weird. I just—uh—" he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know Raxian, right? Same class? I'm… an old friend of his. He's mentioned you a couple of times."
Fayne blinked at him, still guarded, but the tension in her shoulders eased a little. "Oh. I see."
"Only good things," Raze added quickly, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
That earned the faintest shift in her expression—something between curiosity and the ghost of a smile. "…Alright," she murmured, turning back to her work.
---
Raze realized a beat too late that he hadn't even given his name. "Raze," he said, tipping his chin a little, like it explained everything.
Fayne gave the smallest nod, storing it away without fuss.
The bell above the door jingled then, a customer wandering in. Fayne automatically turned to greet them, her tone shifting into that polite, steady rhythm she'd probably done a hundred times before.
Raze set his mug down on the counter with a quiet clink, sliding it just enough out of the way. "Looks like that's my cue," he said, voice low, easy. "Thanks for the coffee. And for letting me hang out here."
Fayne looked back just briefly, giving him the same small, even nod. "You're welcome."
He smirked, lifting a hand in a lazy half-wave as he headed out. "I'll see you around, Fayne."
The bell chimed again as he pushed the door open, morning air rushing in. He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets, stepping onto the street without looking back, the earthy warmth of the shop fading behind him.
---
As the door swung shut and Raze disappeared into the street, Fayne stood still for a moment, staring after him. A friend of Raxian's… The world was small, wasn't it?
Her eyes lowered to the counter where his half-empty mug rested, steam fading into the air. Good things, he'd said.
But she and Raxian had never really gotten along. Not exactly enemies, not exactly friends. Just… different. She was quiet, careful, and he—well, he was Raxian.
Still, Raze had said it with such ease, such certainty. Maybe there was something there she hadn't seen.
Fayne brushed the thought aside with a small breath, picking up her mug and returning to her routine. But somewhere in the back of her mind, the words lingered, like the faint warmth of the tea in her hands.