brownetry

[brownetry]

MASTERLIST

BOYNEXTDOOR

twisted roots, tangled heart ─ h taesan x f!

june never ends ─ h taesan x f!

white lilies at 3:46 ─ h taesan x f!

⭐ more. [ coming soon ]

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

Twisted Roots, Tangled Hearts ─ ㅤ۪ㅤ🪷ㅤֹ

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Summary : a school trip turns into a nightmare when you and your sworn enemy, Taesan, fall into a hidden jungle pit and discover a horrifying underground secret. What starts as pranks and bickering turns into a fight for your lives and something neither of you expected to feel for each other

Warnings : graphic violence, blood/injury, underground cult, threat of cannibalism, kidnapping, fire, near-death experiences, survival themes, mild horror elements, trauma response, panic, enemies-to-lovers dynamic, mutual pining, eventual fluff

“Why do I feel like this is some sick joke from the universe?”

You stood at the edge of the jungle, arms crossed, lips curled in disgust as you glared at the laminated clipboard in your hand. It was crinkled from your aggressive grip, the printed list of student pairings glaring back at you like a bad omen.

Group 5: Y/N & Han Taesan

Your mortal enemy. The bane of your school existence. The boy who once filled your locker with crickets because you called his sneakers “budget clown shoes.” The boy who constantly flicked spit balls at you during assembly and blamed you for the science lab catching fire (okay, you did unplug his experiment, but he started it by stealing your notes).

And now—because the teachers decided a ‘team-building survival challenge’ in the jungle would be good bonding practice—you were paired with him.

Taesan swaggered up beside you, already smirking. “Aw, don’t look so sad, princess. I promise I’ll make this the best romantic getaway of your life.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “If by romantic you mean getting lost in the wild and dying from mosquito bites, then yes. Dream vacation.”

“You’re just mad I look better in hiking boots than you.”

You glanced down at his boots, mud already caked on the sides, laces undone.

“They’re literally untied, Tarzan.”

He bent down, pretending to tie them while whispering, “Still cleaner than your attitude.”

The jungle air was thick and sticky as the two of you hiked deeper in. Other students branched off with their assigned missions—map-reading, trail-marking, bird calls—but you and Taesan got the classic jungle maze task: follow a marked trail, collect flags, make it back before dark.

You were barely five minutes in before the first bicker began.

“You’re holding the map upside down.”

“No, you’re upside down.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“Neither does your face, but here we are.”

You snatched the compass from his hand. “If you weren’t so busy being annoying, maybe we wouldn’t be heading north when the flag is clearly to the east.”

“If you weren’t so bossy, maybe I’d actually listen to you once in a while.”

“Oh please. You listen to your ego more than your brain.”

Taesan grinned as he leaned close, voice low and teasing. “At least my ego doesn’t scream every time it sees a spider.”

Your entire body tensed. “That was ONE time—”

“A big spider.”

“You put it in my sleeping bag!”

“And your reaction was Oscar-worthy. I should’ve filmed it.”

You stomped ahead, mumbling, “Maybe if I bury your body in this jungle, no one will find it.”

Despite the chaos, you were making progress. You’d found three flags, avoided stepping on a snake, and Taesan—surprisingly—had caught you from tripping over a root once. Not that you’d ever thank him for that.

“Okay,” you said, brushing sweat off your forehead, “next flag should be near that big tree with the split trunk.”

“Lead the way, Dora.”

“Call me Dora again and I’ll shove this compass where the sun doesn’t shine.”

He smirked. “Kinky.”

You turned sharply to glare at him. “You are unhinged—”

And that’s when it happened.

Taesan took one step forward—and the ground gave way.

“TAESAN!”

There was a sharp crack beneath his boots, a hollow sound that wasn’t dirt or root. His eyes widened as the earth crumbled under him, and in a heartbeat, he was falling into darkness.

But not alone.

As his hand flailed for balance, it caught yours. His fingers locked tight around your wrist, and your scream joined his as you were yanked forward into the gaping black hole.

The world tilted.

Branches clawed at your skin, the wind roared past your ears, and then—

Darkness.

You woke up to the worst headache of your life.

Everything ached. Your arms, your back, your pride. You groaned and blinked against the dim, humid air. It smelled like wet stone and something... rotting.

You shifted, pushing yourself up slowly—until you heard a grunt nearby.

“Y/N?”

You turned and saw Taesan lying a few feet away, groaning and rubbing his head. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, his cheek scraped.

“I’m alive,” he mumbled, “but I think I swallowed a bug on the way down.”

“You pulled me down here, you idiot!”

“You should’ve let go.”

“You grabbed me first!”

“Because your scream was so loud I thought a jaguar got you!”

You reached over and smacked his arm.

“OW!”

“You deserved that.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t retaliate. Which was weird. Taesan always retaliated.

You both looked up—way up. The hole you fell through was at least twenty feet above. Jagged rock walls surrounded you, the sky barely visible. You were underground. Sort of.

Because there was something else down here.

The air was still, but not silent. Distant shuffling, muffled voices—voices that didn’t sound like any of your classmates. Or teachers.

You looked at Taesan. He looked back, suddenly serious.

“...Did you hear that?” he whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He stood up, brushing dirt off his pants. “We need to find a way out. Now.”

You followed a narrow path that twisted through the underground space, lit faintly by torches—torches, as in manually lit, primitive, fire-on-stick torches—that lined the walls. The deeper you went, the colder it felt. The sounds grew louder. Laughter, but distorted. Wet squelches. Bones cracking.

Then you saw it.

A pile of bones. Human bones. Skulls, ribs, spines. All stacked like some kind of grotesque shrine.

Your stomach churned. Taesan turned pale.

“What... the hell is this place?” he breathed.

A new sound echoed—footsteps. Heavy. Close.

Taesan yanked you behind a rock slab, pressing a hand over your mouth as shadowy figures walked past.

They were barefoot. Covered in dirt, faces painted in something red. Their clothes were torn. And in their hands? Knives. Jagged. Rusty. One of them was carrying... a leg.

You gagged.

Cannibals.

You didn’t need to say it. Taesan’s wide-eyed expression told you he’d already figured it out.

You whispered, “We need a plan. Fast.”

Taesan glanced at the opposite tunnel. “If we can sneak past them and find where the tunnel narrows, maybe we can climb back up.”

You nodded, still trembling. “Lead the way, Tarzan.”

He gave a half-hearted smirk. “Stay close, Dora.”

The underground air pressed on your lungs like wet cloth—heavy, humid, and full of rot. You could feel the bones crunch beneath your sneakers as you stepped away from the cannibal shrine, and you had to fight every instinct not to scream.

Taesan crept ahead silently, back hunched, eyes sharp. His usual cocky smirk was gone—now he looked serious. Tense. Protective, even.

You hated that it made your heart do that stupid flutter.

“Shh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “They’re circling back.”

You both ducked behind a crumbling stone wall as the painted figures passed again—silent, slow, dragging sacks that dripped behind them. You didn’t want to think about what was inside.

Once they were gone, you breathed out. “Okay. Okay. What now?”

Taesan pointed to a tunnel barely lit by torchlight. “I saw a split down there. One side slopes up. Could be our way out.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then we die a horrible death, obviously,” he deadpanned. “Keep up.”

The tunnel sloped up, just like he said, but it was steep and slick with moss. You slipped more than once, and Taesan—shockingly—reached out to steady you each time. The third time it happened, he muttered,

“You have a weird talent for almost dying.”

You scowled. “You’re the one who fell into a hole.”

“You came with me.”

“YOU PULLED ME!”

“That’s what a gentleman does.”

“Gentlemen don’t yank girls into death pits!”

He grinned. “I’m not a good gentleman.”

You shoved him. He shoved you back.

It was honestly impressive how you two could be surrounded by death, yet still find the time to bicker like 5-year-olds fighting over the last cookie.

After what felt like forever, the path opened into a dim cavern.

Your heart lifted—until you saw what was in it.

Cages. Dozens. Some held scraps of clothing. One still had a person inside—barely conscious, muttering, eyes unfocused.

You yanked Taesan behind a boulder.

“We’re not alone,” you whispered.

“No kidding,” he muttered. “This is like a horror game. Level ten. Insane mode.”

You turned to him, jaw clenched. “We have to help that person.”

“Are you out of your mind? If we make noise, those freaks will—”

“I’m not leaving someone behind!”

“God, you’re stubborn—”

“And you’re a coward.”

That hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened, and for a second you thought he’d yell.

But then he said, low and bitter, “You don’t know anything about me.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

Before you could reply, he slipped out from behind the rock, moving with quiet determination toward the cage.

You followed—because of course you did—and together, you reached the bars. The person inside—a girl around your age—flinched at the sight of you.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “We’re gonna get you out.”

Taesan knelt and examined the lock. “Rusty. I might be able to snap it.”

“How?”

He pulled something from his backpack—a fork. A literal cafeteria fork.

You gawked. “Why the hell do you have that?!”

“Stole it at lunch. Planned to throw it at you during campfire.”

You stared. “You’re deranged.”

He smirked. “Resourceful.”

Somehow, with a twist and shove, the fork snapped the lock open. The girl collapsed into your arms, murmuring incoherently.

You heard it before you saw it.

A shout.

Footsteps.

Then—screaming.

Not yours.

The cannibals had seen the open cage. One of them screeched, pointing in your direction.

Taesan’s eyes locked on yours. “Run.”

You ran.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The girl’s weight slowed you down, but Taesan kept pace, pulling vines aside, shouting directions.

“To the left! No, LEFT—your other left—!”

“Shut up, I know where I’m going!”

“You’re going straight into a wall—”

You did hit a wall. He yanked you away just in time.

You were breathless, panicked, and completely out of your depth—but he was still there. Grabbing your wrist. Shoving you forward. Not letting go.

The tunnel suddenly narrowed—a vertical shaft. Roots dangled from the ceiling.

You looked up. It was climbable.

“Up. Now,” he said, pushing the girl toward you.

“What about you?!”

“I’ll hold them off—”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Get her out of here, Y/N!”

He turned to face the noise, fists clenched. He looked ready to fight a dozen armed cannibals with just a fork.

Which honestly... wouldn’t surprise you.

You hesitated for half a second—then grabbed his shirt and yanked him with you.

“I’m not letting you be a hero,” you snapped. “If we die, we die together.”

His eyes widened.

Then he smiled.

“Romantic.”

“Shut up and climb.”

You climbed. Slipping, gasping, blood running down your arm from a sharp root. The girl groaned weakly below you. Taesan grunted behind, boosting her when she faltered.

The tunnel narrowed more—but daylight was visible above.

So close.

You shoved the girl up first. She crawled over the edge with one last burst of strength.

Then it was you.

Your fingers clutched the rim. You pulled—screamed—nearly slipped—

But Taesan pushed from below, and you tumbled onto solid ground.

He followed, hands bleeding, panting hard.

You both collapsed in the dirt, barely conscious.

Above you, the sky was blue. Birds chirped.

Like nothing had happened.

You lay there for a while. Then he spoke.

“That was... insane.”

“No kidding.”

You turned your head. He looked over at you, eyes soft. Different.

“You could’ve left me,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied. “But unfortunately, my conscience is annoying.”

He snorted. “Right. Your conscience.”

You nudged his arm with your foot. “You’re not as useless as I thought, Han Taesan.”

“And you’re not as evil as your face suggests.”

You rolled your eyes—but smiled.

It was weird. Being there, bloodied and bruised, with the one person who made your life hell... and not hating it.

“I still hate you, though,” you muttered.

“Yeah?” He turned his head, smirking again. “Then why’d you hold my hand when we were climbing?”

“I was trying to push you off.”

“Sure you were.”

You threw a leaf at him.

He just laughed.

The girl you rescued—her name was Kyungmi—had passed out shortly after you got her out. You and Taesan carried her through the edge of the jungle, limbs aching, barely holding it together.

But you didn’t stop.

Because you were alive.

Because you had to warn the others.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as alone in this as you thought.

—

After an hour of dragging yourselves across vines and branches, you finally stumbled into a clearing—back to the original basecamp.

Shouting. A teacher saw you and ran forward.

“Y/N? Taesan?! What happened—”

“She needs help!” you gasped, motioning to Kyungmi.

The rest was a blur.

Hands pulling her from you. People crowding. Questions. Panic.

Then someone wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and Taesan’s—two separate ones, of course, though he still managed to bump his into yours like an annoying cat.

You were led to a tent for med checks, patched up, forced to drink water and lie down. You heard the teachers murmuring outside, something about “call the local authorities” and “dangerous tribes.”

It wasn’t until hours later, once Kyungmi was stable and the sun had set, that you found yourself sitting beside a campfire, a bowl of soup in your hand and dirt still on your legs.

Taesan plopped down beside you.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

He just sat there, poking his soup with the spoon.

Then finally, he said, “So.”

You glanced at him.

He looked serious.

“Back there,” he said. “When you didn’t leave me.”

You sighed. “We’re talking about that again?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Because I was sure you would.”

You turned toward him, eyebrows drawn. “Why would I do that?”

He gave a crooked smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because I’m not... easy to like. I know that.”

Something about the way he said it—offhand, but heavy—made your chest tighten.

“You’re an idiot, yeah,” you muttered. “But I don’t think anyone deserves to die alone in a murder cave.”

He laughed. Just once. A breath.

“You ever wonder,” he said, staring into the fire, “if we’d be friends if we hadn’t hated each other first?”

You looked at him. Really looked.

The shadows from the flames danced across his face—those sharp features, the messy hair, the cut on his cheek still healing.

“I think,” you said slowly, “we started hating each other because we were scared we’d get along.”

That made him look at you.

Long. Searching.

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You’re... not terrible when you’re not threatening me with compasses.”

You smirked. “And you’re tolerable when you’re not smuggling forks into survival camp.”

“You’ll never let that go, huh?”

“Never.”

He leaned back on his hands. “So... what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“We survived death cult cannibals. Kind of changes things.”

You looked at the jungle beyond the trees. The quiet. The cold.

Then back at him.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But... thanks. For not leaving me, either.”

A silence settled between you. But this time, it was warm. Comfortable.

Like a truce.

Maybe even the start of something.

And then—

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the night.

Everyone jumped.

You dropped your soup.

Taesan was on his feet in seconds, eyes wide, scanning the darkness.

Another scream.

Closer this time.

The teachers ran toward it. The students screamed. Chaos exploded again.

Taesan grabbed your wrist. “Stay close.”

Your heart thundered. “Is it—?”

“I don’t know.”

But in your gut—you knew.

You ran with him toward the noise.

And what you saw made your blood run cold.

The body of one of your classmates—Minji—was lying just at the jungle’s edge. Unconscious. Breathing, but barely.

And standing over her was someone you recognized.

One of the painted figures from the hole.

He looked... different now. Out of place. Clothes stolen. Paint smudged. He was alone, wild-eyed, lips curled in a twisted grin.

Before anyone could react—he vanished back into the trees.

Gone.

Taesan cursed under his breath.

You stared at the spot he disappeared into, your fingers trembling.

“They followed us.”

That night, no one slept.

Security was called. Teachers held emergency meetings. Camp was being packed up to evacuate early in the morning.

But you couldn’t rest.

And neither could Taesan.

You found him sitting at the edge of camp, sharpening a stick with a rock. Just in case.

He didn’t look up when you sat beside him.

“They’re not just a myth,” you said. “They’re real. And they’re watching.”

He nodded. “And they’re smart.”

You looked at him. “I’m scared.”

He finally turned to you, meeting your eyes. “Me too.”

You hesitated—then leaned your head against his shoulder.

He stilled.

Then, slowly, leaned into you too.

For a moment, there was no bickering. No teasing.

Just two people who went through hell. Together.

—

“Y/N?” he said softly after a while.

“Yeah?”

“When we get back... what happens to us?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

And said the first honest thing you’d said to him since you met.

“I don’t want to go back to hating you.”

His eyes searched yours.

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world—he leaned forward.

His lips brushed yours.

Soft. Uncertain. Barely there.

But real.

And then—

Gunshots. Screaming.

The camp was under attack.

You broke apart, adrenaline flooding your veins as figures surged from the trees.

Painted faces. Knives. Grins.

They had come back.

And this time—they weren’t alone.

You didn’t even have time to scream.

The trees exploded in movement—dozens of them, faces smeared in white and red paint, emerging from the shadows like phantoms. Screams ripped through camp. Someone knocked over a lantern. Flames licked at the fabric of the tents.

Chaos.

Panic.

And you and Taesan?

Running again.

Always running.

“TAESAN!” you yelled, yanking his sleeve as a figure lunged toward you. He twisted, grabbed your arm, and yanked you behind him. The stick he’d been sharpening earlier rammed straight into the attacker’s side—not deep enough to kill, but enough to knock him off-balance.

“Go, GO!” he barked, grabbing your wrist as he barrelled through the smoke. You didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. Just ran.

This time, you didn’t care where you were going—just away.

You didn’t know how long you ran, but eventually the screams faded. The forest swallowed you both whole again, dark and eerily silent.

You collapsed behind a boulder, gasping. Taesan dropped beside you, arm bleeding, face streaked with ash.

“Are... are they chasing us?” you managed to ask.

He shook his head. “I think... they stayed for the others. The easy targets.”

Your stomach twisted. “We have to go back. What if—”

“We can’t,” he snapped, more from fear than anger. “We’ll die.”

You bit your lip. Your eyes burned.

Taesan’s expression softened. “We’ll find help. There’s a ranger station marked on the original map, remember?”

You blinked. “That’s... like ten kilometers away.”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and offering his hand to you. “Let’s get moving.”

You took it.

And didn’t let go.

You walked for hours.

Your limbs ached. Your legs were scratched and bruised. You were hungry, exhausted, and terrified.

But not alone.

Taesan talked to keep your spirits up—random, stupid things.

“Remember when you tried to glue my locker shut?”

“You broke into my dorm room to put frogs in my bed!”

“And you replaced my shampoo with mayonnaise—”

“It was funny—”

“It was traumatizing!”

It made you laugh. Somehow. Even with the world crashing down around you.

Somewhere in the middle of it, you realized, you didn’t hate him anymore.

Maybe you never really had.

Maybe you just didn’t know how to admit what you did feel.

By dawn, your feet were blistered, your throat dry, but you saw it—a wooden lookout tower in the distance, just barely visible through the trees.

You both stopped, staring.

“I can’t believe it,” you whispered.

“Me either,” he said, almost in awe.

Then, “Race you there.”

You gaped. “Are you serious?!”

Taesan just grinned and took off.

“Taesan, you absolute maniac—!”

You chased after him, laughing and crying all at once.

And when you reached the tower, panting, collapsed at his side, you knew—you’d never forget this moment. Not in a million years.

They found you two hours later.

A helicopter landed. Medics swarmed you. You were wrapped in blankets, given water, bombarded with questions.

They found the rest of the camp survivors. Some injured, but alive.

The authorities stormed the jungle with armed forces later that day—and found the underground tunnels. The cages. The horrors.

The cult was dismantled. The area was permanently restricted. News reporters tried to cover it, but the story was deemed too disturbing for public broadcast.

You were sent home a week later.

Taesan sat next to you the entire flight.

You didn’t talk much. Just held hands under the blanket, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Life went back to “normal.”

Classes. Tests. Cafeteria food.

But everything was different.

You were different.

And so was he.

You still bickered sometimes. You still teased each other. But there was something else now—an understanding. A closeness. A feeling that no one else in the world really got it except the two of you.

Taesan walked you home most days. He didn’t ask to. He just did.

One day, on the rooftop after school, you asked, “Why were you always messing with me before the trip?”

He looked at you, dead serious. “Because you were the only person who saw through my crap.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“And...” He hesitated. “Because I liked you. A lot. And I didn’t know how to say it.”

You stared at him.

Then kissed him.

Right there. Rooftop. Wind blowing. Sun setting.

You kissed him.

When you pulled away, he looked stunned.

And stupidly happy.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, voice hoarse.

You smiled. “I don’t think I will.”

© brownetry

[brownetry]

June Never Ends

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Warning : drug addiction, emotional dependency, toxic relationship dynamics, self-harm, relapse themes, heavy angst, smut, trauma, co-dependency, blood, overdose (mentioned), psychological manipulation, mentions of violence, recovery themes.

The rehab centre reeked of peppermint and broken promises.

You stared at the pale green walls, tracing every crack like a map back to him.

Ten days clean. Ten long days. And yet your body still twitched at night, screaming for something—no, someone—it couldn’t have.

You weren’t stupid. You knew why you kept dreaming about his hands. Not because of the drugs. Not really. It was what came after—the high, the crash, the arms that held you through it. Taesan didn’t just sell poison. He sold warmth. He sold safety. In the cruellest, most fucked-up way, he became the only home you knew.

You never told anyone that.

They all thought he ruined you.

But you knew the truth.

He loved you. Just not the way normal people did.

You met him under a flickering neon sign behind a club you weren’t even old enough to be in. He looked like a sin wrapped in silk—rings on his fingers, smile lazy and sharp. When he spoke, it was slow, intoxicating, like every word had a drop of honey.

He didn’t pressure you.

He didn’t need to.

You were already falling before the drugs ever touched your tongue.

You sat in the garden behind the rehab building, legs tucked under you, hands trembling even though the weather wasn’t cold.

You could still taste him in the back of your throat.

And as if summoned by your sickness—

“Yo.”

Your head snapped up.

There he was.

Taesan.

Leaning against the fence like he belonged there, like you hadn’t spent the last ten days detoxing him out of your bloodstream.

He looked unfairly good. Hoodie slung over his sharp frame, silver chain glinting in the dull sun, jaw sharper than the last time you saw him.

“Shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You missed me.”

Your throat closed.

You did miss him. God, it hurt how much.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you repeated, louder this time.

“I brought something,” he said softly. “Not what you think.”

Your body betrayed you—heart leaping in false hope.

He saw it. Of course he did. He always noticed.

“No drugs,” he murmured. “Just… peach tea. Thought you’d want something that doesn’t taste like guilt.”

You stared at the bottle in his hand. Your favourite brand. Still cold.

He crouched next to you, holding it out.

“I shouldn’t take things from you.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t.”

He was right.

You took it.

And when your fingers brushed his, something in your chest cracked.

You didn’t tell the counsellors he came.

You should’ve.

But you didn’t.

Because you didn’t want them to make him stop.

That night, he waited outside your window.

You opened it before he knocked.

“Creep,” you whispered.

His smirk curled. “You let the creep in, though.”

You sat on the edge of the window, knees up. He stood below, leaning against the wall like this was a routine.

“I shouldn’t talk to you,” you said.

“You always say that,” he replied. “Then you do.”

Silence.

Then you said the one thing you weren’t supposed to,

“I miss you.”

His eyes softened. Just a flicker.

“Come outside.”

You shouldn’t have.

But you did.

The parking lot was cold. He handed you a hoodie you knew wasn’t yours, but smelled like him.

Taesan lit a cigarette, then held it out.

You hesitated.

“No drugs,” he promised. “Just nicotine and poor life choices.”

You took it.

The first drag burned.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Alright. I needed to see you.”

There it was again.

That soft ache.

You looked at him under the pale moonlight and saw it—the exhaustion under his eyes, the way he kept clenching his jaw like he was trying to swallow something down.

“You’re not high,” you said.

He gave you a small smile. “Didn’t feel right.”

“You clean?”

He looked at you, dead-on. “As clean as you are.”

Your heart twisted.

Ten days. He’d gone ten days too.

“Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He looked away. “Didn’t want to come back to you with blood in my eyes.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

You kept replaying the way his fingers brushed yours when he gave you the tea, the way his voice cracked when he said “needed.”

And when the night nurse checked your room, you were already sliding the hoodie over your shoulders again.

Sneaking out.

Like always.

He was waiting in the car.

Music low. Engine purring.

The moment you opened the door, he looked at you like a man dying of thirst.

“You really came,” he murmured.

You slid in. “Just for a drive.”

But you both knew it was a lie.

The road was empty, the city asleep.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other twitching like he was itching for something—your hand, a hit, you couldn’t tell.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said after a while.

You stayed silent.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he added.

You looked at him.

“I thought you left me.”

He pulled over abruptly, parking under a broken streetlight. The silence that followed was suffocating.

“I did leave,” you said softly. “Because I had to.”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. “So why are you here now?”

You didn’t answer.

He turned to you. His eyes were red—not from drugs, but from holding back tears.

“You still love me?”

You couldn’t lie.

“I never stopped.”

His kiss tasted like ash and regret.

But you let him kiss you anyway.

Because love like this doesn’t come wrapped in bows.

It comes with scars, with poison, with shaking hands and whispered apologies.

It comes with relapse.

And right now, relapse looked a lot like Taesan pulling you onto his lap and holding you like he never wanted to let go again.

The next morning felt like a bruise.

Your body remembered his touch before your mind did.

When you opened your eyes, you were in his apartment—his bed, his air, his everything.

Same apartment you swore you’d never return to. The same sheets you once overdosed in.

Taesan was still asleep next to you, hand wrapped tight around your wrist. Like he thought you might vanish again.

You studied his face in the early light. The gentle slope of his nose. The way his lashes brushed his cheekbones. The tiny scar on his bottom lip from when someone tried to rob him and you begged him not to retaliate.

He didn’t listen.

He never listened. Except when it came to you.

Always you.

You slipped out of bed quietly, pacing barefoot on cold wooden floors. The ache behind your ribs had nothing to do with withdrawal this time. It was guilt.

You were supposed to be recovering.

Not crawling back into the arms of the man who broke you just to glue you back together.

But it was like your bones knew him. Your blood still carried him. Your cells whispered his name every time you tried to clean them out.

“Where’re you going?”

His voice was sleep-rough, hoarse.

You turned. He sat up slowly, blanket sliding off, eyes puffy and raw from too many dreams.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you murmured.

He blinked. “Yeah. But you are.”

You swallowed.

“I want to leave.”

His jaw clenched. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“No, you think you do. But if you really did, you wouldn’t have stayed the night. You wouldn’t be in my shirt right now.” His voice cracked. “You wouldn’t have let me hold you like that if you were gone for real.”

You looked down. You were wearing his shirt. It still smelled like his cologne.

He stood, crossed the room, slowly—like approaching a scared animal. His hands went to your face.

“Tell me you didn’t feel anything last night.”

You couldn’t.

He leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re still mine.”

You were trembling.

And then his lips touched yours—and it was over.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was the last time. Like love and pain came from the same bottle, and you were both drinking deep.

When his hands slid under your shirt—his shirt—you didn’t stop him.

Because it wasn’t just about the sex. It was about the need. The ache in your chest. The hunger that no rehab, no tea, no counsellor could touch.

Taesan touched it. Ruined it. Worshipped it.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

“You sure?”

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t stop. Just… don’t stop.”

Clothes hit the floor one by one. His mouth was everywhere—slow, reverent, desperate.

He tasted you like salvation. Like you were the drug now. His tongue dragged over your skin like he could absorb you through his mouth. The way he groaned when you pulled his hair told you—this wasn’t just lust.

It was grief. Worship. Addiction.

You whimpered his name when he slid between your legs, tongue hot and slow, fingers curling inside you like they belonged.

“Taesan—”

“Say it again.”

“Taesan, I—”

“You missed this, didn’t you?”

You were crying now, just a little. Because it was too much.

“You missed me.”

He kept going until your back arched, thighs shaking, until you were sobbing into his shoulder and clinging to him like he was your last chance.

You came undone with his name on your lips.

And when you looked at him, his eyes were glassy.

Like it hurt him too.

Like maybe he was addicted to you just as much.

Later, when the room was quiet again, you lay tangled in sheets and shame.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered.

Taesan didn’t look at you. Just lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m going back tomorrow. To the centre.”

He was silent for a while.

“I’ll drive you.”

The next morning.

He didn’t talk much.

Just held your hand the whole way, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he was memorizing it again.

When you reached the centre, he parked but didn’t get out.

You sat in silence for a while.

Then he finally looked at you.

“I’m not good for you,” he said.

You blinked back tears. “I know.”

“I’m gonna try anyway.”

Your chest cracked.

“Why?”

His lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

“Because loving you hurts less than living without you.”

You didn’t talk much after you went back.

Rehab was colder the second time. Not literally—the blankets were the same, the tea tasted the same. But the way people looked at you had shifted. Like they knew.

That you’d left. That you’d gone back to him. That you let him touch you, fuck you, kiss you.

Like they could see his fingerprints still burned into your skin.

And maybe they could.

Because no matter how many times you scrubbed your hands, they still trembled.

Day Four.

You hadn’t heard from him. He hadn’t texted. Called. Shown up.

Your chest ached in a new way.

You told yourself it was withdrawal.

But withdrawal didn’t feel like heartbreak.

Day Six.

You woke up shaking.

Heart pounding, skin sweating, mouth dry.

You didn’t know if it was a nightmare or just your body craving him.

You curled into yourself and sobbed. Quiet, ugly cries that you buried in your pillow like secrets.

You missed him.

You missed him like a drug.

You missed the poison more than the cure.

Day Eight.

The knock on the counsellor’s door came mid-session.

“Visitor for you,” someone said.

Your heart dropped.

Couldn’t be. No way.

You stepped into the lobby—and there he was.

Taesan.

Slumped in a plastic chair, hoodie soaked in rain, hair messy, eyes red.

You blinked.

And that’s when you saw the blood on his knuckles.

“What the fuck happened to you?” you hissed, dragging him outside.

He didn’t speak at first. Just lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Are you okay?” you whispered.

He laughed. Bitter. Hollow. “That’s a stupid question.”

You stepped closer.

“Taesan.”

His eyes met yours—and it broke you.

Because you saw it.

The spiral.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t used—not yet. But he was teetering. Dangerous edge. One push away.

“I almost did,” he said.

“What?”

He flicked the cigarette away.

“I almost used.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But I didn’t,” he added. “I didn’t, because I remembered your face. The way you looked at me when I dropped you off. Like I was worth something.”

You reached for his hand. He flinched.

“Let me see,” you whispered.

He let you take his fist. The skin was torn open. Fresh and raw.

“Bar fight?” you asked gently.

He shook his head. “Wall.”

You blinked.

“Your wall?”

He nodded.

“You punched your wall?”

“I just—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do. I needed to feel something.”

Your chest throbbed.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “I can’t be the reason you fall apart.”

“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re the only reason I’m still here.”

He stepped closer, gripping your arms.

“I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m poison. But you—” His voice dropped. “You made me want to be clean. Not just from the drugs. From all of it. From me.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I’m not better,” you said. “I’m still sick, Tae. I still think about it. Every day.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s why we need each other.”

That night, he stayed outside your window again.

Didn’t sneak in.

Just sat there.

Like a ghost waiting to be forgiven.

One week later.

You got permission to leave for the weekend.

Only under supervision.

So you told the counsellor, your mom was picking you up.

You lied.

It was Taesan.

He picked you up in the same car. Same scent. Same old playlist.

But this time, neither of you reached for the other.

Just sat in silence. Comfortably broken.

His apartment hadn’t changed.

Except for the holes in the wall.

You stood in the middle of the living room while he watched you like you were a hallucination.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

You turned to him.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“You.”

That night was nothing like the first.

It was slow. Quiet. Full of whispered apologies between kisses.

You cried when he kissed your scars. He cried when you kissed his fists.

You pulled his hoodie over your bare body. He tucked his arms around you like you’d disappear if he didn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said against your skin.

“You will,” you whispered. “And I’ll hurt you too.”

He nodded.

“But we’ll try,” he said. “This time, we’ll try.”

He sold his last stash.

Gave you the money.

You didn’t ask what he wanted you to do with it.

You bought groceries. Paid rent. Cleaned the blood off the past.

You weren’t perfect. Still had nights where your bones screamed. He still woke up from nightmares shaking like a child.

But you held each other. Again. And again.

And one day, it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore.

One Year Later.

You sat on the rooftop, eating peach ice cream.

He sat beside you, fingers laced with yours, eyes watching the sky.

“Do you think we’re clean?” you asked.

He thought for a second.

“No,” he said. “But I think we’re healing.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Still addicted to me?”

“Always.”

Then he kissed you—soft, warm, whole.

Like you were the cure now.

And maybe, just maybe

You were.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏"lilyphilia, this is the only place i can be free and it's the only place i can be myself." ౨ৎ

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry

[brownetry]

White Lilies at 3:46

Pairing : han taesan x f! reader

Genre : slow-burn romance, comfort, grief, healing.

Warning : mentions of death, grief, loneliness.

Your shop always smelled like lavender and wet soil. A tiny corner store squeezed between a bakery and a dry cleaner, where the sun draped itself lazily over the glass every morning and the wind whispered past the petals in the display window.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A little lonely.

You liked it that way.

That’s where you first saw him.

Thursdays. 3:46 p.m. Sharp.

He never said much. Just walked in, tall frame cloaked in a hoodie despite the heat, and offered a small nod of acknowledgment. His hair was always a little messy, his eyes a little tired. And every Thursday, he asked for the same thing,

“Three white lilies.”

His voice was soft. Not shy—just gentle. Like he was scared of disturbing the silence.

The first time, you offered to wrap them in burlap and twine. He nodded. Paid in exact cash. Left with a quiet “thank you.”

And then came back the next Thursday.

And the next.

And the next.

You started preparing them ahead of time. 3:40 p.m. You’d bundle the lilies, set them near the register, and pretend not to notice how he lingered for a moment after every exchange, as if debating whether to say something more.

But he never did.

You didn’t even know his name.

Week 7.

It rained. You placed the lilies in a paper wrap to keep them dry.

He smiled at that.

Week 9.

He noticed the bandage on your finger and frowned. “Did you cut yourself?”

You blinked. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Rose thorns.”

He paused, then muttered, “Be careful.”

That was the first time he said something not about flowers.

Week 13.

He didn’t come.

You waited. The lilies wilted by closing time.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Customers missed appointments all the time. But the empty bell above the door, the silence at 3:46, it felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too hollow.

You found yourself looking at the clock the next day.

And the day after that.

Week 14.

Still nothing.

You found yourself wrapping lilies anyway. Just in case.

Week 15.

The bell jingled.

You looked up so fast you nearly dropped the shears.

He stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, hoodie clinging to his arms, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that.

His voice cracked.

You didn’t ask where he’d been.

You just wordlessly reached under the counter and handed him the lilies you’d wrapped before opening.

His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Shaking.

He swallowed. “I… forgot what day it was.”

You nodded slowly. “That happens sometimes.”

He stared at the lilies, then exhaled — a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of something unspoken. “They were for my brother. His grave. It’s been a year.”

You froze. The words sank in like ink on wet paper.

“I wasn’t gonna come this week,” he added quietly. “But I did. I don’t know why.”

You looked at him, this boy who never said anything but always came back.

“Maybe because you knew I’d remember for you.”

His head lifted. For the first time, he looked at you — really looked at you.

And something in his face cracked open.

That day, he stayed.

You made tea behind the counter while he sat on the wooden stool by the window, clutching the lilies like a lifeline. You didn’t ask anything else. Just let the silence speak for both of you.

“Taesan,” he said after a while.

You turned to him.

“My name. It’s Taesan.”

You smiled softly. “I’m Y/n.”

He nodded. “I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Says it on the business card by the register.”

He came back the next Thursday.

And the one after that.

Not just for lilies now. Sometimes for daisies. Sometimes just to sit. Sometimes just to exist beside someone who understood silence.

Spring melted into summer, and he started showing up early. Sometimes he helped unpack boxes of soil and seed packets. Sometimes he brought you iced coffee with your name spelled wrong on the cup.

He talked more. Told you about his brother—older by two years, full of bad jokes and worse tattoos, gone too soon in a car accident Taesan blamed himself for.

You never told him to move on. You just listened.

You told him about your mom’s love for roses, your fear of hospitals, the way flowers reminded you that nothing lives forever — but some things bloom again anyway.

You learned that he hummed when he concentrated. That he hated peonies but loved jasmine. That grief doesn’t always scream — sometimes, it just walks into a flower shop every Thursday and asks for lilies.

One Thursday in late autumn, he didn’t ask for any flowers.

Instead, he leaned across the counter, eyes a little shy now, and said, “Do you want to come with me next time?”

You blinked. “To the cemetery?”

He nodded. “I think he’d like to meet you.”

Your throat tightened.

So you said yes.

Because grief brought him to you.

But love?

Love stayed.

The flower shop looked different now.

You’d painted the counter a soft sage green. There were new shelves along the back wall—hand-built by Taesan after he claimed your “organization system was a crime.”

Your Thursday regulars had grown — older women from the nearby church, teenage boys awkwardly buying carnations for girls, little kids with wrinkled dollars and big dreams for their moms.

And every Thursday, Taesan still came.

But now, he came early. Sometimes before you even opened. With one hand full of pastries and the other full of quiet affection.

He no longer asked for lilies.

He still visited his brother — but now, he brought mixed flowers. "He’d hate being predictable," Taesan said with a small smile.

Some days he brought you too.

On the anniversary of his brother’s death, you walked beside him, boots crunching against the gravel of the cemetery. He carried sunflowers this time. “Bright,” he said, “like him.”

You stood beside him as he placed them down, fingers grazing the edge of the stone like he was touching a memory.

“He’d like you,” Taesan said suddenly, glancing at you.

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

“He’d say you talk too much. But he’d like you.”

You snorted. “Do you think I talk too much?”

He smiled. “No. I think… you say the things I’m too scared to.”

You looked at him — really looked at him.

The boy who used to be a ghost in your shop now stood beside you like something solid. Steady.

“I’m glad you came in that day,” you said quietly. “Even if you didn’t say much.”

He turned to you, brows soft. “I didn’t know I needed to be found.”

You nodded. “You didn’t. But you were.”

He stared at you. Then reached out, gently taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I kept coming back for the lilies,” he said. “But then I started coming back for you.”

Your breath caught.

“You always looked like peace. Like stillness. Like the thing I didn’t know how to ask for.”

“Taesan—”

He leaned in, forehead gently touching yours.

“I think I love you.”

Your heart thudded.

“I know I do,” he added, breath warm, hand trembling slightly.

You smiled.

“You’re lucky I’m a florist,” you whispered. “I’m very good at making things grow.”

His lips curved into the softest smile.

“Then grow with me?”

“Always.”

And beneath the sky, in front of the past, with your hands entwined like vines — you bloomed.

Together.

© brownetry