Valentine's Gift: 'Blooming Love' (Reese Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: An image of piano keys with a red rose resting off to the side. The background is mostly black, which makes the title: 'Blooming Love' in a white font with a red glow effect around each letter stand out. The font itself is strong.]

[Happy Valentine's Day! 💞 TFS Patrons, please be sure to see this post about adding my email address to your contacts so you can enjoy the RO character portraits.]

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Inky darkness encompasses most of your vision aside from the barest slivers of light creeping in along the edges that take on a warm tint. Intuitively, you know Reese would never use candles, but he would devise a plan for dramatic lighting, possibly elegant tea lights or well-placed votives. The pleated slip of silk remains in place despite your attempts to furrow your brow and wrinkle your nose.

It's not a simple blot or one of his ties.

Silas must have assisted with the blindfold by reinforcing its center to be thicker, if not more opaque, so you have no idea what you're walking into.

Reese doesn't do anything in halves…

"Are you trying to mimic a newborn fawn?"

His voice comes just from the left of you; it's somehow more silken and smooth than the fabric obscuring your sight. He has effortlessly kept pace with you, even if your gait is a little stilted and lagging compared to the oddly perfect staccato beat of his dress shoes against the marble flooring. "At least I'm cute like Bambi."

"Not when making those scrunchy faces…"

Your hand bats at empty air, but you feel a tap on your other shoulder followed by a laugh from Reese. He dodges yet again, securing your wrist with an ease that tempts you to twist it just to surprise him, until you feel his other hand against your back. His fingers fan out, slowly spanning the space between your shoulder blades with a targeted gentleness that contrasts with his earlier, playful remark.

There is an unspoken certainty in the touch.

His middle finger is unerringly aligned with the tract of your spine, nobs of bone acting as a guiding line that he follows with precision. It isn't as traditional as being taken by the hand or to have your arms linked together. Reese is bracing you while still making it seem as if you're taking the lead through the seemingly dim hallway. Is all of this to build up anticipation?

He isn't going to let any harm come to you, so maybe you shouldn't be dragging your feet…

"Nearly there."

The acoustics of the colossal home aren't to blame for his voice sounding softer as you both step into a larger area. The ballroom? No, maybe the hall of mirrors, or some other extravagant room that you have yet to stumble across. You can hear the clacking echo to his steps, but it's the feeling of his hand gliding lower that secures more of your attention as he traces the curve of your back with purpose, though there isn't any squeeze or a teasing pull; instead, his hand freezes near your hip.

"Wha—How did you get in here?"

Bewilderment is clear in Reese's tone.

"I'm keeping this blindfold on," you mutter, linking your hand with his and trying not to imagine the look on Ms. Verner's face at seeing her son intimately lead you around like this while dressed in something Reese had specially ordered. Did you render her speechless for once? That would be a blessing compared to the veiled comments about wanting the locks changed or vague remarks about your too frequent visits. "Did she faint…?"

"It isn't my mother," Reese reassures you. "Take a look."

The knot comes undone when you pull on one of its more pronounced edges, loosening up in seconds so you can finally see your surprise.

A music hall for intimate concerts has been transformed into an elegant rose garden people would book months in advance to have high tea in. Roses of all varieties and colors dot the space, adding rich color to the typical Verner marble and gilded palette. There is something so orderly to the greenery that it seems more artistic than what would be found in nature, which you know was Reese's intent. He is still hesitant about his scarring left behind by the tree creature; you can see the injury, but not many others can. Containing the flowers in vases, forcing blooms into intricate, floral chandeliers, and wrangling shrubs into mini-hedges exerts control over them.

It's still captivatingly beautiful.

"I would like to put on a private show for you, though it seems someone wanted to crash it."

You were so caught up in taking in the decorations that it's only now that you notice a feline figure of ebony practically blending into the polished piano he sits on. The cat is sniffing a particularly exquisite arrangement of roses, clearly unaware those are meant for you based on the ebony ribbon and purposeful placement. He continues to nose at the buds; it's cute. "He can stay," you decide. "He likes the flowers, and you technically did move his favorite perch…"

Reese rolls his eyes at your decision, but the amusement to his smile ebbs into something far softer at your consideration. "There are other grand pianos throughout the mansion for him to lounge on," he counters. "He can stay for the show, just not for the afterparty."

Reese's comment is paired with a saucy wink before he guides you over to the piano bench.