The silver Desrosiers' family car slowed to a stop in front of the crowded commercial strip, its polished exterior reflecting streams of people weaving between street vendors and storefronts. Acheron blinked at the bustle. It was much louder than he expected for a late lunch, but Ivy had insisted on this place, a hidden yet still wildly popular café.
He wasn't entirely convinced as the café was wedged between much bulkier buildings, that was, until he stepped through the café's narrow front door.
Inside, the shop was barely more than a counter, a pastry case, and a wall of steaming drink machines. There were no visible seating areas. Acheron stalled, a little lost, until a smiling waiter appeared as if summoned by his hesitation.
"Right this way, sir—your mother is already waiting." She responded after he gave her the reservation number.
Acheron followed her through a narrow hallway, out through the back door and into a courtyard. At first, he thought it would be cramped, but when he stepped out, he paused, his breath catching in his throat.
Wooden arches curved overhead, each one heavy with pink, red, and deep, wine-coloured roses, each holding its own unique scent. Each canopy created pockets of privacy for the customers seated at the secluded, ornate white tables hidden amongst greenery.
Acheron's gaze couldn't help but dart everywhere, trying to take in all the colours at once. Eyes blinking slowly. He looked more and more like an overwhelmed cat. The waitress couldn't help but hide a small grin.
Acheron tried to memorise the path, just for fun—left at the rose trellis, right by the ivy-draped wall, but he knew he wouldn't be able to find his way back alone. Too many turns, and way too many flowers. His brain was already short-circuiting.
Fortunately, he spotted his mom.
Ivy sat in a sunlit alcove, poised as if she belonged in an old film. She wore a tailored, vintage-inspired A-line baby-blue dress nipped at the waist with a matching belt, soft puffed sleeves brushed just below her elbows. She completed the look with a wide-brimmed hat that cast a gentle shadow over her serene face, yet sunlight still kissed the edges of her hair.
To Acheron's surprise, she wore classic pointed heels; he was unsure how she had managed to traverse through the rough terrain with them, but she sat looking ethereal and untouched by the uneven cobblestone or the maze of vines he had stumbled through.
"Achie," Ivy greeted, her fingers curled delicately around a porcelain teacup painted with tiny lilies. The nickname left her lips with tenderness and familiarity.
Acheron approached, still a bit stunned. "Hi, hope I didn't keep you waiting long?"
Ivy's eyes softened. "Not at all. Sit, sit—you look like you nearly got lost in the foliage."
He huffed a tiny laugh and pulled out the chair across from her. "I did. I think I made three wrong turns, and the waitress had to redirect me twice."
"I thought you were following her," Ivy pointed out gently, amusement glittering in her voice.
Acheron's ears burned pink. "I got distracted. The roses are… a lot."
He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, then let his gaze linger on the flower canopy again. "It's pretty, though," he admitted quietly. "And peaceful."
Ivy reached out, brushing her fingertips over his resting hand. "That's why I chose it. I've been wanting to bring you for a while."
"I hope you are hungry," Ivy said, motioning for the waitress to bring over the menus.
The waiter returned with menus, and Ivy accepted hers with a gracious nod. Acheron accepted his with both hands, as if afraid he'd smudge the cardstock. Acheron wasn't hungry. Not really. His appetite had been unreliable lately, coming and going like a tide under moonlight, but the menu caught him off guard. His eyes widened slightly at the watercolour illustrations along the borders with neat handwriting. His brows lifted, the slightest spark in his eyes.
"Cute," he whispered, almost to himself.
Ivy watched him with quiet affection as he traced one of the drawings with his thumb. It was of a tiny teacup nestled among painted lavender sprigs. Acheron didn't even notice he was doing it; his expression softened as it rarely did outside moments like this.
Acheron read each item slowly. Lavender latte. Rose-petal shortbread. Earl Grey crème brûlée. It all felt like something out of a storybook.
Secret Garden Café lived up to its name. Small and tucked away, it was a hidden gem; although it did not have a large clientèle, they were fiercely loyal. The menu was just as unusual as the restaurant, filled with edible flowers, unusual mixes, and delicate desserts Ivy adored. Acheron wasn't sure if he'd like them, but… he liked that she wanted to share this with him.
"What tea did mom order?" he asked, flipping to the coffee section.
"I think it was called Starlit Chamomile Chai. Very soothing. I've had chamomile with cinnamon before, but the cardamom and nutmeg were a lovely surprise."
Acheron nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully. "Sounds interesting."
He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, then lightly nibbled on it as he read. A tiny, unconscious nervous habit Ivy recognised from when he was little. Back then, he used to chew on his sleeve hems, too.
"I can't decide between the cappuccino… or the cold brew," he murmured.
"The weather has been warm these last few days," Ivy suggested. "Cold brew might be refreshing."
Acheron hummed, rereading the descriptions. "Maybe. Or maybe not…"
His voice softened into a murmur as he sank deeper into the choices, torn between the comfort of warm coffee and the sweet chill of cold brew. Ivy hid a smile behind her teacup.
"Achie," she said gently.
He blinked up at her wide-eyed and a little dazed from overthinking.
"You know you're allowed to pick whichever one you \textit{want}, not whichever one feels 'correct.'"
Acheron's ears went pink.
"…Right."
"And if you don't like it," Ivy added, leaning in conspiratorially, "I'll swap with you."
That earned her a real, albeit small, soft smile.
"Okay," he whispered.
His shoulders loosened, posture softening. Surrounded by roses and sun-warmed air, he looked just like a boy having lunch with his mom and not someone stitched together by trauma and willpower.
"It's okay, take your time. We have all afternoon." She reiterated. She reached out, brushing a fingertip against the edge of his menu—light, grounding.
"Your meeting with Aviv is at three," she reminded softly, "so we've got plenty of time for a proper lunch."
Acheron hummed a quiet mmm in acknowledgement and flipped the page toward the food section again. The gorgeous watercolour drawings and poetic dish names hit him all at once, leaving him oddly breathless. The choices felt endless: some were whimsical, some floral, and others seemed fussy, but he was still unsure whether his stomach had decided to participate today.
He let out a faint sigh, pushing a strand of silver hair behind his ear.
Okay. Food first, he coached himself.
He decided to focus only on light meals and to keep it simple. He didn't want his mother to worry as he had noticed her keeping tabs on his food intake. After skimming through dozens of flowery descriptions, his eyes finally lingered on a particular dish:
Mushroom & Thyme Croquette, served with a truffle aioli drizzle. The combination intrigued him, and he was curious as to how it would taste.
"…This one," he murmured to himself, tapping the item with the very tip of his finger.
That brought him to the first problem: what to drink?
He flipped the menu again, more slowly this time and with more thoughtfulness. He chewed lightly on the inside of his cheek, eyes darting between coffee, tea, speciality drinks, cold brews… all equally tempting and equally overwhelming.
"What do you think of the Blossom Tartine?" Ivy asked, studying her own menu with interest.
"What is it?" Acheron asked, without looking up.
"Toasted sourdough with whipped ricotta, edible flowers, and a honey drizzle."
Acheron finally lifted his head, squinting slightly as if he were trying to visualise the dish.
"It's definitely something mom would enjoy," he said honestly. "I'm… not sure about the edible flowers part."
Ivy gasped dramatically. "Where is your sense of adventure?"
Acheron lifted his shoulders defensively, then stuck out his tongue, tiny and pink. Ivy laughed softly, covering her smile with her teacup.
"I think you should try the Mossy Matcha Mocha," she continued, nudging her menu toward him.
"Mossy," Acheron repeated, wrinkling his nose. "That sounds like drinking the forest floor."
"It's only the name, silly." Ivy pointed to the description. "It's a shot of espresso, dark chocolate, and matcha. All your favourites in one cup. It probably isn't that sweet, but you can fix that."
Acheron stared at the text, nibbling on his bottom lip again without noticing. His mother was right. Espresso, chocolate, matcha… it did sound good. Different but still interesting.
"…True," he finally said, half-convinced but leaning into it. His voice softened, thoughtful and small. "Okay. I'll try it."
A young man hurriedly tied the strings of a light cream apron around his waist, fingers fumbling slightly as he muttered thanks to his co-worker for covering for his late arrival. His cheeks were flushed from rushing. He took a steadying breath, smoothed his curls back, and stepped out toward the courtyard.
The gravel path, beautiful yet entirely impractical, crunched under his shoes. It was the kind of path that managers described as "charming", and every waiter secretly cursed. Finn nearly twisted an ankle twice on the way to the secluded corner where he was told his table was waiting.
As he got closer, muted murmurs sharpened into clear outlines, like a camera adjusting its focus.
The first person he saw was a stunning woman dressed in baby blue, elegant enough to seem unreal. She lifted a fine teacup to her lips with a grace that made her look like she belonged in a painting. Her smile was warm, unhurried and timeless.
Then Finn saw him.
The young man sitting across from her, head tilted down, long silver lashes veiling eyes he had yet to see. But even hidden, He was… striking. His hair was straight, slightly long, silver like moonlit water, catching sunlight and scattering it in soft glimmers around him. Pink crept over his cheeks as he concentrated on the menu before him.
Finn's breath hitched.
Oh.
His footsteps slowed. For a moment, he just stared, completely entranced. They both looked like a still portrait, frozen in a moment too perfect to disturb. But disturb it he must. He straightened his apron, attempted a smile that wasn't too eager, and approached the table.
"Good afternoon, and welcome to the Secret Garden," he greeted, voice nearly steady. "I'm Finn, and I'll be your waiter today."
Acheron set his menu down softly, with that delicacy of movement he carried without trying. He rested his arm atop the menu and tilted his chin into his open palm. When he turned to look at Finn, those green eyes, bright as fresh leaves and gentle as moss, blinked up at him.
Finn's heart thudded so loudly he was sure it could be heard.
Is this… love at first sight?
It can't be.
But also—maybe?? Yes?? What is happening—??
"This place is truly a treasure," Ivy said warmly, her voice breaking Finn's internal spiral.
He snapped his attention back to her so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
"Thank you, ma'am," he managed.
Ivy began listing their order effortlessly, clearly a regular. Finn tried to keep up. Truly, he did. But every time he wrote something down, his eyes drifted back to the silver-haired omega sitting mere inches away.
Acheron wasn't even doing anything remarkable. Just… existing. Breathing quietly, blinking slowly, fiddling with the edge of the menu. But each tiny movement tugged Finn's attention like a string tied to his chest.
To make it worse, each time their gazes met, Acheron's soft, shy expression made Finn forget every drink on the menu.
By the time Ivy finished ordering, Finn had mentally run through four different mnemonic tricks just to remember his own name.
He swallowed, offered a polite bow, and forced himself to step back.
"Your order will be out shortly," he said, hoping his voice sounded more professional than desperate.
With one last glance, a stolen second of admiration he pretended was just a routine check, he reluctantly tore himself away and headed off to attend his other tables. His pulse had yet to settle and probably won't for a while.
---
"I was thinking of building a few of these wooden arches and canopies at home," Ivy mused, her voice drifting as she admired the garden structure overhead. "We could grow different kinds of grapes… maybe even make our own little batches of wine each year."
Acheron blinked, lowering his cup just enough for Ivy to see the faint curiosity in his eyes.
"That actually sounds fun," he admitted softly. "But grapes are temperamental. Especially if you want them pesticide-free, like everything else," he gave her a tiny, teasing look over the rim of his cup.
Ivy's smile widened, warm and unbothered. "Yes, but there are companion plants that repel pests. Marigolds, lavender… even rosemary. We'd just have to plan it properly." Her eyes had that spark she always got when she was imagining a project, bright and almost childlike.
Acheron fiddled with the tiny sugar packet between his fingers, his shoulders relaxing a little as he let himself be pulled along by her excitement.
"We could put a few chairs underneath the canopy," he added. "Like… a private little spot."
Ivy let out a soft, surprised laugh. She had only mentioned the grapes offhandedly to have a topic of conversation with her son, but now she was truly enjoying the engagement.
"Oh, sweetheart, I love that. Should it be a small afternoon tea area? Maybe just a little table and two chairs? Or…" Her hands lifted as she spoke, already drawing invisible shapes in the air, "or we could do something bigger. A rattan lounge set? Something to really sprawl on during summer."
Acheron perked up, covering his smile with the back of his hand. "Sprawl? Mom, we both know you'd use it to read romance novels while pretending you're 'working.'"
Ivy gasped dramatically. "I do no such thing."
"You absolutely do," he countered with a tiny grin, tucking a loose strand of silver hair behind his ear.
She laughed again, delighted. "Fine, fine. Then what about a picnic space? With blankets and pillows… something soft and dreamy."
"Mom," Acheron said through another small laugh, "if we give you too many options, you're going to want all of them. And then you'll make Dad build three different seating areas, and of course, he'll say yes."
"That's not true," Ivy protested, poorly.
Acheron hummed, tilting his head in that way he did when he was pretending to think deeply. "Mmm. Very convincing."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, earnest now.
"I think… we should choose something practical. A picnic area would be great, but having furniture that is easy to move and waterproof. It still should be comfy but not… You know", he made a vague spiralling motion with his hand, "not a whole renovation."
The two of them dissolved into giggles at the same time, and Ivy had to sit back, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady the joy rushing up inside her.
Acheron kept listing tiny pros and cons, playing with the edge of the menu as he spoke, occasionally pausing mid-sentence to sip his tea with exaggerated seriousness. Ivy watched him with a quiet, swelling affection she couldn't hide.
She poured more tea for herself, movements slow and gentle. She hadn't felt this light in months. Hadn't heard him talk this freely, this openly, in years.
For a fleeting moment, she wished to stay in this moment forever with the fragrant tea, the soft clink of porcelain, the dappled sunlight, the lush greenery around them… and her son, shining softly across the table, more himself than he had allowed himself to be in so long.
Ivy wished she could hold the moment still.
Just for a little while longer.
Unfortunately, life continued its steady, indifferent march, and the two of them eventually had to leave the warmth of the Secret Garden. They stepped out with a few small boxes of leftovers, a pretty slice of tartine and half-finished croquettes wrapped away, victims of their soft conversation rather than their appetite.
The moment they exited the quiet café courtyard, the city swallowed them whole. Car horns, footsteps, voices, the metallic groan of a bus turning the corner, the chaos was loud enough to feel like static pressing against their skin. Acheron instinctively moved closer to Ivy, his shoulder brushing hers as they made their way toward the secluded alley where their car waited.
The family's personal driver, Mr Marx, a stoic, punctual, and familiar presence since Acheron was a toddler, opened the back door with a practised bow. Ivy slipped in first, smoothing her dress as she settled. Acheron placed a hand on the door frame, ready to enter, when a faint rustling sound drew his attention.
It was soft, the sound almost lost under the city noise, but his ears managed to catch it.
He froze.
Something tugged at the back of his awareness. He turned his head toward a stack of damp, sun-faded cardboard boxes near the side of the alley.
"…One second," he murmured.
He approached quietly, as though afraid he might frighten whatever was hiding. He bent at the waist, lowering himself to the ground with a fluid, cautious grace. The rustling came again, barely there, a trembling breath of sound.
Then, without hesitation, he lifted the topmost box in a single swift motion.
A tiny kitten lay curled beneath it, soaked, shaking, and coated in grime. Its fur clung to its frail little body, and its eyes, swollen shut, looked painfully irritated, probably from infection. It didn't even have the strength to meow, only giving a small twitch, a soundless gasp of fear or discomfort.
Acheron's breath stuttered.
"Oh… sweetie," he whispered, voice cracking at the edges.
"Mr Marx… could you get me one of the spare towels? The ones Dad keeps in the trunk."
The driver didn't ask why, just followed the instructions.
A moment later, with the towel in hand, he reached out, letting the towel hover until the kitten's trembling eased, just a fraction. Then, with heartbreaking gentleness, he scooped the tiny creature up. Acheron wrapped the kitten in the warm towel, folding it protectively around its tiny, shivering form. The kitten barely reacted, but Acheron felt its faint breaths against his palm, uneven but still there.
He held it to his chest like it was something precious.
When he finally slid into the car beside Ivy, she watched him quietly, her expression soft yet weighted with worry. She had seen Acheron fall in love with helpless things all his life. It was beautiful, and it terrified her as she knew he could get too invested.
She decided not to say anything; instead, she messaged Oaklen to stock up on allergy medicine before coming home tonight. Although her Alpha's allergy wasn't severe but with repeated exposure, he would begin to sneeze uncontrollably.
"Do we have enough time to stop at the vet?" Acheron asked, voice hushed so he wouldn't startle the fragile bundle tucked into his arms.
Ivy glanced at her delicate watch, regret already forming on her lips. "Unfortunately… no, sweetheart. You'll be late for your meeting. I'll take it."
Acheron's head snapped up.
"I can try to find him a home quickly," he said, though his tone betrayed him, filled with hope. "Until then, I'll look after him."
He wanted the kitten. Even though he tried to mask it.
Before Ivy could respond, Mr Marx smoothly pulled up to the curb.
"We've arrived," he announced.
Acheron's throat tightened. He looked down at the towel. Then, at the tiny, fragile life inside it. Slowly, reluctantly, he extended the bundle toward Ivy. She held out her arms, steady and warm. Acheron carefully transferred the kitten, adjusting the towel twice to make sure no cold air touched it.
He hesitated, fingertips lingering.
"Stay warm," he whispered to the little creature who couldn't hear him.
Then he stepped out of the car and onto the bustling sidewalk.
He took one last look through the window at Ivy, at the kitten cradled in her lap, before the door closed with a soft, final click.