Pants And Roses

Chapter 2

Read till the end—cookies for heroes only.

💖 Pants and Roses is awkward, funny, and sweet—a romantic comedy you’ll laugh with, blush at, and maybe relate to.

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The girl in tatoos suddenly disappeared. I rushed to my room and wished I forgot what had just happened.

The day after my sixteenth birthday, I couldn’t stop thinking about her—the girl with tattoos and the roses. Her laugh had echoed in my ears long after she disappeared down the street. It wasn’t a soft laugh; it was cracked, rough, like she hadn’t used it in years. And the way she had looked at me—deadly one second, careless the next—made me both afraid and curious.

The world had given me many strange things, but never something like her.

So, when evening reached, I found myself outside again, waiting. I leaned against the wall in my old pants, pretending not to care. My heart pounded, though, and every noise from the street made me lift my head.

And then—like magic—she appeared again, walking slowly, roses in her hand.

“You again,” I said, trying to sound bold. “What are you, some kind of psycho? Following me around with flowers?”

She raised one eyebrow, lips curving. “A psycho?”

“Yes,” I pushed on, even though my voice shook. “You keep showing up. With flowers. Maybe you’re in love with me.”

Her laugh cracked the air again, that same broken sound. She tilted her head and looked me up and down. Then she whispered a word that would haunt me:

“Pants Boy.”

“What?”

“Pants Boy,” she repeated, grinning now. “That’s what you are. Always in pants aka underwear. Always acting tough. Silly boy.”

Before I could answer, a voice called from behind me.

“Those are mine!”

I turned around to see my sister rushing over, phone in her hand, lipstick shining. She snatched the bouquet from the tattooed girl without even looking at me.

“They were sent by one of my guys,” she said proudly. “Why are you holding them?”

I froze. “Wait… what?”

The tattooed girl—who I thought had chosen me—just shrugged. She wasn’t giving me flowers. She was only the messenger. A distributor.

My chest sank, heavy like a stone dropped in water.

“Thanks, babe,” my sister said to the tattooed girl before walking off. She didn’t even notice me standing there like a fool.

The girl with tattoos smirked at me, roses gone from her hands. “See you around, Pants Boy.” Then she walked away into the shadows, leaving me embarrassed and empty.

The next day, my sister barged into my room without knocking. She flopped on my bed, still typing fast on her phone.

“I need you to do something for me,” she said.

“What now?” I asked, not looking up from my book.

She sighed dramatically. “I have a problem. I promised two different guys I’d go out with them tomorrow. Same time. Same place. I can’t lose either of them. So…”

I shut my book. “So what?”

“So you’re going to help me. Dress like me. Pretend to be me on one date, while I handle the other.”

I almost choked. “Are you insane?”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, waving her hand. “You’re smooth. You’re girly. You’re even prettier than me when you want. No one will realize.”

“No way,” I said quickly. “That’s crazy.”

But she leaned closer, eyes sharp. “Please. Do it for me. Just this once. Think of it as… practice. Maybe you’ll finally learn how to talk to girls—or boys, who knows.”

Her words stung. She knew I hadn’t kissed anyone. She knew I was awkward. And deep inside, I didn’t want to keep being the weak one. So, against my own mind, I nodded slowly.

“Fine,” I whispered.

She squealed, hugged me too tight, and left me sitting there regretting everything.

The following evening, she dressed me up in her clothes. A long wig. A skirt that felt like prison. A little makeup brushed onto my cheeks. When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.

“Perfect,” she said, clapping. “Now go to Café Lune. He’s waiting there. Just smile, nod, and act mysterious.”

I walked out, heart hammering. Each step felt like walking into a trap.

At Café Lune, the air smelled of fried chicken and cheap wine. Soft music played in the background. My “date” was already there—a tall boy with clean shoes and a shiny watch. He smiled wide when he saw me.

“You’re even prettier than your photos,” he said.

I forced a laugh, my voice higher than usual. “Thanks.”

We sat. He ordered expensive food without asking me, talking nonstop about his rich father, his cars, his plans. I just nodded, praying not to be caught.

And then, across the room, I saw her.

The tattooed girl.

She wore an apron now, carrying plates to tables. Her tattoos still peeked from under the sleeves, sharp and wild. When her eyes found me, she stopped walking. A slow, knowing smile spread on her face.

She walked over, leaning close. “Well, well. Pants Boy in a skirt.”

I almost died right there. “Shhh!”

“Cute,” she whispered. “Really cute.”

She moved away, still grinning, while I panicked. My fake date asked if I was okay. “Just the toilet,” I mumbled and rushed after her.

In the hallway, I cornered her. “Please. Don’t say anything. It’s not what you think.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, I know exactly what I think. And what I see. Pants Boy, pretending to be a princess.”

My face burned. “It’s my sister’s idea. Not mine. I had no choice.”

She leaned in, close enough that I could smell roses and smoke on her skin. “Then let’s make a deal. You work for me tonight. All my tables. All my mess. And I keep your secret.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“Simple,” she said. “Be my waitress. Or I tell everyone.”

My stomach flipped. I had no choice. I nodded.

“Good,” she said, handing me a rag. “Now get to work, Pants Boy.”

And so, while my fake date thought I was in the toilet, I found myself wiping tables and carrying plates. My wig slid down my forehead. The skirt pinched my waist. The tray shook in my hand.

The tattooed girl watched, laughing quietly every time I stumbled. “Not bad for your first job,” she teased as I passed.

At the table, my date grew annoyed. He checked his watch, tapped his phone, and finally stood.

“If this is your idea of fun, I’m out,” he said sharply. He threw a few bills on the table and walked away, leaving me stunned.

Part of me wanted to run after him and explain. But another part—maybe the real part—was almost glad. I was tired of pretending.

When I returned to the kitchen, the tattooed girl leaned on the counter, still holding roses in her hands. Always roses.

She handed one to me. “For the hard work, Pants Boy.”

I held it, staring at her. She smirked again, eyes glowing with secrets.

And just like the night before, my world tilted around her and her bouquets

You made it to the end — that makes you a true legend! ✨

Only the real ones stick around till the last line. 🍪 (Here’s your cookie — don’t eat it all at once!)