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you roll up to the little flower shop on the corner like you always do, just as the sun begins its slow descent, spilling amber light across the pavement like melted gold. it dances on the brass bell above the weathered green door, catches in the smudged glass windows, warms your arms as you push forward. the door gives its usual welcoming groan as you nudge it open, and the scent hits you like a memory—sweet, fresh, ivory. an aroma always brings you home to early spring evenings when the air is soft enough to leave the windows open. the kind of smell that belongs in open fields and enchanted gardens, not tucked between a bakery and a dry cleaner in the middle of queens. it smells like springtime, even now in the heart of january—a soft rush of gardenia and orange blossoms and something faintly rosy that clings to your clothes long after you leave. you let yourself breathe it in, steadying the flutter in your chest. but it isn't the scent that has your fingers tingling with anticipation.
it's peter parker.
he's behind the counter as always, a half-finished bouquet in one hand, secateurs in the other. his yellow, almost white, shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing muscular, tanned forearms, and his chestnut curls are a riot of untameable mess that looks like he's run his fingers through them one too many times. there's a tiny bit of dirt on his chin and a stem tucked behind one ear, as if he forgot it was there—or maybe put it there on purpose, the cheeky swine. he's humming something low under his breath—the cure, you think, but it could just as easily be something he's made up on the spot. he does that sometimes, you've noticed. random tunes that don't seem to exist anywhere but here. he hasn't seen you yet. not really. his head is tilted, eyes focused on the thin angle of a lilac stem like it holds all the secrets of the universe.
you pause in the doorway, right hand on the doorway, letting the warmth of the shop soak into your skin, letting yourself look. really look. the windows fog slightly behind you, blurred from the shift in temperature, and it's like the world outside softens into nothing. there's a slow tick of the wall clock above the shelf of honeysuckle pots, a soft creak from the floorboards as the radiator gives a half-hearted rattle. everything feels still. held in suspension. you take another breath, deeper this time, and close your eyes for a beat longer than needed. this place is your favourite kind of quiet. not the lonely kind. the kind that feels like a held hand, or a promise kept. comfort in its prime.
you tell yourself you come here for the flowers—for the freesia and peonies and dahlias that bloom out of season like tiny rebellions. for the way the little bell chimes and how the sun shines through and the shelves that creak beneath the weight of so much lush life. for the baskets of dried herbs and the way the ivy trails from the ceiling like it's always been here, like it owns the place. for the subtle joy of watching peter’s work—how his hands move with transparency, how the muscles in his forearms shift with every snip and nip, how he hums like the music is growing within him. but you know the truth.
you're here for him.
"afternoon, y/n."
peter looks up, and there it is—that grin. lopsided. bright. like he's just spotted something wonderful. you.
"thought i might’ve lost you to the frost," he teases, wiping his hands on a damp pale hand towel and making his way around the wooden counter. "missed your usual monday visit yesterday. the world's completely toppled without your opinions to aid us.
"wasn't feeling very well," you admit, stepping into the store, eyes still exploring.
"well, who cares about that," he says with a frown that's more playful than concerned. "but i'm glad you're back. want to smell this new shipment of roses? i got them in orange, pink, and yellow, just the way you like them."
you roll your eyes with a smile. "of course you did."
"of course i did," he shoots back, already reaching for the nearest vase, fingers brushing past a swirl of tulips and baby breaths to find what he's looking for.
he lifts a pale yellow rose toward you, cupping it gently in his palm. the petals are soft, almost translucent, like they're made of spun silk. he waits until you lean in, letting the scent fill your lungs—faintly sweet, shy, like honey dripped into tea. it lingers in your chest, warms you from the inside out. and maybe it's your imagination, but it feels like his eyes stay on you longer than necessary, like he's watching for something in your face. a reaction. a flicker of something shared.
"this one's you today," he says, eyes twinkling. "a little sweet. quietly stunning."
you scoff, and roll your eyes a second time, embarrassed. "i'm not bashful."
"no?" he grins wider. "could've fooled me with how your face is suddenly bright red."
your fingers brush as he tucks the rose into the little basket and hands it to you, and your heart jumps in that strange, fizzy way it always does around him. he never asks. just slips it in like it belongs there. like you belong there.
"i swear you could charm anyone into thinking a weed was a fleabane," you mutter, trying to mask your flustered grin.
"i save the good roses for the charming ones," he replies, a wink tossed in like it costs him nothing. it lands indirectly in your chest.
"you somehow always pick the perfect one," you murmur, voice lower now, a little shaky.
"of course i do. i'm a professional," he says, placing a hand theatrically over his chest. "highly trained. can read flower moods and customer auras like tea leaves. got a certificate and everything. hung it up for a day until the wind knocked it off."
you laugh too loud, the sound cracking in the still air of the shop. but peter only grins, delighted, like he's memorising the sound to play back later. you see it in the way his eyes soften, his shoulders ease. as if you're something familiar and golden to him too.
he lingers a moment longer, then nods his head toward the inner shelves. "come have a look at the other new stock. got some snowdrops in early. thought of you the moment i saw them."
you follow, weaving between displays of succulents and wooden crates overflowing with greenery. you walk side by side, pointing out little curiosities as you go. a rosemary sprig shaped like a heart. a daffodil that bloomed two days too soon. a bundle of sage wrapped in ribbon. his commentary is light, humorous, but there's a tenderness threaded through it, like he's showing you a secret world. you don't miss the way he occasionally glances sideways at you when he thinks you're not looking. the way he nudges a fern leaf from your path without needing to be asked.
you end up by the back wall where the hydrangeas are kept—delicate leaves in shades of white and blue, guarded like precious stones. he plucks a loose petal from one and tucks it gently behind your ear before you can react.
"there. perfect," he says softly. you continue to walk, feeling free.
your hands linger on the edge of the nearest table, trailing along the cool ceramic pots, the little handwritten signs in curling ink. you glance at the orchids, the tulips, the dried lavender bundles—but your eyes keep drifting back to him, staring at his back as his shirt moves along with back.
he's started moving again, rearranging a row of sunflowers in a bucket by the window. the stems are tall and slightly unruly, nodding their big, golden tops toward the last of the daylight. you watch him swipe a thumb across his cheek, oblivious to the streak of green he leaves behind. he hums again—something new. just for this second.
he sighs. "so to what do we owe the pleasure today, then?" he asks over his shoulder, glancing back at you with a smile that's all sunshine and mischief. "looking for something for a friend?"
you nod, too quickly. "yeah. friend's birthday. thought i'd… get her something nice."
he hums, not quite believing it, but not pressing either. he starts pulling stems from different buckets—soft pink carnations, hyacinths, a twist of waxflower—and arranging them like it's second nature. each motion is gentle, careful, like he's handling needles instead of stems.
"how about this?" he offers, holding up the bouquet like a gift. "sweet but not too flashy. just like your mysterious friend."
"she's very mysterious," you say solemnly.
"is she?" he arches an eyebrow. "well, if she's anything like you, she's probably got half the neighbourhood smitten and no idea about it."
you flush, eyes dropping to your lap. the rose stares back at you like it knows something you don't.
as you reach for your purse, he waves you off.
"on the house today," he says casually. "tell your friend happy birthday from me."
"you do know you'll go out of business if you keep giving flowers away so carelessly."
"worth it. and i’ll have you know, it’s not careless." his gaze lingers a second too long. "come back tomorrow?"
you don't trust your voice, so you nod instead, cheeks warm. you're already thinking of an excuse to return. already picturing the way the bell will ring when you open the door, the way his face will light up when he sees you. the way he'll stare and say, like he always does—
"want to smell the roses?"
and you'll say yes. again and again and again. and maybe, someday, you'll bring him a flower and a confession too.