#florist!reader

Always polite. 

Jack would come in. 

Pick them up. 

He’d thank you before paying. 

To lighten the mood, he’d make a small joke. One made to distract himself. One made to make you laugh…

And then he’d leave. 

Always twice a year. Sometimes more. But always at least twice. 

A routine that had been maintained over the last 3 years…

Early on you had learnt to stop asking what the flowers were for…

Had stopped asking who they were for…

Had stopped asking why it was always the same time twice a year…

Each time he entered your store, you’d notice this distant look in his eyes. The way his hands twisted to fidget with his ring. The way it would linger on the flowers. Tentative as he took them in his grasp. 

As you noticed those simple things. 

Those small things. 

It made you realise…

That these flowers were not bought for an anniversary that made people beam brightly. That made them gush over everlasting promises to never be broken…

They weren’t flowers bought to surprise someone. Weren’t bought in the hopes of making someone smile. Weren’t bought for a birthday present or a day filled with smiles…

No. 

There were for the anniversaries that were left unspoken. For the ones that were left buried in the heart of grief. 

Your store wasn’t very far from a cemetery. Only a few blocks away. 

Many orders had come through these doors, often made to be delivered to the cemetery. 

Flowers arranged for funerals. 

For anniversaries of remembrance. 

For loved ones lost. 

These were the anniversaries that brought him back through your shop doors. 

But there was something about him. 

Something about Jack that intrigued you. 

Had caught your eye. 

The quiet strength he carried. 

The silent weight he beared. 

All of it. 

Each time your affection for him only grows with each passing year. Eyes lingering on him, whilst you gently explain the flowers in the bouquet. Simply explaining what flowers were included. 

Keeping their meanings close to your chest.  

And in each bouquet you curated for him. 

In every single one. 

You would include Hyacinths. 

Blends of soft purples, crisp blues and powder white petals, all chosen so carefully. 

A flower that expressed the depths of sorrow that accompanies loss. A flower that represents the grief of love. Sincerity, and the constancy of love. 

A flower that represented peace. 

Peace for the departed or for him. 

Perhaps it was both. 

“Hello,” you’d call out before turning to meet his eyes, smile softening at the sight, you nod, “How’s your day been?”

His hands tucked into his pockets, he shrugs lightly, “Just the same old circus”

“Hopefully with different monkeys,” you remarked lightly. Before twisting to grasp onto his bouquet, all set and ready to go. 

Neatly arranged. 

Nothing overly extravagant.

Just simple elegance, as the flowers were all arranged together in perfect harmony.  

His lips quirked up as he let out a silent laugh to your words. 

“How’s business?” he asked. While you ring up his order. 

“Just the usual stresses, but I can’t complain too much,” you shrugged. 

He takes the flowers. Glancing them over, taking in the curated blooms, before looking up to meet your eyes, “Thank you–again”

You shake your head, joking lightly, “That’s what the money’s for,” before your words softening, “Enjoy the flowers”

He nods once more, offering a small wave. 

Biting his tongue. 

“Have a good day”

“You too,” you called out. Eyes trained on his retreating figure. 

Until your colleague, Maggie, bumps into your side, with a knowing look. “Was that Mr Hyacinth?"

“I don’t know what you mean,” you deny. Shuffling back to work, distracting yourself with arranging and rearranging a display. 

“Sure,” she answer sarcastically, “And you totally don’t find him handsome”

You blink, stammering out, “That–that is way off base–”

“But you didn’t deny it,” Maggie snickered. 

You wave them off, “Just go check on the geraniums” 

She throw her hands up in the air with a wide grin, “I’m just saying, the handsome man comes in here for flowers and each time, I catch you staring at him”

“He’s married,” you counteracted. Referencing his ring. 

She click her tongue, sending you an arched brow, “You and I both know the reason he comes in here for flowers isn’t because he has a wife waiting for him at home”

You bury your head into your work. Trying to distract yourself from the rising heat to your cheeks. 

Trying your best to leave the memory of the handsome man, with hazel eyes, and softly curled hair. 

But no matter your efforts he stays with you. 

He stays with you like a thorn in your side, unable to be plucked. Unable to be pulled from your mind. 

An uncomfortable memory you’re not willing to part from. 

But it wasn’t quite the type of discomfort a thorn would create. It wasn’t something you could quite differentiate…

Or at the very least. 

Not something you were willing to differentiate. 

…

And then. 

There comes a day. 

When the rent of your shop becomes too high. 

When the price is too much for your little business to cope despite its success…

And you’re left with no choice. 

No alternative. 

But to move…

The new store is a little further, a little smaller, and a little closer to a hospital. 

But no matter the new fixtures. 

The new facade. 

The new location.

Or the restricted spacing. 

It is still your store. 

Your dream. 

The orders change. 

They shift from overwhelming amounts of funeral arrangements you used to get. To now weigh in favour of get well soon bouquets. Of bouquets to say thank you. 

Of bouquets that represented hope. 

For months. 

While you curated a new clientele. 

Trying to rebuild your store to the way it once was. 

Mr Hyacinth.

Jack…

The man with the silvered curls, the warming hazel eyes and broad shoulders. Who came in with a little funny thing to say to alleviate the weight of his grief. 

No. 

Instead. 

He no longer appears for a number of months. Even when one of the anniversaries comes around —the date in which you certainly didn’t memorise... 

No.

His face doesn’t pop into the store. 

You chalk it up to the idea that it had to do with the move. 

That the invisible link you had with him was only in your mind. 

…But then. 

One day. 

When your store hours come to a close for the day. An order comes through for the nearby hospital. For PTMC. 

And instead of pushing it aside. 

Or delaying it until tomorrow. 

Or having one of your employees drop it off.

You take the chance to drop it off yourself. 

Sending your employees home. You close up shop. Bringing you back to those early days when it was just you trying to first start up shop. 

When it was just you filling in orders. Organising the chaos…

Back then you might not have realised it. Might not have been able to appreciate it.

But now, you cherish the peace it brings you.

The simplicity of it all. 

Taking in the crisp evening air, as the warmth from the day slips away under the night sky.  

Strolling along the street, the bouquet in hand. 

And just as you’re walking towards the entrance, looking down at your phone to double check where you’re supposed to be headed. 

You hear your name. 

“Y/N?” 

Blinking, you look up, turning around to come face to face with–Jack.

A little startled by how close he really was. 

A smile forms upon your face. 

“Oh–hey, Jack,” you greet. 

His hand grips the strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder. His lips morph into a smile, nodding, “How are you?” 

“I’m good thanks, same old, same old,” you shrug, “What about yourself?” 

“Just the usual–uh, I noticed your shop disappeared–everything ok?” he asked. 

And the way his words carry this sense of sincerity. This sense of true interest catches you off guard. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m still in business,” you show off the bouquet, “I had to move cause of the rent, I’m actually just down the street now.” 

He flashes you a smile, nodding, “Well, I’ll make sure to come by to say hi”

“That’d be nice,” you shift a little nervously. 

Before your brows furrow, knitting together as you notice the scrubs. Tilting your head, “D’you work here?”

“Didn’t I mention?” he asks a little surprised, whilst you shake your head no, “I’m a doctor in the ED here” 

“That’s cool, must be hectic”

“No more hectic than that time you were prepping for that wedding order,” he joked. Reminiscing his one visit to your store whilst you were knee deep drowning in white long stem roses, all needed to be trimmed and dethorned. And a sea of baby’s breath. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head, feeling a warmth rise to your cheeks, trying to hide your face into the bouquet of flowers, “Well my job doesn’t depend on saving lives”

“Maybe not, but it does make a difference,” he compliments so sweetly. He gestures to the flowers, “Are they for someone in particular?” 

The question feels uncomfortable on his tongue. 

As though he’s probing beyond the boundaries of your relationship. 

Unsure of whether or not he truly wants the answer…Thinking that those flowers might be for someone dear to you…Someone who’s able to call you theirs. 

Not wanting the answer. 

Because truthfully. 

Jack had noticed his own shifting feelings for you. 

Had noticed how there were days he couldn’t shake you from his thoughts. Days where he wanted to buy a bouquet just to simply see you. 

He noticed how he looked forward to seeing you. 

The moment he had seen your store gone. 

Packed up and closed. 

It made his heart fracture a little. It made him ache. 

Shaking your head, “No, these are for a delivery. Decided to run my own errands instead of making one of my employees do this–actually could you point me in the direction of the maternity ward?” 

Your answer sends a wave of relief rippling through him. 

He does his best to hide how happy this makes him. “I’ll take you through, bit of a short cut,” he juts his head, prompting you to follow him through. 

Walking through the chaos, through chairs, through the ED, you breeze through. Guided by him. Steadied by his calm. 

For once you are privy to see him in his work environment for a change. 

See how he interacts with his colleagues. 

However brief it is. 

It’s nice. 

He takes you through to the elevator. 

Pressing the button inside, telling you that it’ll lead you where you need to go. Eyes softening, as he steps back, hand still keeping the lift doors open…

Simply basking a little longer in your company. 

“Well–I’ll see you around,” he nods towards you, coughing slightly to break him out of his own daze. 

Smiling softly at him, you nod, “Yeah…I hope so” 

And then he steps back, his eyes don’t leave you even as the doors close, he offers a small wave. 

And then the doors close. 

Robby claps a hand onto his shoulder, breaking Jack from his daze, he arches a brow, “Wanna tell me who that was?” 

Jack brows furrow, jaw set tight, “Was just helping her out”

“Right,” Robby nods, “So that wasn’t the florist I’ve heard you talking about to Dana?” 

“How do you know–you know what, I am not doing this with you,” Jack shakes his head, starting to walk to the lockers, to place his bag away. Only for Robby to follow him. 

“C’mon, you’re always telling me to be a bit more open–shouldn’t the same apply to you?” Robby remarks. 

Jack tuts, “Not until you are”

Robby chuckles under his breath, being pulled back into work. Calling back, “I’ll find out sooner or later”

“I’d like to see you try,” Jack retorts. 

Jack’s view of you might’ve faded away. 

But the memory of you lingers…

And the smile that had adorned your face since seeing him–hadn’t dimmed for a second. Lasting until you were tucked up in bed, soothed by the image of his face even as you drifted asleep. 

Wishful that that wouldn’t be the last of him you’d see…

And if there was one thing you had discovered about Jack. 

Was that he was a man of his word. 

Loyal to a fault. 

True to his words. 

So when he said he’d stop by–he meant it. 

Coming by in the early morning just after his shift, or just before he started work, just as you were closing, he’d stop to say hello, he’d come in to buy flowers. 

Even though it wasn’t the very dates you had memorised. 

He continued stopping by. 

He continued to say hello, continued to stop and have a chat with you. Each time getting to know you a little more, a little bit better. 

Even asking you questions about flowers. Loving the way you talk about them. Loving the passion that seeps into your words, how it makes your eyes shine in interest. 

Getting lost in a ramble of the types of flowers, what they mean, the history of them. And all those little facts that you’re fascinated by. 

And in those early mornings, over time, over the course of a few weeks he had started bringing you a coffee, and a pastry. 

The first time he had simply insisted he was given the wrong order, which so happened to be your exact order. 

And then it became habit. 

Routine. 

And in the evenings, you started making sure you had a pot of coffee ready and waiting, for just in case he stopped by. Just in case he came to say hello…

Dancing around these labels of client and friend. Blurring between what was professional and friendly…with glimpses into something more. 

Glimpses into what it would feel like. 

Craving to know what it would feel like…

Unable to know just how to cross those lines. To make a definite choice. To potentially alter your relationship for better–or more terrifyingly–for worse. 

And Jack…

Well he had never been one to run away from a challenge. 

And he wasn’t about to start now. 

And with one final push from Dana. Some vague words of encouragement from Robby. And perhaps some probing from his very own nightcrawlers…

He finally decided to bite the bullet. 

Staring down at the ring on his hand. 

He decided. 

He deserved a second chance…

Deserved another chance at happiness. Even at the cost of heartbreak–

Jack knew better than most. That it was better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all. Even if it had taken him some time to realise this…

And so. 

It had led to him colluding with Maggie from your store…

Over the recent visits he had asked you questions. Questions that seemed ordinary on the surface. Simple. 

But they helped him build an idea of the flowers you treasured most. 

Which ones held the most meaning…

And so. 

With these ideas in mind, he had secretly asked Maggie to build the bouquet. Maggie had even gone as far as to slip out the back to hand them over to Jack while you were busy and distracted. 

The wide grin on her face, unable to be hidden. She winked at him, “Good luck to you, Mr Hyacinth”

“Hyacinth?” he asked, confused. 

Maggie only laughs softly, “Sorry, force of habit.”

“What does it mean?” 

“Oh, just a little nickname we call you by–cause all of your bouquets have hyacinths,” She explains, “Y/N’s always insisted on it. But only ever the blue, purple or white ones.” 

Jack’s brows knit together, glancing down at the bouquet. It was on the surface, perfect. 

Complete. 

But it was missing something. 

“They tend to represent remembrance, in honour of loved ones who have departed,” Maggie explains softly. 

Biting his lip. 

He’s warmed by your thoughtfulness. 

All this time he had never known what those hyacinths had represented. 

Had never known the depths of their meaning. 

He looks up at her, asking, “Are there any hyacinths that have a positive meaning?” 

She beams at him, nodding, “One second”

She slips back inside, and before long she’s cracking the door open, with blooms of pink hyacinths in hand. Gently threading them into the bouquet. 

“Y/N once told me that these represent new beginnings and joy,” She nods in satisfaction, before stepping away. 

He smiles at her words, about to walk away before Maggie calls out, “And Jack?”

He hums glancing up at her. 

“Please be good to her”

Nodding he replies, “Of course”

She slips back inside, and Jack is left with a beautiful bouquet, crafted especially for you. 

Now all that was left to do…

…Was tell you how he felt about you. 

And somehow. 

That made him nervous. More nervous than he had been in a long time.

Doing all that he could to build his courage. 

…

Your day had been long. 

Brutal. 

The work simply never ended. 

And as good as that was for business. It was definitely draining for you. 

On top of that. Just as you were closing up, you had nicked your hand with a sharp thorn. Biting your lip, hissing from the stinging pain. 

The spot was awkward and a little finicky. 

You were fishing in the drawer to try and find your tweezers, the ones you kept for these situations. 

And as if your luck today couldn’t get any worse, you shift causing the thorn to dig in a little deeper.  

Groaning in pain, you drop the tweezers, accidentally knocking them behind some of the buckets of flowers. 

Sucking in a harsh breath, you mutter, “Fuck–”

And then there’s a knock on your door. Your head shoots up. Blinking in shock, while your eyes meet with Jack’s who waves a little nervously. 

Eyes flickering down to where the tweezers disappeared, before walking over to unlock the door. 

“Hey–” His brows knit in concern as he notices your panicked look. “Are you okay?” 

Sighing, you shake your head, as you show him the thorn, “I managed to make myself into a human pin cushion, and now the tweezers I normally use have decided now's the time to explore behind the sunflowers,” you gesture towards the place they disappeared to. 

Jack nods listening, before guiding you back to the stool by the bench, “I’ll get those, just sit, before you do anything to dig it in a little further”

You nod thankfully. Shoulders dropping as you finally relax into the chair. 

He places the bouquet of flowers upon the bench, before going down onto the flower to try and find these tweezers. 

You watch him, smiling softly. 

Before you glance at the flowers on the bench, a small frown forming upon your lips. 

They were beautiful. 

Gentle colours. 

Soothing. 

All blending together seamlessly. 

You note the different flowers threaded through. 

The light pink poppies. 

Creamy white sweat peas. 

Gerbera daisies, in both pale pink and buttercream tones. 

Tufts of ruffled pink carnations. Varying in depths and hues. 

All of them were some of your very favourites. The bouquet wasn’t overly extravagant, it was elegantly simple. 

And then–

You noticed the pink hyacinths. 

A flower symbolising joy, new beginnings…And then all the flowers build to form this picture in your mind, this idea in your head. 

Their meanings coming together, overlapping. 

They were the perfect bouquet for symbolising the start of a new relationship–a new romantic relationship. 

“Ah, found it,” Jack called out, standing back up from his spot on the floor. 

Stopping before you, as he gently takes your hand, twisting it to find the thorn. Clicking his tongue as he sees it. 

“I thought you wore gloves when handling roses?” he asked, concentrating on carefully pulling the thorn out. 

Nodding a little sheepishly, “I do–but I had already taken them off and it was just this one flower and then–” you wince slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brows furrowing in worry. 

You shake your head, “My fault.” And then your eyes drift once more. Going back to linger upon the flowers on the bench, the beautiful bouquet Jack had brought. “So who’re the flowers for? You got a hot date or something?”

The question feels lighthearted. Feels friendly. But it aches you to ask. 

Breaks your heart to ask whether the guy you had been pining after…was interested in someone else…

His smile softens, eyes focused on your hand, the thorn pulled out, as he gently wipes at the small scratch it had left, he grabs a bandaid from your drawer before plastering it. 

“I’m hoping for one anyway,” he answers coyly. 

Those nervous feelings building within him once more, “It’s been a while–so I’m a little rusty. I don’t even know if flowers are the thing to do anymore–”

You snort, “Well for the sake of my business I hope flowers are still the thing to do when it comes to romance”

He nods to your words. Adding quickly, “–Oh, before you ask. Yes, they’re are from your shop.”

Your brows knit together, watching as he takes the bouquet, to hold them out to you. 

You blink. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Before your brows shoot up, “Uh–I don’t, I don’t understand”

He sucked in a deep breath, before starting to explain, dancing around his question, prolonging the inevitable, for a few moments more, he still had a chance, still had hope, “Maggie helped arrange them, and we made sure they were all your favourites–So I’m hoping. Hoping that you might–”

He pauses. 

Struck by how nervous he truly was. 

How when he looked into your eyes, you made him breathless. 

Made his heart race. 

Made him feel things he hadn’t felt in forever. 

Had reawakened a part of him that he had thought was long dormant…

And that scared him. 

Terrified him. 

Afraid that you would say no. 

You take hold of the bouquet, hands brushing his as one stays within his grasp, threading your fingers with his, “Might?” you probe softly. 

Hope filters across your features. 

The way his smile causes a warmth to bloom from your chest, makes your heart skip a beat. 

“I was hoping you might–might go out with me?” his words slip into something vulnerable. Quiet. 

It feels so foreign to see this man. 

Usually so sure of himself. 

Usually so confident. 

Now becoming nervous. 

Nervous from asking you out. 

It was incredibly endearing, you squeezed his hand, a wide smile beams across your face. Before you can find the words you nod. 

Bursting from excitement. 

Disbelief. 

“Is that–is that a yes?” he clarifies. 

Leaning into him, your arms wrap around him, “Yes, yes!” before you quell your excitement, regain your cool just a little, as you lean back to meet his eyes, “I’d love to go out with you” 

He takes your hand once more, “Is tonight too soon?” 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” you smile. 

“Great,” he echoes, “Because I’ve already made a booking for us”

You lift a brow, “Oh? And how’d you know I’d say yes?”

“I didn’t–but Maggie made me think I might have a shot”

You laugh softly, “And how’d she manage that?”

“Might have to do with hyacinths…”He says a little cheekily. 

Your eyes flutter in confusion, “Hyacinths?–Oh no”

His grin widens into a smirk, as he hums out in acknowledgement, “Oh yes”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Don’t tell me–did she say”

“She might’ve”

“And now you know we called you?..”

“Just so you know, you can call me Mr Hyacinth if you prefer, you know, just in case you don’t want to call me Jack,” he teased. 

You lightly shove his arm. Tutting, as you groan out in embarrassment.

“For the record, Maggie came up with the name,” you state. 

He licks his lips, amused by your reaction, “And I hear it was your idea to include hyacinths in my bouquet.”

“...Maybe,” you confirm softly, before standing to pull him by the hand, grasping your bag, “Ok–We should go out before I’m too embarrassed to go out in public”

He shakes his head, his hand so warm in yours. 

So soothing. 

Comforting. 

Familiar. 

It’s a feeling he begins to crave. 

“Don’t be embarrassed. I happen to love that nickname,” Jack replies. Voice full of warmth, of honesty. 

You smile up at him, locking the door behind you. 

“Ok, then. Lead the way,” you nod. 

Following Jack’s lead. 

Over the course of your relationship. You take it as slow as he needs. Pacing and never pushing further than he can handle. 

And Jack. 

He dives right into the relationship with you. He reminds you that he is all in. That he is in this for you. Reassuring you of his growing devotion. Growing admiration. 

Until it becomes love. 

Until it becomes something he can’t see himself without. 

He had known love before. Had lost love before…and the hurt was immeasurable. 

But for you, he would go through it again. 

Would take that leap. 

Would take that risk. 

So long as he could wake up to you wrapped in his arms, over and over again. 

Which had led him to the decision to ask you to marry him. To which you had answered with an overwhelming gleeful yes. 

Springing you both into a whirlwind of planning. 

Decisions such as who to invite. 

Where to hold it. 

When to have it. 

And what flowers to include. 

You had gotten almost everything perfectly planned out, all ready for the big day…

There was just one thing left to do before the wedding. 

One small thing you wanted to do. Felt compelled to do. 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to–”

You take his hand in yours, “Jack, I want to”

He smiles at you, “You know I love you so much”

Leaning up you press a kiss to his lips, murmuring against his lips, “And I love you too” 

Taking in a deep breath as you part, calming your racing heart. 

You walk side by side. 

A comforting silence brews between you both. 

Treading through the pathways, passing by the different headstones. 

Until you come to a stop. 

You offer a sad smile, eyes softening as you read the name. Read the words imprinted upon the stone. 

You squeeze Jack’s hand, as you feel him shift and fidget slightly. 

“Hey, Darling–I know it’s not usually the day I come to visit,” he swallows thickly, feeling a lump form in the back of his throat, “But I brought someone I’d like you to meet”

Darling.

Jack would call you many little affectionate nicknames. From love, sweetheart, angel, baby, and many others. 

But the one name he didn’t use. 

Was Darling. 

A name reserved for his first love. 

And that was something you respected. 

You offer him a small nod, your hand slipping from his, as you crouch down to clear the few weeds growing around the headstone, arranging the flowers neatly at the headstone. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Jack’s told me a lot about you–not sure if he’s done the same–” you begin to say, staying knelt on the ground. 

“–I have spoken about you, a lot, probably a bit too much,” he interjected. 

You smile at his words, “I only hope they were all good things,” you joke lightly. 

Jack goes quiet beside you.

You don't look at him immediately.

Instead, you finish adjusting the bouquet, tucking one stray stem back into place. White lilies. Soft pink roses. A few sprigs of baby's breath woven through the arrangement.

And of course, pale blue hyacinths. 

Flowers chosen carefully.

Flowers chosen with love.

For a woman you'd never met.

A woman who had shaped the man standing beside you.

Your fingers brush the cool stone.

"I know it's probably strange," you continue softly. "Talking to someone I've never actually met,” eyes watering slightly,"But I feel like I know you a little."

Beside you, Jack drops his gaze.

The wind stirs through the cemetery.

Gentle.

Quiet.

"I know how much you loved him,” Your voice catches slightly, "And I know how much he loved you."

Jack's eyes close.

Because he had.

God, he had.

There had been a time he thought he'd never survive losing her.

A time he thought his heart had been buried right alongside her.

Then somehow–

Years later–

He had walked into a flower shop to see you carrying a crate of peonies and completely turned his world upside down.

You glance up at him.

Your smile is small.

Tender.

"He's still carrying you with him," you continue. 

Jack swallows.

Hard.

Your hand rests lightly atop the headstone, "But that's okay. Because loving someone doesn't stop just because they're gone."

The lump in Jack's throat grows impossible to ignore.

"And I don't want it to,” You shake your head slightly. That finally makes him look at you.

Really look at you.

Your eyes shine with sincerity.

No jealousy.

No resentment.

No insecurity.

Just kindness.

The kind that seemed woven into every part of you, "And I don't think loving me means he loved you any less."

A tear slips down Jack's cheek before he can stop it.

You immediately reach for him.

His hand finds yours halfway.

Intertwining your fingers.

Holding on. As you tether him to the present. 

"He talks about you with so much love,” Your thumb brushes across Jack's knuckles, you smile, "And honestly? I think that's one of the reasons I fell in love with him."

Jack lets out a shaky laugh.

You continue, "I have a feeling he's the man he is today because of you."

His shoulders tremble.

"He loves deeply."

A pause.

"He's patient."

Another.

"He notices the little things."

A smile.

"He remembers anniversaries."

That earns a choked laugh from Jack.

"And he loves with everything he has."

Your eyes return to the headstone, "So thank you,” The words come quietly. Sincerely. Falling from your lips, they were the words you had held close to your heart, words you had longed to say for so long, now finally spoken aloud, "Thank you for loving him first."

Jack's breath hitches. His chest constricts, moved by your words. 

"Thank you for helping shape the man I get to spend my life with,” Your eyes flicker down at the engagement ring sparkling on your finger.

The one Jack had slipped onto your hand a few months ago. The one that still made your heart race every time you looked at it.

"And I promise I'll take good care of him,” Your voice softens. Your words are so tender, and sincere, "I'll love him enough for both of us."

Tears burn behind Jack's eyes. Makes him hold your hand a little tighter. A little firmer. Clinging onto the connection. 

You smile sadly. Holding back your own tears, as your eyes grow misty, "On your behalf, of course."

The cemetery falls silent again.

The kind of silence that doesn't feel empty.

Just peaceful.

For a long moment neither of you speaks.

Then Jack suddenly crouches beside you as best he can. And before you can react, his arms wrap around you. Holding you tightly.

Desperately.

His face presses into your shoulder.

You immediately return the embrace.

One hand sliding into his hair.

The other rubbing gentle circles across his back.

His voice cracks, "You have no idea how much I love you."

Your eyes sting.

You smile against his temple, "I think I'm starting to."

He lets out a wet laugh.

Pulling back just enough to look at you.

There are tears on his face.

But there's something else too.

Relief.

Peace.

Certainty.

The kind of certainty he'd spent years searching for.

"I was scared,” he admitted. 

Feeling a weight lifting off of his chest. One he had carried for so long. One that was only now being alleviated. 

Not completely.

It never would.

Grief didn't disappear.

Love didn't disappear.

But somehow they fit together now.

Past and future.

Memory and possibility.

Loss and joy.

All existing side by side.

"Of what?" You question. 

Jack glances toward the grave. Then back to you, "That moving forward meant leaving her behind."

Your heart aches, "Oh, Jack."

"But standing here..." His thumb brushes over your engagement ring, "Listening to you. I think she'd love you." His smile trembles. 

Sucking in a harsh breath, his pretty hazel eyes peering into yours. 

And with that look. So pure. So full of devotion. The tears finally spill down your cheeks.

Jack squeezes your hand. Then his eyes flick toward the headstone once more. A soft smile touching his face, "I think I’ve probably mentioned this but she's a florist." He starts to explain. 

Introducing you officially. To the woman who still kept a piece of him. Who would forever keep a part of his heart. 

"She makes sure I eat properly, fulls meals, no granola bars for dinner anymore."

You snort, "Jack."

"She steals my hoodies."

"Because they're comfortable,” you explain. 

"She cries during dog food commercials,” he shares. 

Your mouth falls open, "I do not."

"You absolutely do," he argues. 

You can't stop laughing now.

The sound carries softly through the quiet cemetery. And for the first time all afternoon, Jack laughs too.

A real one.

Warm.

Bright.

Alive.

He looks down at the woman kneeling beside him.

You. 

His fiancée.

His future.

And somehow he knows.

Without doubt.

Without guilt.

Without fear.

He had loved once.

Deeply.

Completely.

And he would always carry that love with him.

But being here now, side by side with you, with your hand in his–

With flowers resting at the grave and sunlight filtering through the trees–

Jack Abbott realizes something else.

His heart had not been buried here.

It had survived.

And somehow, against all odds, it had found its way home again.

His gaze drifts to the headstone.

A small smile forming, softly whispering, "Thank you, Darling."

Then he looks at you.

His eyes full of love.

As you peer up at him. 

"For leading me to her" 

You smile at him, mirroring back his own deep affections. You pull him closely into your arms, as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

And in that moment you knew. 

You belonged in his arms. 

Just as Jack knew. That you belonged in his heart forever intertwined with his life.

The beginnings of something new. 

Moving on didn’t mean forgetting the past. It meant embracing the future, in remembrance of what once was…

And that was something Jack was more than ready for.  

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this fic, revolving around Jack and a Florist!Reader (heavy on the hyacinth this time around) ♥️ Just a whole lot of sweetness. Hope you enjoyed the little exploration into them honouring Jack's late wife (felt so bittersweet to include) anyway! this was so cute to explore and I hope you thought so too! Let me know what you thought or if you'd like to be tagged in this collection of stories ✨

Read the next instalment of the Bouquet of Love Stories 💐

-> Read Next...Dennis Whitaker x Florist!Reader: Cotton Blooms

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 If you want more Jack Abbot check out my series below! Who Would've Thought series here💖 Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 I Know You're Hurting series Before You Ask...It Was A Shark 🦈 Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!

Taglist: @cozyvanillacashmere @loki-trickst3r @thehockeynerd30 @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair @barnes70stark @kyky9103 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @kmc1989

“…and i think we’re not far off from closing the deal. tomorrow we have another meeting, i think we can do it.”

theo’s voice suddenly jolted you out of your thoughts. to your embarrassment, you weren’t listening – you were too busy ogling his body, your glistening bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you watched his hands move. his knuckles flexed just slightly, but it was enough to drive you insane with desire. unexpectedly, you found yourself wishing they were wrapped around your throat.

“amore? what’s wrong?”

theo’s eyebrows creased as he noticed how distracted you were. usually, you would eagerly listen and ask questions about whatever he was saying, but now… your mind was clearly somewhere else.

“nothing, baby. nothing’s wrong,” you murmured, scooting closer to him, your body moved by some higher force coming from the inside. “you just look so hot…” you whispered as your hand touched his chest, moving up and down over the tanned skin, fingers brushing over theo’s nipples.

a small, hesitant smirk appeared on theo’s lips at your touch. he’d never witnessed this side of you before, but he had to admit, it was the sexiest sight he’d had the pleasure of experiencing in a while. “i do, don’t i?” he murmured back, his hand automatically landing on your hip. “you’re so clingy tonight, principessa. anything you’d like to share?”

“not really. just want you, is all.”

you climbed onto theo’s lap, straddling him, your pussy settling snugly over his already semi-hard cock. his hands were skimming up and down your thighs, riding up your little nightgown, but not quite reaching the place that craved them. normally, you’d be all into the foreplay, but not today. your hormones were raging, and you felt how much it was turning theo on, which made you even hornier in response.

without saying another word, you leaned over to the nightstand, quickly grabbing a condom from the drawer. theo’s eyebrows rose, even more surprised by how proactive you were behaving, and his cock twitched between your legs – he’d always secretly wished you took more initiative, and now that it was happening? he couldn’t resist you. he wouldn’t even if he wanted to.

“oh, cazzo, amore…” theo swore under his breath, followed by a quiet gasp when you shifted on his lap, pulling down his pants and freeing his erection. he was fully hard at that point, and his cock throbbed as you rolled the condom on.

“want you, baby…” you murmured, lifting your hips up and grabbing his cock to line it up with your entrance. theo’s mind, usually busy with whatever godforsaken matter was on it at all times, was now pleasantly turned off. he could only moan when you lowered yourself onto him, your own voice breaking when he filled you up to the very brim. your nails dug into his chest, and it was a sting so pleasant, theo couldn’t hold back a small whimper. he never let sounds like that escape his mouth – but damn, if you weren’t ruining him this very moment.

“choke me.”

theo’s eyes snapped open, the pleasure overridden for a brief moment by the suddenness of your request. “a-are you sure?” he stuttered out, unable to keep his voice steady as you rode him, the slickness of your pussy gliding over his dick creating the most pornographic sounds he thought he’d ever heard.

“yes, please. choke me,” you panted out, taking ahold of his hand and guiding it to your throat. this did it for him. in a split second, you were already laid out on your back, with theo on top of you, his fingers curling around your throat. it wasn’t painful, no – he was still holding back the most primal part of himself, but it was getting harder and harder as he watched your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“you like that, huh?” he whispered, his lips hovering just above yours as he started thrusting into you, hips snapping soundly against yours. “my sweet princess likes it a little rough, yeah? cazzo, you’re about to kill me…”

and you couldn’t deny that even if you tried. as his hand around your throat cut off just enough air to feel a little dizzy, as his cock hit all the right spots over and over again, you realised that maybe it wasn’t just your hormones. maybe you really did like it a little rough sometimes.

You climb in, setting the heavy bucket of unsellable flowers between your legs — roses blown open too far, daisies with too many petals missing, baby’s breath starting to yellow. You've always refused to let them go to waste.

The truck smells like him and the street tacos you said you wanted instead of flowers. Anything but flowers.

JJ pretends to hold an invisible microphone toward you.

“Miss Y/N Y/L/N,” he says in a fake announcer voice, “how does it feel to be officially released from flower jail?”

You sink into the seat and tip your head back dramatically. “So goddamn good.”

Then you hold your hands up toward him. They’re scratched, tiny cuts crosshatching your fingers from rose thorns and staples catching your skin as you quickly ripped open flower boxes.

“Other than my hands,” you add. “And my feet. And my shoulders. And my brain.”

“I'm sorry, baby," he pouts, then reaches over without hesitation and starts kneading your shoulders.

The second his thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of your neck, you fold forward onto the dashboard with a soft, helpless sound.

“That feels so good,” you moan dramatically. “Oh my god. Don’t stop.”

His hands freeze for half a second then he groans low in his throat. “Careful,” he mutters, leaning closer. “You keep making sounds like that in my truck and we’re not making it out of this parking lot.”

You swallow and glance at him, loving the way that sounded but realizing that you absolutely need to get out of here. It's practically been home the entire last week.

“Yeah,” you murmur, a little breathless. “That might be a problem.”

His thumbs press deeper into your shoulders and you practically melt.

You slump back in your seat, exhausted and flushed. “I never want to see another flower again.”

He snorts and glances down between your legs. “Maybe don’t look down then,” he says, squeezing your thigh lightly right beside the bucket, sending heat straight through you. “You’re literally straddling an entire garden.”

You giggle and chew your lip, looking at him sideways. God, you can't wait to be in bed with him.

He watches your expression change and raises a brow.

“What’s the plan tonight? Still the same thing? Or you wanna go out and celebrate?”

You don’t even hesitate. “None. No plans. Absolutely nothing.”

He grins slowly.

“Well… I was thinking maybe we go home. Eat dinner. Have some drinks. I give you your presents.” His hand drifts from your shoulder down your arm lazily. “Then maybe you take a bath.”

Your eyes practically roll back at the idea of a warm bath.

“Maybe together,” he adds casually.

You swallow and nod. "I'd love that."

“Then we put on a movie,” he continues, leaning closer, voice lower now. “And absolutely do not watch it.”

Your cheeks get even warmer.

His fingers trace the inside of your thigh.

“Maybeee... I give you a full body massage?"

You giggle happily, feeling blessed beyond words. And also turned on beyond words. “With a happy ending?"

Your head tilts back against the seat as you sigh happily. Suddenly you can't stop smiling. “Those are the best words I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Of course,” he says immediately. Then his voice drops even lower, rougher. “And I do all the work.”

He pauses dramatically. “More than ‘I love you’?”

You lean over and kiss him, slow, sweet, just long enough to make him melt a little. “Second best words,” you whisper against his mouth.

He smiles proudly, eyes crinkling. Then tries his best to look serious. “You sure you don’t wanna go out? Last chance. Fancy dinner. Dancing. Public setting.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩𖦹⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

You bark out a laugh like he’s lost his mind. “Oh my god, JJ. Just drive.”

He had stumbled upon the newly opened flower shop on a rainy day due to a sudden change in his usual route. Buck Cashman wasn’t a man who typically noticed the scenery, especially not when the sky was a bruised grey and the rain was beginning to seep through his jacket. He had taken a shortcut through a narrow side street to avoid a crowd of tourists near the main terminal, and that was when the splash of color caught his eye.

The shop didn't have a flashy neon sign. It just had a simple wooden board that read The Green Glass in clean, gold lettering. Through the window, he saw a warm glow and a silhouette moving behind a counter. Instinctively, he stepped inside to escape the downpour.

"Rough weather for a walk" a voice called out.

Buck wiped a drop of rain from his brow and looked up. She was standing at a heavy workstation in the center of the room, her sleeves pushed up as she worked. She was focused on a mess of branches and wire, moving with a steady, quiet intent.

"Just a bit of rain" Buck muttered, his voice sounding rougher than usual in the quiet shop.

He expected her to give him a generic greeting and go back to her work, or perhaps look a bit intimidated by the scowl he usually wore without realizing it. Instead, she gave him a quick, observant glance.

"You’re dripping on my floor" she said, though there was no malice in it. She reached under the counter and tossed him a clean, thick towel. “Dry off. I’ll be with you in a second. These lilies won’t wait if I stop now.”

Buck caught the towel with one hand, a bit surprised by the directness. He stood there, leaning against a display of ferns and watching her work. She moved with a sort of practiced efficiency that he respected. She wasn't delicate with the flowers; she was precise. She trimmed stems at sharp angles and tucked greenery into a ceramic vase with hands that looked like they knew the value of hard work.

"You run this place alone?”

"Since Monday," she replied, finally setting the shears down. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out from behind the table, meeting his gaze comfortably. "I’m the owner, the designer and the janitor. It keeps things simple.”

Buck found himself nodding. He liked that. He liked people who did their own heavy lifting. "It’s a nice shop. A bit hidden.”

"Hidden is good. It means people who find me actually want to be here" she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "So, did you come in for a specific reason, or are you just hiding from the clouds?”

He looked around at the buckets of roses and the tiny succulents lined up on the windowsill. He didn't need flowers. He didn't even have a vase in his apartment. But he felt a strange reluctance to leave the warmth of the shop.

"My place is a bit... grey" he said, the words feeling clumsy. "I don't know anything about this stuff."

"Most people don't. That’s what I’m for." she said. She walked over to a bucket of deep blue thistles and sturdy, dark-leafed branches. She bypassed the softer petals, reaching instead for the things that looked like they belonged in the wild. "Try these. They’re hardy. You don't have to fuss over them."

She handed him a simple bundle wrapped in brown paper. When his hand brushed hers to take them, he noticed her hands were cool and damp from the water.

"Thanks" Buck said. He paid, his fingers fumbling slightly with the cash.

"See you next time, Buck." she said as he headed for the door.

He stopped, his hand on the handle. "How'd you know my name?"

She gestured toward the faded stitching on his pocket with his name on it. "I pay attention to the details. It’s part of the job.”

Buck hesitated. Usually, he’d just nod and disappear into the crowd, but his boots felt heavy, anchored to the floorboards. He looked down at the thistles in his hand. Tough, prickly and blue. And then back at her. She had already picked up her shears again, but she was watching him with a patient, expectant sort of curiosity.

"Maybe I'll need a vase" he said, the words surprising even himself.

She didn't laugh. She just leaned one hip against her workstation and pointed toward a shelf of simple, heavy stoneware in the corner. "Tomorrow," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I’ve got a shipment of ceramic coming in tomorrow. Something that won't tip over the first time you walk past it."

He felt a slow, rare heat creep into his neck. It wasn't just the rain that felt different today; it was the way the air in the shop seemed to hum. "Tomorrow, then." he repeated.

He stepped back out into the rain with the bundle of thistles tucked under his arm. The air was cold, but for the first time in a long while, the walk home didn't feel quite so long. He was already thinking about which route he’d take tomorrow.

"Sorry. It's getting bad out there."

Steve shivered underneath the heat of your shop, and you stared.

There he was—Captain America himself—soaked through his blue hoodie, the weight of everything he carried still visible behind those steady, kind eyes. You’d seen him on the news, in history books, a symbol everyone looked up to, but here he was, standing quietly in your little flower shop, like any other man caught in the rain.

“You’re…” You stammered, trying to play it cool even though your heart was pounding like crazy.

"Soaked." Steve smiles to himself as if that's how you meant to finish the sentence. He wiped his hand on his sweatshirt and finally looks up you. "Do you have a towel?"

He glanced around your shop, droplets tracing lines down his sleeves and pooling on the wooden floor. You moved quickly, grabbing a thick towel and pressing it into his hands.

“Here,” you said, voice steady though your heart raced. "Sorry, it's all I had."

He accepted the towel with a grateful nod, patting his hair and shoulders dry as best he could. The storm outside raged on, but inside, the warm light and soft scent of jasmine and roses made the world feel miles away.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low, like he was settling into a rare moment of peace. “I didn’t expect to find refuge… or such a nice shop.”

Steve blinked, genuinely surprised. His eyes widened as they swept across the shop, taking in the vibrant colors—the soft blush of peonies, the fiery reds of roses, the delicate whites of baby’s breath, and the wild greenery spilling from every vase like a quiet celebration of life. He turned his gaze back to you, and for a moment, it felt like he was seeing you as part of the bloom—like you yourself were blossoming right there amid the petals, radiant and alive.

“You make all these… every morning?” His voice was soft, tinged with awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe the quiet dedication behind such beauty.

You nodded, cheeks warming slightly. “Yeah. It’s my thing. Every day starts with fresh blooms and quiet hours arranging them just right.”

Steve’s face lit up like the first rays of dawn. “That takes so much patience. And care. I can see it in everything here.” His eyes shone with admiration, not just for the flowers, but for you—for the way you poured yourself into your work, how it seemed to give you life.

“It does,” you admitted, a small smile curling your lips. “But it’s worth it. It helps me slow down—keeps me grounded.”

Steve’s gaze lingered, thoughtful and tender. He reached out slowly to touch the edge of a petal, then looked back at you. “I could use a bit of that.”

Steve blinked, genuinely surprised. His eyes widened as they swept across the shop, taking in the vibrant colors—the soft blush of peonies, the fiery reds of roses, the delicate whites of baby’s breath, and the wild greenery spilling from every vase like a quiet celebration of life. He turned his gaze back to you, and for a moment, it felt like he was seeing you as part of the bloom—like you yourself were blossoming right there amid the petals, radiant and alive.

“Well, I am closing soon,” You said with a playful smile, “but I can make an exception for Captain America.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed a soft pink as he glanced down at the vases, then back up at you. “Oh, that’s not me anymore,” he murmured, voice gentle but tinged with something like humility. “Just a guy who got caught in the rain.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter what you call yourself. You’re still welcome here.”

He looked at you, eyes warm and a little vulnerable, as if he wasn’t used to kindness without expectation. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That means more than you know.”

The rain pattered against the windows as you moved behind the counter, preparing a small cup of tea. “Sit down. I’ll make us something warm while you dry off.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, then nodded, settling into a chair by the window. You watched him—this man who’d carried the weight of the world—and felt something fragile and hopeful bloom between you both, like the flowers surrounding you.

Steve pushes off the frame of the doorway, a familiar smile tugging at his lips as he steps inside your shop. The scent of fresh blooms wraps around him like a welcome home.

"It rains too much." Steve mumbles, settling into the chair that he bought last winter.

You smirk, wiping your hands on your apron before nodding toward the window. “April showers.”

Steve leans back, rain dripping from the hem of his jacket, but he doesn't seem to mind. He watches you for a moment, like he's still in awe that this is where he ended up—your shop, your flowers, you.

“You could’ve stayed dry at home,” You tease gently, reaching for the kettle behind the counter.

“Yeah, but home doesn’t smell like freesia and lemon balm.” His voice is soft, familiar. “And home doesn’t laugh when I track mud on the floor.”

You smile deeply, "I didn't laugh."

Steve chuckles, shrugging out of his damp jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. “You did. Right before you threatened to hose me down.”

You pour the hot water over the tea leaves, the scent mingling with the flowers until the whole shop feels warm and alive. “Still might, if you ruin my floors again.”

He watches you move—like it’s a comfort, like he’s memorized every gesture and is still hungry for more. “Worth it.”

You glance up, and he’s already looking—eyes soft, like he’s not just seeing you, but choosing you again and again in all the quiet ways that matter.

Like the way he always shows up when the clouds get too heavy. Like the way he brings your favorite pastries and pretends they were on sale. Like how he remembers the names of your plants, even the finicky ones.

He doesn't rush to speak. Just sits there, soaking you in like you're the one keeping him grounded. Like the rest of the world quiets when you're near.

And maybe he doesn't say I love you in words— but he says it in the way his shoulders relax when you hand him tea. In the way he never looks at his phone when you’re talking. In the way he listens.

Really listens.

You hand him the tea—whatever you had left in the cabinet—and curl into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before. His arms come around you without a second thought, settling at your waist, warm and steady. The tea goes untouched on the table.

"One of these days, you're going to come in when the suns out," You whisper into his shoulders, "And you're going to finally buy some flowers."

Steve rolls his eyes," Why? So, I can give them back to you. No one else is worth your beautiful creations."

You huff a quiet laugh against his collarbone, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jacket. “You’re ridiculous.”

Steve just shrugs, smug and unapologetic, his breath warming your temple. “It’s not ridiculous if it’s true.”

You pull back slightly to look at him, your nose nearly brushing his. “One day, someone’s going to walk in here and buy every bouquet I’ve got.”

“And I’ll be right behind them,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, “offering double.”

Your lips twitch, but you don’t smile—not yet. “You really think you can outbid a stranger for flowers?”

Steve leans in, brushing a kiss against your cheek, then your jaw. “Not just flowers,” he says, barely a whisper now. “You.”

Stepping into the bustling flower shop, the scent of fresh blooms envelops you as you start another day of deliveries. Arrangements of roses, lilies, and tulips fill the space with vibrant colors and intoxicating fragrances. Above the door, the bell softly chimes, signaling your departure into the city– A particularly exquisite bouquet in hand. An imposing skyscraper of a major corporation was today’s first destination, a rare delivery for the quaint little shop.

Carefully cradling the flowers in your arms, you navigated the crowded streets until reaching the towering building. Sleek and modern, the lobby contrasts starkly with the charming disarray of the flower shop. You couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves as you approached the elevators. Hearing the door ding open, you begin to step inside, unbeknownst to you that James Barnes, the CEO, was stepping out. 

Suddenly, and chaotically; the collusion causes the petals to scatter across the polished, marble floor in a kaleidoscope of colors. 

“I’m so sorry, sir!” The words spilled out in a frantic rush, and you dropped to your knees, gathering the fallen flowers desperately. Your hand shook as you tried to salvage the bouquet. Panic surging through you, your heart pounding in your chest.

Mr Barnes stood above you, a towering figure of authority and magnetism. Sharp and discerning, his eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you. For a moment, his expression is inscrutable, then suddenly, his lips twitch as if suppressing a smile. Your breath hitched at the intensity in his gaze, as if he was sending unspoken commands that sent a shiver down your spine. 

Giving you a momentary reprieve, he looked away, clearing his throat. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you interpreted his reaction as disdain. Scrambling together the last of the petals, you muttered apologies and small comments about how your boss would be furious. 

As you manage to compose yourself, you catch sight of the now crumpled box that the flowers were in. Unbeknownst to you, Mr Barnes took a mental note of the shop’s name emblazoned on the side. You were left flustered and humiliated, convinced you had left a terrible impression on the older, powerful CEO.

~

Later that day, you were surprised to hear that he had called the shop. He explained the incident was his fault, not yours, and agreed to order flowers for the building regularly. “To brighten up the office,” he claimed, but his motives were more complex, layering with an interest that went beyond mere floral appreciation. 

The routine of delivering flowers to the building became almost comforting as the weeks passed. Yet, one morning, as you stepped into the lobby with a small bouquet of pink hydrangeas, you were unaware that he was watching, waiting for you on the cameras. The phone on the receptionist’s desk rang, echoing through the lobby, and she answered with a practiced smile. 

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, her accent thick. She turned to you after hanging up. “Mr Barnes wants you to deliver these personally today.” 

Taking the visitor key card she offered, your pulse quickened, and a mix of anticipation and dread bubbled within you. While making your way to the top floor, it was as if you could feel his gaze on you through the security cameras, a silent, omnipresent observer. The elevator doors open to the executive floor, and you step out, your grip tightening around the bouquet.

With a deep breath, you walked toward his office. The encounter of your first meeting played over and over in your mind. Ruining his suit, you felt jittery and self-conscious. Yet, as you enter his office, you see him there, every bit as intimating as you recall. His broad body was wrapped in a dark suit, attempting to look welcoming but still imposing. 

You felt small by the opulent surroundings as you hesitantly stepped further inside. “Hi… I, I’m, I brought the flowers you ordered,” your voice trembled slightly as you held up the bouquet– The vibrant pinks contrasting against the muted elegance of the office.

“Thank you, come, place them on the desk,” he instructed, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice was low, commanding yet inviting, almost like a purr.

As you made your way towards the massive glass desk, you couldn’t help but notice the way he watched your every move. His gaze followed you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Placing the flowers down carefully, you turned to face him, your heart pounding.

You begin to thank him before his low voice interrupts. “What’s your name?” You stutter as you tell him, feeling even smaller under his intense gaze. A small, almost predatory smile curved his lips. “Such a sweet little doll, tell me, are you always so clumsy?” 

Shifting uncomfortably, you felt a heat rise to your cheeks. “I… I didn’t mean to be. It was an accident.” 

A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, his smile widening. “Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. From now on, bring the flowers directly to me. Understood?” 

“Y-Yes, sir,” you whispered, nodding quickly. You turn to leave, his glass of whiskey in his hand catching your eye. “I b-better get going,” you stammered, slightly moving toward the door. 

“Do you not want to join this old man for a drink?” He held out the glass toward you, the amber liquid glistening in the light.

Glancing nervously at the clock behind him, you hesitated. “I really shouldn’t… I’m still on work time.” 

Raising an eyebrow, a hint of a smile still played on his lips. “Just one drink. It won’t take long.” 

Your fingers brushed against his as your trembling hands took the glass. The contact sent a shiver down your spine. “Thank you,” you whispered, nervousness and curiosity coursing through you. 

“To unexpected encounters,” he toasted, his eyes still locked onto yours.

Taking a small sip, the warmth spreads through you. “To unexpected encounters,” you echoed, your voice barely audible. 

He watched you intently, an unspoken tension thick in the air. The walls of his office seemed to close in around you, the lighting added to the intimacy of the moment. “Tell me, doll, how long have you been working at the flower shop?” he asked, leaning back in his leather desk chair slighting. 

“About six months,” you replied, your finger tapping the glass nervously. 

“And, do you enjoy it?” he asked, his gaze never wavering.

“Yes, sir, I-I do… it’s peaceful,” you said, your heart still raced but your voice became steadier. 

“Peaceful, huh?” He tilted his head, considering your words. “Not like this place,” he added with a wry smile, his whiskey glass-filled hand gesturing around the room. The walls were lined with large abstract paintings and bookshelves filled with finance, and self-improvement books. 

Taking another glance around, you took in the grandeur of his office. “It’s… very impressive,” you admitted, your eyes returning to his. 

“Oh, you think so?” His smile widened once again, amusement dancing over his piercing blue eyes. “You don’t find it… intimidating?” 

“A little,” you confessed, your cheeks growing hotter. 

“Good,” he said, his tone serious as he leaned back again. His fingers steepled beneath his chin. “It’s meant to be. But, you, doll,” he added, his expression softening slightly, “you shouldn’t be intimidated.” 

You swallowed hard, his comments catching you off guard. “I- I should really get back to the shop,” you said, your voice barely audible again. 

“If you must,” he conceded, reluctance lacing in his voice. “But remember, little doll… I expect to see you here every week with those fresh flowers.” 

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, a strange sense of excitement and apprehension rushing through you. “I, um, thank you for the drink.” 

“Anytime, babydoll,” he replied, his eyes lingering on you as you turned to leave. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as you walked back to the elevator. The marble floors echo your footsteps, and the soft hum of the employees fills your ears. The conversation replayed in your mind, every word, every glance.

The enigmatic and powerful James Barnes had taken a particular interest in you, and you realized that your weekly deliveries were about to become much more intriguing.

---