#romanticcore

Each one’s lined up just right:

Plum & thyme. Strawberry lavender. Lemon basil.

All labeled by hand, sealed with love, and topped with kraft paper lids tied in twine.

She wipes her palms on her apron and tries to breathe. It’s her first day. She doesn’t know anyone here. The air smells like cinnamon bread and fresh herbs and a new kind of fear.

“You’re crooked.”

The voice startles her. Deep, but amused.

She looks up—and there he is.

Leaning casually against the edge of his stall across from hers, holding a bundle of peonies in one hand and a small pair of floral shears in the other. His stall is a burst of color: wildflowers, dahlias, tulips, and little chalk signs poking out between buckets of stems.

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

He points to her display. “Your sign. It’s tilted.”

Sure enough, her hand-painted chalkboard that says “Y/N’s Jams & Preserves” is hanging at a wonky slant.

“Oh. Right.” She straightens it quickly, cheeks going warm. “Thanks.”

He nods. Then walks over without being asked.

“First Tuesday?” he says, already crouching to tighten the table leg she gave up on ten minutes ago.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’re wearing the face of someone who packed a toolkit and forgot it in the car.”

“…I did,” she admits.

He grins, then stands, brushing dust from his palms. “Happens to the best of us. Here.”

He reaches into the bundle in his hand and pulls out a single flower. A peony, soft pink with ruffled edges and a long green stem.

She stares at it.

“What’s this for?”

“Good luck.”

She hesitates. Then takes it carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thanks,” she says again, softer now.

He smiles like he knows something she doesn’t. “You’re welcome, Jam Girl.”

She laughs—actually laughs—and shakes her head. “Flower Boy.”

He raises a brow, mock offended. “Is that what we’re doing? Nicknames?”

“Seems only fair.”

He salutes her with his shears and returns to his stall. She tucks the peony into the rim of her first basket, right beside the plum jars. It looks oddly perfect there.

The market hums to life around them.

Customers trickle in. The sun rises.

And across the path, Flower Boy glances her way every so often—just long enough for her to pretend she didn’t notice.

(But she does.)

And she smiles.

Because maybe this Tuesday won’t be so scary after all.

⸻