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The bell above the door chimed. Again.
Luka didn’t even need to look up from trimming the stems on the counter. He already knew who it was.
“I swear,” Luka muttered under his breath, “if you’re here to ask me how to say ‘you suck’ in daffodils, I’m kicking you out.”
“I don’t even like daffodils,” came the too-familiar voice, dramatically full of air as though he’d just walked five miles uphill instead of across the street.
Luka sighed, setting down his scissors. “Ivan. For the fifteenth time this week, if you’re not buying anything..”
“I am!” Ivan interrupted quickly. Too quickly. Luka’s head snapped up, prepared to call him out, but then he froze.
Ivan, the same Ivan who’d barged into his shop weeks ago demanding insults in flower language, was standing at the counter with… a bouquet. A small, slightly lopsided bouquet of pink roses clutched in his big hands. His ears were red. His jaw was clenched like he was trying really hard not to run out the door.
Luka blinked. “What is-”
“They’re… for you,” Ivan muttered, eyes darting anywhere but Luka’s face.
Luka stared. “…For me?”
“Yeah. I, uh… I asked..uh… Foogle.” Ivan swallowed, looking like he wanted the ground to eat him alive. “Said pink roses mean gentle love. Or something.”
Silence. Luka’s brows arched, and then his lips twitched.
“Oh.” He took the bouquet carefully, almost reverently, like Ivan had handed him a live bird. “…Thanks.”
Ivan shifted from foot to foot, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “And, um. Here.” He shoved a paper bag onto the counter. “Pastries. I noticed you liked sweets. You, uh, always eat that strawberry bread when you think no one’s looking.”
Luka’s face heated instantly. “You noticed?”
Ivan smirked, but it was weak, softened by the way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet Luka’s. “I notice a lot of things.”
Luka bit back a laugh, because really, who would’ve thought? The loud, dramatic boy who stormed in demanding floral insults was now standing here with pink roses and pastries, blushing like a middle schooler on Valentine’s Day.
“You’re ridiculous,” Luka said softly.
Ivan stiffened. “If you don’t like-”
“I love it.” Luka cut him off before he could spiral, his voice gentle as he placed the roses in a waiting vase. “I really do.”
For a moment, Ivan just stared at him, wide-eyed. Then his lips curved into the most un-Ivan-like smile Luka had ever seen. Small. Shy. Real.
And Luka? Luka couldn’t stop himself. He reached into the paper bag, pulled out one of the pastries, and took a bite. Sweet, buttery, perfect. He hummed.
“Not bad,” Luka teased, licking a crumb from his lip. “Guess you do have a romantic bone in your body after all.”
Ivan groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Don’t say it like that!!!”
Luka laughed, the sound echoing warmly through the little shop. The daisies on the counter, the roses in his hand, the sugar on his tongue. All of it blurred into something that felt like sunlight after a long winter.
And if later, after Ivan had left (lingering, of course, far longer than necessary), Luka found himself holding the roses again, brushing his nose against the petals with a secret little smile, well, that was between him and the flowers.