Covent Garden had seen many rivalries: vendors shouting over prices, fishmongers insisting their catch was fresher than the fellow two stalls down, the occasional heated row about the best way to roast a chestnut. But the real battle, the one people had started coming by just to watch unfold, was the ongoing war between bouquets and potted plants.

On one side of the cobbled aisle: Tewkesbury, the boy who seemed far too refined to be hawking roses and daisies with dirt on his cuffs, yet who did it with such earnest delight that passersby couldn’t help but buy an armful. His stall was a riot of colour- blooms carefully arranged, scent carried on the morning air. His bouquets were works of art, and he knew it.

On the other side: You, with your collection of greenery- ferns spilling from their pots, horsetails standing tall and ancient, prickly little cacti lined up like soldiers. A different kind of beauty, alive and lasting, plants that weren’t meant to wilt in a vase after a week. And the customers loved your honesty about it.

The two of you had turned it into a game.

“Ah, but nothing says romance like a bouquet.”

Tewkesbury called across the aisle this morning, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he wrapped fresh twine around a cluster of lilies.

“You can’t very well hand someone a potted horsetail and call it a declaration of love, can you?”

“Depends on the person,” you shot back without missing a beat, rearranging your ferns. “Some of us prefer something that doesn’t die on us within days.”

“Harsh.”

He clutched at his chest like you’d mortally wounded him, then leaned across his stand with a conspiratorial smirk.

“And yet- bouquets still sell better than your prickly cacti. Admit it, you’re losing.”

It had become routine, this playful sparring, with more laughter than bite. You both knew the truth: Tewkesbury agreed that keeping plants alive was far more rewarding than watching flowers fade in a vase, but he’d never say so aloud. Not when the debate was half the fun.