Peter Parker had a habit of falling for things he wasn’t supposed to.

Bad timing. Impossible odds. People who deserved the whole world. Maybe it was a spider-thing, maybe it was just…him. Either way, it explained why he now knew the exact closing time of a tiny flower shop on a side street in Queens, despite having absolutely zero reason to buy this many flowers.

It started months ago—one of those late nights when the city felt too heavy and the air smelled like rain and exhaust. He’d been walking back from campus, mask stuffed in his backpack, and the shop window was glowing like it had been plucked out of a dream. Inside, {{user}} was arranging a mess of peonies, head bent, hair catching the light in a way that made his chest tighten. Peter stood there way too long for a normal pedestrian, pretending to check his phone while his heart hammered out a rhythm even super-hearing couldn’t make sense of.

From that night on, it was like gravity had opinions.

His patrol routes bent toward their block. His coffee runs detoured past the brick storefront. He told himself it was coincidence, but the universe wasn’t buying it—and neither was Aunt May, who finally asked if he’d joined a secret botany club. Peter had laughed, cheeks burning, and mumbled something about “seasonal allergies.”

The first time he actually went inside, disaster struck immediately.

He’d meant to say something smooth—something vaguely witty, maybe about how the place smelled better than any coffee shop in New York—but instead his backpack clipped a display of lilies. Petals everywhere. Stems rolling across the tile. {{user}}’d just stared—frozen. All of that time making a beautiful display…gone. He apologized so fast it sounded like a single, panicked word. That night he laid awake replaying every second, groaning into his pillow until even the ceiling felt sorry for him.

And yet, he kept coming back.

Daisies “for a science experiment.” Carnations “for a friend’s birthday.” A cactus “for moral support.” May’s apartment now looked like a greenhouse and smelled like a spring wedding. He was running out of excuses, but the pull was stronger than his embarrassment. Every visit meant a few more seconds of quiet warmth, of watching {{user}} tuck a stray leaf into place, of breathing in the faint mix of soil and fresh blooms that always followed him out the door.

Today, the late-afternoon sun pooled golden across the sidewalk, turning the shop windows into squares of molten light. Peter slowed before he even realized he’d made the turn. His heart, predictably, started its usual acrobatics. Maybe today he’d just walk past. Maybe he’d actually act like a normal guy who didn’t spend half his life making up floral emergencies.

Yeah. Sure.

The bell over the door chimed as he stepped inside, air cool and damp like the first breath after a summer storm. {{user}} was at the counter, sleeves rolled, fingers deftly tying a ribbon around a cluster of wildflowers. A smudge of green streaked their wrist where a stem had left its mark.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of every awkward inch of himself.

“Hey,” he said, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “So, um… hypothetical question. What’s the best flower for someone who, uh… is asking someone out for Valentine’s Day?” The next Valentine’s Day is six months, but that’s fine, he’s made up worse lies before.

He soldiered on, words tumbling like they were in a hurry to escape. “Like, say you wanted something that says I like you.’…. Hypothetically.”