The common area of the building was your domain, whether you knew it or not. Where Johnny left scorch marks on the floor and the ozone scent of a spent spark, you left life. A trailing vine of jasmine snaked over the central console, its tiny white stars perfuming the air with a sweetness that clung to the back of the throat. On the sill, a pot of basil thrived next to a succulent that had, just yesterday, been a mere cutting. You were sitting there now, cross-legged on the floor, your brow furrowed in concentration as you coaxed a stubborn African violet to bloom. A single, purple petal unfurled like a slow, deliberate sigh.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe, a silent spectator to this quiet miracle. His internal monologue was a frantic: Okay, Storm. Casual. You’ve got this. Just walk in. Maybe say something like, ‘Hey, Green Thumb, you’re looking… photosynthetic today.’ No, that’s stupid. She’ll think you’re an idiot. She already thinks you’re an idiot. A charming idiot, hopefully. A charming, handsome idiot who brings her flowers.

He shifted his weight, the bunch of sunflowers behind his back rustling in their crinkly cellophane wrap. He’d picked them because they were the colour of captured sunlight, because they were bold and unapologetically bright, just like he wanted to be for you. It was a ridiculous, redundant offering—bringing a florist’s bouquet to a goddess of chlorophyll.

“You know,” he said, finally pushing off the doorframe and sauntering in, his voice a carefully calibrated mix of nonchalance and cheer, “that plant’s looking a little shy. Maybe it needs a pep talk from someone with a bit more… flair.”

You looked up, your eyes crinkled at the corners, the small, absent-minded smile you offered him. It was a smile he’d catalogued, a ‘teammate’ smile, warm and friendly and utterly, soul-crushingly oblivious.

“It’s not shy, Johnny,” you said, your voice the gentle rustle of leaves. “It’s just particular. It needs patience.”

“Well, patience isn’t really my superpower,” he quipped, coming to a halt beside you. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a low, controlled burn that had nothing to do with his powers and everything to do with your proximity. “But I brought a little reinforcement.”

He presented the sunflowers with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit.

You blinked, your gaze softening in a way that made his heart perform a complicated acrobatic maneuver in his chest. “Oh, Johnny. They’re beautiful. But you know I can just…”

You wiggled your fingers, and from a dormant bulb in a nearby pot, a tulip erupted, its red petals velvety and perfect. It was a casual, effortless display of everything you were. Johnny’s sunflower bouquet suddenly felt clumsy, man-made.

Of course. Of course she can grow her own. You’re such a clod.

But then you reached out and took the sunflowers, your fingers brushing against his. The contact was a static shock, a jolt that traveled straight up his arm and settled, warm and buzzing, behind his sternum. “But these are different,” you said, your tone genuinely appreciative. “They came from you. Thank you.”

He watched, mesmerized, as you found a vase, filled it with water, and arranged the sunflowers with a quiet reverence. You placed them right in the center of the table, a splash of brilliant gold against the cool, metallic sheen of the lab. His offering. In the center of your world.

Okay. Not a total loss. She liked them. She touched your hand. Don’t think about her hand.... Definitely think about her hand.

“So,” he began, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching for one of your curls to see if it felt as soft as it looked. “Big plans for this thrilling Tuesday night? Re-potting the ferns? Reading a bedtime story to the bonsai?”