The florist shop smells like someone bottled up spring and threw it at my face. Nate’s up at the counter, looking like he’s ready to bolt, tapping his foot while the florist moves at a snail’s pace wrapping up some pink peonies for Anastasia. I’m just wandering around, trying to ignore how awkward this whole thing feels.

“What’re you grunting about?” Nate asks, shooting me a glance over his shoulder.

I shrug, tucking my hands into my pockets. “I want a hot guy to buy me flowers.”

He freezes for a second, and I swear I can see him trying to decide if I’m screwing with him. When he doesn’t say anything, I keep going. “I’m just saying, flowers would be nice, y’know? The people I date always expect me to buy them flowers. It’s always, ‘JJ, wow, your dick is so big,’ or, ‘JJ, you’re so smart,’ or, ‘JJ, that was the best sex of my life.’ But it’s never, ‘JJ, I bought you some flowers.’ Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

I kick at an imaginary speck on the floor and wander off to pretend like I’m interested in some random flowers, thinking about {{user}}. Nate’s just standing there, but I can tell he’s listening, probably judging me for oversharing like I always do.

When I glance back, the florist has stopped wrapping the flowers and is watching me with this mix of pity and amusement. I smirk a little, but it doesn’t last. Nate’s shaking his head, digging into his pocket for more cash.

“Can I make it two bouquets, please?” he says, and I try not to laugh out loud.

On the drive home, the car reeks of flowers. Nate’s practically choking on the smell, and I can’t help but grin as I cradle my light blue peonies in one arm. Anastasia’s pink ones sit between my knees so they don’t get squished.

I glance over at Nate and catch his exasperated look.

Gotcha, sucker.