Chapter Text
New York had never been a city that allowed for rest.
Its streets hummed with the incessant pulse of neon, its towers stood like mirrors held up to the sky, and its people moved as though racing against some invisible clock. To live here was to accept the rhythm of exhaustion, to wear it as naturally as a second skin.
Annabeth wore it better than most. She had perfected the art of command—of crisp suits and skirts, precise schedules, and words sharpened into arguments that sliced through courtrooms like steel. Every piece of her life seemed ordered to the point of inevitability. Coffee drained exactly to the bottom line of the porcelain mug before refilled, papers stacked in such flawless columns that any disturbance felt like an act of rebellion. Even her pens, aligned parallel to her laptop, seemed afraid to roll away.
It was no wonder, then, that her office looked more like a stage set than a room meant for living, a panorama of discipline against the backdrop of a restless city. And yet, like all stages, there was always a flaw if you looked long enough.
On the far side of the office, just beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows where New York sprawled in restless light, was the couch she swore she never used. It had been purchased, she had once insisted, for the comfort of clients who never stayed long enough to sit. Tonight, however, the lie was betrayed by the lawyer herself, stretched across its surface in a position that made little sense to human anatomy.
Her shoes had been abandoned with a precision that suggested she had simply collapsed exactly where her strength ended, the heels perfectly aligned side by side as though even exhaustion respected her need for symmetry. One arm draped over her face in a feeble attempt to shield her from the glow of the city that streamed past the curtains. The other rested limply against her stomach, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep.
Her white blouse was wrinkled now, though she would have protested the word; wrinkled implied lack of care, and Annabeth never allowed that much. The truth, however, laid plain: she had fought another day and lost, not to a case or an adversary, but to the most unromantic opponent of all—fatigue.
From the desk, the soft light of the laptop screen kept glowing, as though mocking her refusal to turn it off. Its half-written sentence blinked at her, waiting patiently for words that would never come tonight. And beside it, in quiet defiance of her self-imposed order, rested the smallest rebellion of all: a flower. Fresh, delicate, its color startling against the monochrome world of papers and steel. It leaned against an unopened envelope, whispering its own secret in silence.
Perhaps she would notice it once she was awake again, or perhaps not. Annabeth was very skilled at ignoring anything that did not fit neatly into her definition of necessity. Yet, as her lips parted in a half-formed sigh that almost resembled a dream, one might argue that the city was not entirely hostile, and that even the most serious lawyers could be outmaneuvered — by sleep, by softness, or by something as simple as a flower.
A few more soft snores broke the silence of the office, muffled against the fabric of the gray couch, until they were interrupted by the quiet click of the lock turning. The wooden double doors opened with the elegance of someone who knew she had every right to be there, and the soft rhythm of high heels crossed the polished floor. Two deliberate knocks over the table followed — more habit than necessity — before a sigh filled the air.
“You are, without a doubt, the most depressing situation I’ve ever seen,” Juniper said dryly.
On the couch, the figure stirred. Annabeth jolted awake, pushing herself up with the tense urgency of someone certain she had overslept for a court hearing. Her brown eyes darted around the room, shoulders stiff, until they landed on Juniper standing behind the sofa with arms crossed. Only then did the lawyer’s body soften into reluctant recognition.
She groaned. Juniper rolled her eyes.
“What time is it?” Annabeth muttered, scrubbing her face with both hands.
“Too early for you to be in the office, too late for it to count as last night,” Juniper replied, circling the couch. “Do you remember that you own a bed? With six pillows, mind you? I didn’t spend half a Saturday dragging you through stores to watch you ignore all of it in the place you own, Annabeth.”
Annabeth’s lips curved into a faint smirk as she stretched, wincing when her spine popped.
“For the record, we spent half a Saturday because you, Juniper, couldn’t decide between three identical lamps.”
Juniper gave her a pointed look.
“Don’t change the subject,” she told her. “Why are you sleeping here?”
“Work,” Annabeth answered simply, slumping back against the cushions. “And laziness. Driving home felt… optional.”
Juniper arched a brow.
“Optional, she says. What else?”
Annabeth hesitated before adding,
“Also—Prosecutor Jameson called. Again.”
Juniper’s eyes widened.
“Jameson? Don’t tell me—”
Annabeth nodded, already regretting mentioning it.
“That man is unbelievable.” Juniper threw her hands in the air. “Accused of murder and still thinks the tenth call will charm you into defending him.”
Annabeth gave a humorless laugh.
“I told him the same as the other nine times: no. Too many cases, no space for his circus, no matter the fee.”
“Too many cases?” Juniper repeated, squinting. “Do we have that much really?”
Annabeth tilted her head against the backrest, a mischievous glint breaking through her fatigue.
“Eh. We could make his case fit, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
Juniper let out a sharp laugh despite herself.
“You’re impossible.”
“Efficient,” Annabeth corrected, stifling a yawn and shaking her head softly.
Juniper perched on the armrest, studying her friend slouched and rumpled, hair undone from its tight bun.
“You look like the tragic end of a latino drama,” Juniper snorted. “Come on, get up.”
Annabeth cracked one eye open.
“Why?” she asked. “I have spare clothes here and I can straighten myself in the bathroom.”
Juniper rolled her eyes.
“I know. I’m not taking you home,” she explained. “We’re going out.”
Annabeth frowned.
“Where are we going?”
“To remind you that breakfast exists. If you won’t sleep in your own bed, at least let me feed you real food,” her friend argued.
Annabeth smirked, stretching like a cat.
“Tempting.”
“Not tempting. It’s mandatory,” Juniper tugged her upright by the wrist. Annabeth stumbled into her heels, fumbling with her shirt in a way that made Juniper want to roll her eyes straight into her brain.
“Give me that,” she snatched the button Annabeth struggled with, fixing it with swift, annoyed precision. “Honestly. How can you terrify judges but lose to a piece of fabric?”
“Fabric’s more stubborn,” Annabeth murmured, grinning despite herself.
By the time Juniper shoved her toward the door, she was still trying to shrug into her jacket. Juniper held the door open with the practiced impatience of someone who had done this before. Annabeth muttered something under her breath that earned her an elbow in the ribs, though the smirk remained on her lips.
They stepped into the elevator together, the city waking beyond the mirrored walls. In a rare circumstance, Annabeth allowed herself to be led, shoulders easing fractionally as Juniper hummed a pop song she would swear wasn’t on her playlist, but the lyrics were always on the tip of her tongue.
New York was already alive outside — too alive, in fact.
Large urban centers rarely have places that hide from the eyes of passersby. Everything is too bright, too crowded, too large; things are always extremely visible, even when there’s too much to see all at once.
There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners—one with a huge Starbucks and the other with a bank — that apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or immense lights. There, simpler shops, stocking vintage items like vinyl records, comic books, or clothing that didn't entirely care about adopting the strange design of today, along with two restaurants and a cozy café, lined the time-worn sidewalks. In the center, through one of the sidewalks, one could access a park that was usually empty.
The café was located more centrally on the street, facing the park. Its white facade, with sash windows and wooden double doors, already hinted at the comfort of the bright space, the extensive shelves of books only adding to the cozy feel that permeated the place. At the back, where a bay window with bright cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth's favorite spot.
Juniper and he had discovered the café a few years ago, trying to find somewhere they could study cases without the chaos and noise of the city driving them crazy or completely distracted. The two of them, along with their other best friend, Thalia, who was also looking for a place to study for her finals, walked for hours looking for a meeting place — Annabeth still believed a 1920s television series had something to do with it.
After a wrong turn, they finally spotted the then-aquatic-blue facade and made one last gamble. It was late afternoon, and the orange glow of the setting sun—and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the sparsely populated, seemingly perfect establishment. After that day, the three decided it was the right place for them to meet, and ever since, that little coffee shop — which, honestly, none of them remember ever asking the name of — became one of the best places in the world for the group.
With their busy lives, their meetings became a little less frequent, but never less meaningful. Thalia always had stories to tell and new jokes to show everyone, while Juniper and Annabeth always had something to share about the most bizarre cases possible.
When Juniper dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and left her heels in the car, switching to the pair of sandals Juniper kept under the passenger’s seat. Juniper had removed her jacket on the way to the car, humming whatever song was on the radio and commenting on any case or news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was circulating in the building's departments.
Charlie greeted them as they entered the café, his face always animated, like someone who hadn't slept in days. He said he would take care of their usual orders — with a small treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walking to the back of the establishment and taking their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.
It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a bit further, to a small backyard surrounded by hedges and various flowers, always well-tended. There were a few tables scattered around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the ambiance was positively beautiful.
Just a couple of minutes, and Charlie returned with each of their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile plastered on his face —for no reason at all, as the pair well knew after all these years. Juniper shifted in her seat, eager for her first caffeine hit of the day, and Annabeth just shook her head at her.
"Double coffee for you, miss, and a flat white for the pretty lady," Charlie announced, his voice faux-disdainful as he spoke to Annabeth, gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Juniper, deliver a speech with mock pomposity, and then bow to place the order in front of her.
Juniper let out a giggle, and Annabeth just rolled her eyes.
"One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid," Annabeth grumbled, lifting his cup to his lips and stifling a groan of satisfaction as the strong drink hit her tongue. Charlie's smile widened, and Juniper waved her hand as if to say it was just an empty threat.
"Well, sure," Charlie said mockingly. "You love me, Annabeth. You should stop denying it to yourself," he said, followed by a wink, and Juniper laughed.
"There's no denying it if what you say is a lie,” Annabeth shrugged, and Charlie feigned offense. "Besides, I've never denied that Leo was always my favorite," she scoffed, and Charlie frowned in mock indignation.
“How dar— You met me first!” he argued, and Annabeth shrugged. “Oh, that bastard—”
"Where's Leo, anyway?" Juniper asked before he could finish the threat. "You’re always together" she remarked, and Charlie moved to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling in satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.
"Belgium," he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup mid-air, halfway to his lips. Juniper straightened her back and narrowed her eyes, while Charlie merely shrugged. "Or on a train to Belgium after getting to Paris; I don't know the exact situation."
"And since when is Leo in Belgium?" Annabeth asked. "Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?"
"Did he finally understand that the world isn't so big when you have money?" Juniper asked, her eyebrows also raised. Charlie just shrugged.
"About your question." Charlie nodded at Annabeth. "Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Juniper in the same way. "I think the answer ties in with the other question. The world definitely isn't so big when you have money, and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to escape,” he shrugged again, his cheerful tone wavering a little.
They knew Leo well enough to know what he was talking about. And Annabeth, personally, understood all too well why the boy had taken a train to Belgium in the middle of the night.
"About time he did something like that, honestly," Juniper said, her eyes lowered, staring at the pattern in the foam on her glass. The two men nodded silently. "And let it be clear that I'm referring both to escaping his parents and to filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world,” she joked, lightening the mood.
"I think we can all agree on that," Annabeth said. "I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and traveling around the world wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave himself a chance."
Charlie hissed in amusement.
"Don't even get me started," he agreed. "I almost put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in central New York?! I mean, he could do the most incredible things on this trip! He could— he could see the Colosseum up close, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that arch thing in Warsaw—
"Segovia Aqueduct," Annabeth interrupted, and Charlie simply ignored her, rambling on.
"...Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower..." Charlie listed. "And along the way, he might even meet the love of his life. Imagine that!"
Juniper laughed.
"Why do I think you and Hazel bet on that?" she asked, and Charlie grinned mischievously once more. "Good heavens! What are the chances of Leo simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!"
"Existent!" Charlie argued, and Juniper laughed even harder. Annabeth followed suit, taking another sip of her coffee. "Hey, don't even start. What were the chances of Leo traveling anyway? Especially in the middle of the week?!
Annabeth tilted her head slightly to both sides in agreement.
"Yeah, okay. You might have a point," she said, and Charlie smiled. "And you also have access to food," she smiled amusedly. "And food is always a good idea, don't you think?" she suggested, and Charlie rolled his eyes before turning on his heel and walking toward the counter and the kitchen.
Annabeth lifted her wrist to check her watch, then picked up the cup again to take another sip of the drink. After a few minutes, the lawyer felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face, and turned around to find Juniper, sitting and leaning back, her elbows propped on the windowsill, her legs crossed, and a look in her eyes that Annabeth honestly wasn't sure she wanted to decipher.
"What is it?" she asked.
Juniper arched an eyebrow.
"When are you going to give yourself a chance?" she asked, her serious tone and frank expression meeting her friend's confused expression, whose brow furrowed even deeper at the lawyer's words. "Just like the one you were glad Leo had given himself."
Annabeth narrowed her eyes, partly out of confusion over Juniper's last sentence and partly due to the context of the sentence itself. She, too, leaned back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, keeping her head raised so she could look at her friend.
"I like New York," he said, as if it were some kind of explanation. "And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any motives similar to Leo's."
Juniper rolled her eyes, grunting.
"You know very well what I'm talking about," she said, and Annabeth cocked her head to the side. Juniper sighed again. "You live to work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with Jason, Rachel or even me?”
"Now?" she suggested, pointing his finger at the sofa beside him, and Juniper bit her tongue. "Juniper, I'm the director of the firm. I have to work a little harder than the others, and you know it,” she continued. “Especially because people think I only got the job because Chiron was the director before and my mom was one of the founders.”
Juniper nodded, but her pose remained the same.
“A little, you say. Annabeth, you've overused any hyperbole or argument years ago now," Juniper retorted. "And it's not just hanging out with us, Annabeth. When was the last time you got a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to sleep in your own bed?"
Annabeth opened her mouth to respond, but Juniper didn't let her speak before she continued..
"When was the last time you left the house without a pencil skirt on? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone other than a client?" she asked, and Annabeth closed her mouth. "Annabeth, when was the last time you flirted with a living, real person?"
At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Juniper arched her eyebrows, cocking her head slightly to the side and bouncing her foot in the air.
"And what does that have to do with anything?" she asked, and Juniper just sighed loudly, shaking her head. "What? Seriously!"
"I know! I know you’re serious! That's even worse," she pointed out, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?" Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Juniper merely lifted her chin, her lips twisted in defiance.
"Ouch," she said, placing a hand on her chest. "I'm not miserable, Juniper."
"Hm," Juniper muttered before reaching into her bag and shoving her hand inside, pulling out her phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the lawyer's face and the phone she was skillfully typing on until she smiled briefly and cleared her throat. "'Miserable.' An adjective and noun of two genders: 'one who, through their misfortune, arouses pity,'" she recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing his arms over his chest. "There's even a picture!" she exclaimed.
Juniper turned her phone toward Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to realize that her friend had turned it off, leaving only the black screen reflecting Annabeth’s twisted, confused face. The other woman had a proud, smug smile on her face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Juniper's arm away from her.
"You think you're hilarious, don't you?" Annabeth asked, and Juniper nodded in agreement. "And despite the blatant insult toward me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I'm fine, Juniper," she said, her tone serious and extremely formal.
"I know you are, I can see it," she said then. "Being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annabeth. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone?" Juniper asked, and Annabeth settled a little further into the seat. "Receive flowers, smile for no reason, have someone to hug or tell lame jokes to?"
Annabeth made a face.
“You’re only talking about those things because you’re in love now,” Annabeth accused. “And still you won’t call him your boyfriend.”
“Not the point,” Juniper said.
“I think it might be,” Annabeth said. “Up until you met Grover there wasn’t even a mention about my love life.”
“Or lack thereof,” Juniper accused.
Annabeth scoffed.
“Not the point,” Annabeth said. “And I don’t mind being alone.”
“I know you don’t,” Juniper told her. “But I’ve known you forever. Since we’re five, Annabeth; that’s twenty-four years and counting. And I know you dream of falling in love, getting confessed to, getting flowers just because,” Juniper listed, and Annabeth felt her cheeks burning.
She pressed her lips together, and Juniper waited.
“Doesn't that sound too cliché now that we’re adults?” she asked, and Juniper just shrugged.
“How is cliché an impediment?” she asked Annabeth, and she just averted her gaze. “Just because you’re an adult, doesn’t mean that things that you used to love are immature, or that old dreams are too far-fetched. Love has been love since the dawn of time,” Juniper continued. “It might sound repetitive in theory, because, precisely, it is the theory,” she argued. "What really changes is that you're the one feeling it."
Annabeth arched an eyebrow.
"And what's so special about that?" she countered, and her friend simply repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for her cup again.
"Love is a universal concept, but you could call this one your own," she said. "Which, you must admit, is something," she suggested, sipping her drink once more.
Annabeth merely shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her teacup as Charlie returned from the kitchen with another tray, blurting out words that they were both still too slow to decipher. As he ate the slice of cake Charlie had brought—and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to include it in the display case, and I really don't need to be fired now, so close to my first semester of medical school—Annabeth pondered some of Juniper's words.
Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, indeed, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a heart. Telling lame jokes? Isn't that what she's in that group of friends for?
And receiving flowers?
Annabeth chuckled to herself.
It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish—for it to ever happen to her.
As they left the cafeteria to return to the office, Annabeth left that conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the bay window, hoping the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.
It was just another hope that emptied like a cup of coffee.
Percy’s first sensation was pain—dull and stiff, stretched across his back and shoulders. He opened his eyes slowly, the sterile white of the hospital ceiling swimming into view, and groaned softly. His neck ached as though he’d been fighting gravity all night.
It took him a moment to remember where he was, until the steady sound of the monitor beside him reminded him. The white walls and the smell of antiseptic were quick to remind him, too, of why his neck hurt like hell and his arms were so stiff.
He turned his head, wincing at the crick in his muscles, and found Grover lying in the bed, his best friend’s face relaxed in sleep. A thin bruise marked his temple, the shadow of last night’s chaos.
The memory returned in flashes: the rush of setting up flowers and arches for the wedding, the chatter and laughter between them, the crash of wood and metal when the structure gave way, and the sickening moment when Grover disappeared beneath it.
They had been almost finished, too. Ribbons tied, vases filled, the arch heavy with white lilies and pale pink roses. Percy remembered stepping back to admire the way the petals caught the light of the reception hall, Grover grinning beside him with that satisfaction he always got from a job well done. He had teased Percy for fussing with a single ribbon that refused to stay straight, and he had been ready to roll his eyes when the sharp crack broke through the air.
The sound of wood snapping. A brief, breathless silence. And then chaos.
The arch buckled, its weight shifting in an instant. Percy had shouted Grover’s name, but before either of them could move, the whole structure tilted and came crashing down. He remembered the thunder of the fall, vases shattering, flowers scattering like debris in a storm. And Grover pinned in the middle of it, his body vanishing under the frame.
The panic that followed was a blur. His hands bleeding from dragging pieces of wood and twisted metal away, the sting of glass cutting through his palms as he pulled roses aside as if they weighed as much as the beams themselves. He had found Grover half-buried, her hair tangled with stems and ribbons, her temple already swelling from the impact. She’d groaned when he touched her, dazed but conscious, trying to insist she was fine even as her knees buckled when he tried to help her stand.
He could still hear the ambulance sirens, still see the blur of fluorescent lights in the emergency room. Grover had argued with the nurses, swore he didn’t need to stay, but the doctor insisted that concussion cases demanded rest and observation overnight. And Percy, despite his best friend’s stubborn protests, refused to leave. He’d sat beside his bed, jacket shoved into the chair for a makeshift pillow, watching Grover’s chest rise and fall until exhaustion finally dragged him under.
Now, in the pale morning light, the memory left his throat dry. He flexed his hands, faint lines of scratches still etched across his skin, and let out a slow breath. Grover looked peaceful now, the chaos of yesterday replaced with quiet, his face soft against the hospital pillow.
Percy leaned back in the chair, stretching the ache in his neck, and let the tension ease from his shoulders. He clenched his fists lightly in his lap, guilt still prickling like thorns under his skin — even though it wasn’t their fault.
Thankfully, it looked worse than it truly was.
The purple bloom on Grover’s temple had deepened overnight, the faint cut on his cheek already scabbing over, and his arms carried a patchwork of bruises that peeked out from under the hospital blanket. But his breathing was steady, his face soft, his hands loose at her sides rather than clenched in pain. The wires and monitors made it look more dramatic than it clinically was, and yet every beep and flicker of the screen twisted something inside Percy’s chest.
His gaze drifted to the remnants of yesterday on his own body — the faint red lines across his palms where glass had cut him, the streak of dirt still under his fingernails, the stiffness in his shoulders from hauling pieces of the arch away. He could still smell the sharp tang of lilies clinging to his shirt, mixed with the sour trace of antiseptic that lingered in the hospital air. For a moment, if Percy closed his eyes, he could almost hear the crack of wood again, the scramble of voices, the echo of his brother’s name torn from his throat.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake it. Accidents happened. He knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the gnaw of what-ifs pressing into him like splinters.
Percy didn’t even know if the wedding they were setting up actually happened, but he wished the couple more luck than what their crew had had to set it up.
Grover stirred faintly, lips pressing together as though in discomfort, then settled again. He had insisted that he was fine, only tired, only bruised, but the doctors said concussion, and Percy wasn’t about to leave him alone overnight no matter how much Grover argued that it was okay and nurses would wake him up hourly. He had muttered about Percy being ridiculous, stubborn, wasting time, but he hadn’t pushed the man out of the chair, and so he stayed.
Percy rubbed his face, yawning, feeling the heavy weight of too little sleep. His shirt was wrinkled, his jeans stiff from hours in the same position. The flower shop would be opening in a little while, and he still had to change before going. His mother hated when he turned up looking like he’d just crawled out of a warehouse, and he knew she had a point.
Standing made his muscles protest, and he stretched carefully, rolling his shoulders with a hiss of breath. The bouquet of peonies on the nightstand — his mother’s doing — filled the room with a sweetness that felt almost ironic. Flowers even here.
Percy slipped his bag from under the chair, careful not to make noise, and padded toward the bathroom down the short hallway. His shoes squeaked faintly on the linoleum, a sound that seemed too loud in the hush of early morning, when nurses moved like shadows and the rest of the ward still slept.
Inside the bathroom, he flicked on the harsh fluorescent light and squinted against it. The mirror showed him a face a little paler than usual, eyes ringed in red from lack of sleep, hair sticking up from being pressed against the chair’s headrest. He sighed, setting the bag on the counter and pulling out fresh clothes: a plain button-up, clean slacks, a soft cardigan his mother had folded in for him — probably knowing he’d forget.
He peeled off his wrinkled shirt, the faint smell of dust and sweat rising as fabric brushed against his skin, then tugged on the new one, buttoning slowly. The fresh cotton felt almost luxurious after a night in stale clothes. He switched into the slacks, smoothed them down, then folded his old things into the bag. His mother would be pleased, or at least less exasperated.
Before leaving, he leaned against the sink and unlocked his phone.
good morning, mama
G-Man is fine :)
I’ll head to the shop in a bit so you can come stay with him. They’ll probably send him home after breakfast.
He hesitated for a second, thinking, thumb hovering, then added:
Could you bring him something warm to eat? Hospital food is a nightmare.
The little “read” receipt popped up almost immediately, followed by the three dots of her typing. He smiled faintly. His mother never slept long, especially when someone she loved was hurt.
The message hadn’t been on her screen for more than a handful of seconds before the bubbles appeared again. Percy waited, bag half-zipped on his lap, rubbing the heel of his palm against the back of his neck as he pictured her sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched at the tip of her nose, phone glowing against her hand while the kettle steamed in the background.
Her reply came quickly:
Of course I’ll take something to eat, Percy. Don’t teach me how to take care of my kids.
And then, before he could even react, another line appeared:
Tell Grover I love him, will you?
And I love you.
The knot of tension in his chest eased a little. His mother, Sally, had a way of doing that — of cutting through the weight he carried with a sentence or two. He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. It wasn’t the first time she’d scolded him for fussing too much, and it wouldn’t be the last.
He tucked the phone away and bent to tie his shoes. The laces felt clumsy in his fingers, his body sluggish with lack of rest, but the simple act grounded him. The chair creaked as he leaned forward, shoulders curling, and that was when he caught the faint rustle of sheets.
“Mm…” Grover’s voice was barely more than a groan, thick with sleep.
He shifted, the blanket sliding down to his stomach as he blinked against the pale morning light that filtered through the blinds. His gaze, still foggy, landed on Percy crouched near the floor, halfway into managing to tie his shoe.
“…Percy?” Grover called. His voice was hoarse from sleep.
He glanced up quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something between relief and amusement.
“Morning, G-Man,” he said quietly, not wanting to jar him with cheer. “Don’t sit up too fast.”
Grover blinked a few more times, as though trying to piece the room together. The faint crease of confusion smoothed slightly, but his frown deepened when he noticed Percy’s clothes.
“Wait,” he rasped, pointing weakly at the other man’s shirt. “Where are you going?”
Percy finished tying the lace, tugged it taut, and sat back in the chair.
“To work? I had other clothes that mama brought yesterday. I can’t exactly run the shop looking like I just came from a demolition site.”
Grover’s eyebrows drew together, sharper now, more awake.
“You’re going to work?”
“Yes,” he said simply, slipping into his second shoe. “Mom’s coming to stay with you until you’re discharged. She’ll bring decent food too.”
Grover pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing slightly but glaring at his best friend all the same.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “You stayed here all night—”
“Yup, I noticed,” Percy interrupted mildly, tugging at the cuff of his coat. “My neck hurts like hell as a consequence.”
“Exactly!” Grover jabbed a finger in his direction, though it wobbled a little in the air. “You don’t get to waste a whole night sleeping in a chair and then just drag yourself off to work like nothing happened, Percy,” he scoffed. “What’s the point of you staying and not Sally if you’ll work today?”
He huffed out a soft laugh, leaning back against the chair.
“The point was making sure you weren’t alone or died in the middle of the night,” he arched an eyebrow. “And I look fine, excuse you.”
“You look like you fought a streetlight and lost, man,” Grover shot back, though his lips quirked despite the complaint. The bedridden man closed his eyes for a second, probably some pain catching up to his senses.
“That’s rich, coming from someone with a bruise the size of a fist on his forehead,” Percy retorted gently.
Grover’s hand flew to his temple, brushing the tender spot, and he scowled at Percy, though it lacked any real heat.
“Rude,” he muttered.
“Childish,” Percy said, tone even, but his eyes softened.
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the steady beep of the monitor and the distant murmur of hospital life outside the door. Then Grover sighed, sinking back against the pillows, hand falling limply onto the blanket.
“Tell Sally not to bring soup, or I’ll actually cry,” Grover said, his voice quieter now.
Percy’s smile widened, the tension finally easing from his shoulders.
“Pff,” he snorted, standing to adjust the strap of his bag. “Please, G-Man. You know she considers soup medicinal. You don’t stand a chance.”
Grover groaned dramatically and pulled the blanket over half his face, but Percy caught the flicker of a grin before the fabric covered it.
Percy hovered near the bed, adjusting the strap of his bag but not quite able to move toward the door. His gaze traced the edges of Grover’s bandaged temple again, the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. Percy reached out, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the bed’s railing.
“How do you feel, brother?” he asked softly, though the answer was written all over her expression.
Grover lowered the blanket enough to glare at him with one tired eye.
“Like someone kept shaking me awake every hour,” he deadpanned, his voice scratchy but sharp. “Oh wait—that was you.”
Percy’s mouth twitched into a guilty smile. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Mm-hm,” he closed his eyes again and exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble. “Next time, let me die.”
Percy chuckled under his breath, leaning down so their faces were closer.
“As if I ever would.”
“I might,” Grover challenged but his lips curved just faintly, betraying him.
“Liar,” Percy said gently.
Grover didn’t answer, only tilted his head slightly toward his best friend, conceding the point. Percy tilted his head to the side, and reached to squeeze Grover’s shoulder softly — the shoulder he knew wasn’t damaged, of course.
“Rest, man,” he murmured. “Mama will be here soon. Try not to make her cry.”
“Tell her to not make me cry,” Grover mumbled, eyes already half-closed again. “I’m the one hospitalized.”
“Two crybabies,” Percy said, shaking his head.
The hallway outside was awash with morning light spilling through the tall windows at the end of the corridor. Nurses moved briskly, clipboards in hand, voices hushed but steady, and the scent of disinfectant lingered sharp in the air. Percy adjusted the strap of his bag once more and set his pace toward the exit.
By the time he stepped outside, the hospital’s glass doors sliding closed behind him, the city had fully woken. New York’s morning hum rose around him — car horns in the distance, the chatter of people heading to offices, the rhythmic scuff of sneakers on wide sidewalks. The air was thick, humid already, carrying the scent of asphalt warming in the sun and the faint sweetness of street vendors setting up for the day.
It wasn’t the New York he remembered as a child, and half-hated. There was no constant roar of taxis that overwhelmed his ears daily anymore, no canyon of glass and steel trapping the breeze, no relentless press of bodies when he had learned how to make himself almost maleable. Here, in the New York he grew into and that grew in him, the streets still held room to breathe, even when crowded. The current of people moved in steady streams, easy enough to slip through without bumping shoulders.
Percy let the city fold around him, the weight of the night fading gradually with each step that carried him closer to the flower shop.
The streets of New York stretched out before him, bright and bustling yet somehow gentle in their rhythm compared to the chaos of his childhood. Sunlight bounced off the glass of towering buildings, painting streaks of gold and amber across the wide sidewalks. The air was humid, thick against his skin, carrying the mixed scents of brewing coffee from corner cafés, street food being set up for the morning rush, and the faintly metallic tang of the city itself. It was different from the sharp, dry heat he remembered in Manhattan—the way the sun reflected off asphalt and glass and made the air shimmer—but he was starting to find comfort in the slower pulse, the space to breathe.
He walked past small shops tucked between larger chain stores, nodding to a few familiar faces, the owners of flower stands and stationery shops along his usual route. The city moved around him in organized chaos: delivery bikes weaving smoothly between pedestrians, a couple of students laughing on their way to university, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a vendor’s cart. Percy kept his bag slung over one shoulder, loose and casual, but his mind was partly with Grover — his pale face against the pillow, the bruise blossoming at his temple.
Percy felt a twinge in his shoulders remembering last night — the crash of the wedding arch, the chaos, the sickening moment when the wood and metal tumbled over him. He shook it off, trying not to carry the memory too heavily into the day. Grover was fine — bruised, yes, concussed, yes, but fine and stubbornly alive. That was enough.
Turning down a quieter street, Percy spotted the familiar sign of his mother’s flower shop — a small, cream-colored façade with delicate blue trim, window boxes spilling with early morning blooms. It was just the kind of space that made him breathe easier, the smell of soil, fresh leaves, and flowers stronger and sweeter than anything else in the city. The bell over the door jingled softly as he stepped inside.
The shop smelled like early morning — earthy, floral, and faintly sweet, the kind of scent that lingered in memory long after you left. Percy stepped inside, rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he leaned back on the doorframe, letting his bag fall to the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the front windows, spilling across the polished wooden floor, glinting off vases already filled with blooms for the day.
“Percy!” came Sally’s soft voice from the café corner, calm and measured as always. She was standing behind the counter, apron tied neatly at her waist, hair tucked in a loose bun that let a few strands fall around her face. Her light eyes lifted toward him, warm but quiet, a gentle smile brushing her lips. “Oh, my love. You look tired. Come sit for a moment?”
He shook his head, managing a tired grin.
“I’m fine. I just… need a minute. To come back to Earth.”
Sally nodded, her attention already returning to the pastries she was arranging for the café. Her movements were fluid and careful, hands steady, the sort of motion he had always found grounding. There was no rush in her voice, no loudness; there was just presence, patient and reassuring.
“Is Grover alright?” she asked softly, almost conversationally, though he could feel the faint concern threading through the words.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
“Yeah. He’s bruised, concussed, but he’s fine,” he told her. “And he told me to tell you to not bring soup.”
Sally shook her head, a faint smile lingering.
“That boy,” she murmured, eyes softening. “Too bad. It’s already packed.”
Percy chuckled, and closed his eyes for a second as he yawned loudly. His mother’s hand rose, gentle but firm, and rested on his cheek.
“Are you sure you can work today, son? We can close. One day won’t change much, and we don’t have any events scheduled today. You know I only agreed to open because of your insistence, but you can back off.”
Percy chuckled, leaning slightly into her touch, the warmth of it soothing in a way that no cup of coffee could match.
“I’ll be fine, Mama,” he replied, his voice low, tired, and yet tender. “Besides, you know I’d rather open the shop than sit around doing nothing. Grover’s okay, really. He’s resting, and you’ll see for yourself.”
She gave a soft sigh, eyes lingering on him for a moment, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the fatigue of a night spent awake. Her hand stayed there a heartbeat longer, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost a whisper.
“I just… I hate the idea of you running yourself into the ground. You worry too much about others, Percy. And I know we agreed that that’s your fatal flaw, son, but you have to remember to care for yourself, too.”
He smiled, a slow, tired smile that softened his entire expression.
“I know, mom. I’ll eat, I promise. And I’ll take it easy for a little while,” he promised. “It’ll be a slow day.”
Sally’s lips curved into a small, approving smile.
“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it?” she straightened, gathering a small notebook and keys from the counter, and Percy nodded. “I’ll check in with Grover, make sure he’s settled and fed and medicated. You open the shop, and I’ll bring some lunch later. And yes,” she added, glancing back at him over her shoulder with a faint teasing glimmer in her eyes, “I’ll wait until you eat before leaving. No excuses.”
Percy laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet morning of the shop.
“Of course, Mama,” he said, watching her move toward the café door, the ease of her movements almost meditative. She paused briefly, glancing back at him with that same calm warmth that made him feel simultaneously young and grounded, and nodded once. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you later, my love,” she said, and then she was gone, the soft jingle of the door marking her departure as sunlight shifted across the flower-filled room.
Alone now, Percy drew a slow breath, letting it out through his nose, the earthy scent of soil and blooms filling his senses. He moved toward the back, unfastening the aprons and gloves stacked neatly on a hook. Each vase, each bundle of flowers waiting for arrangements, seemed to pulse with quiet energy, as if aware of the hands that would tend to them.
His muscles ached still, a reminder of the night’s chaos, but the rhythm of the shop promised something grounding; a quiet order amidst the hectic life he often carried. He rubbed his neck, straightened his back, and let a small smile curl at his lips. Today, he thought, would be slower, gentler. And that thought, small as it was, felt like a luxury he had long forgotten.
Percy let out a slow, drawn-out sigh, stretching his shoulders as he straightened from leaning against the counter. The ache in his muscles reminded him of last night, the collapse of the arch, the weight of the structure and the hours he’d spent curled up in that stiff hospital chair. Still, there was work to do, life moving forward, and the shop wouldn’t wait for him to feel fully recovered.
He moved toward the small storage room at the back, pulling down his apron from the hook. The fabric was soft and worn at the edges, the scent of soil and flowers faintly clinging to it from countless mornings spent arranging bouquets. Knotting it around his waist, he adjusted the straps over his shoulders and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it with a quick swipe.
Stepping toward the front of the shop, he pushed open the double wooden doors, the gentle chime of the bell signaling his presence to anyone who might be walking past. Outside, the narrow street was just beginning to fill with morning traffic: the occasional pedestrian, delivery trucks rumbling past, and sunlight glinting off the glass windows of neighboring stores.
Percy set about arranging the flower displays in the window boxes and outside the shop: lavender in neat ceramic pots, a cascade of tulips in small wooden crates, chrysanthemums in simple glass vases. He adjusted the chalkboard on the sidewalk, its handwritten daily specials welcoming and cheerful, a gentle invitation to anyone wandering past the quiet street.
Next, he moved inside to open the windows and draw back the curtains, letting the morning light flood the room. The golden rays touched everything: the polished wooden floor, the counters lined with blooms of every imaginable color, and the shelves stacked with vases, jars, and ribbons neatly organized by hue. The gentle aroma of soil, fresh flowers, and a hint of morning coffee from the small café corner mingled in the air, creating a comforting, almost intoxicating sense of calm.
He glanced at the long worktable in the center of the shop, still dusted with yesterday’s petals and ribbon scraps. Carefully, he arranged the flowers that had arrived overnight: roses in deep reds and soft pinks, lilies with their sweet, heavy perfume, daisies bright and cheerful in the morning light. Each stem found its place, the bouquets forming quiet clusters of color, each one perfectly balanced, ready for arrangements or pick-up orders.
The shelves along the walls held an assortment of vases—ceramic, glass, even hand-painted porcelain from local artists—lined up with meticulous care. Percy ran his fingers lightly along a row of small mason jars, the glass cool beneath his touch. Ribbons in every shade hung from hooks nearby, ready to tie a bouquet together in seconds, while a small basket of dried flowers sat tucked neatly on the corner of a shelf, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Moving to the café area, he wiped down the counter with a damp cloth, lining up pastries on trays that Sally had arranged earlier, their golden crusts catching the light from the open windows. Cups, plates, and cutlery were stacked neatly, the espresso machine already humming faintly in readiness. The small tables scattered through the café corner, some surrounded by chairs, others by low ottomans, caught the sunlight streaming in, and he adjusted a cushion or two, making sure everything felt just so.
Finally, Percy took a deep breath, surveying the shop. The morning bustle hadn’t yet reached the street, the quiet giving him a moment of peace before customers arrived. He moved toward the cash register, checking that the till was ready, glancing once more at the chalkboard menu outside before giving the flower displays a final, satisfied nod.
For a brief moment, the aches and tension from the hospital chair melted into the background. The shop, with its clean lines, warm wood, and scent of blossoms, had a rhythm of its own, something steady, welcoming, and reassuring. Percy smiled softly, fingers brushing over the edge of the counter as he leaned slightly, feeling the morning settle around him.
With one last glance at the display outside, he turned back to the interior, ready to begin arranging orders and welcoming whoever might wander in, the world outside momentarily quieted by the sanctuary he and his family had built in the heart of New York.
Percy lingered by the doorway, letting the early morning air wash over him as he watched the street. New York had a rhythm all its own, especially in this quieter corner, but even here, life moved at a hurried pace. Pedestrians passed in steady streams—some hurried, earbuds in, phones in hand, others moving more slowly, lost in their own thoughts. Cars and scooters hummed past, and the occasional delivery truck rumbled by, leaving faint vibrations under the wooden boards of the walkway.
Across the street, a three-story building caught his eye. It wasn’t massive, not compared to the towering glass-and-steel structures further downtown, but it was imposing in its own way. The stone façade, sleek windows, and neat symmetry gave it a formality that was almost intimidating. He didn’t know much about it — only that Grover’s “friend” Juniper worked there, though he’d never been formally introduced to her in any official capacity.
The people moving in and out were different from the casual crowd around him. They wore sharp suits and crisp skirts, serious expressions etched into their faces, heads bent toward schedules or screens, heels clicking against the concrete. They seemed carried by purpose, a kind of precise, relentless momentum.
He tilted his head, letting his gaze roam over the small clusters of employees pausing at the doors or hurrying up the steps. Some carried folders, others cups of coffee, and a few muttered quietly into phones. The contrast was stark — the bustle, the calculated urgency, the tension in the air — compared to the warmth and measured calm of his own little corner of the world. Across the street, the city’s sophistication and drive pressed outward, structured and exact, while here, the flower shop breathed.
Percy felt a subtle ease settle in his chest as he watched. Even though he wasn’t fully awake yet, he could appreciate the difference. The people on the street were engaged in the same daily grind he had once known in New York, the endless pursuit of schedules and deadlines, the small but constant stress pressing in. Somehow, it was easier to breathe.
Taking the last few steps toward the shop, Percy tightened the strap of his backpack, inhaling deeply the rich smell of soil and blooms spilling out from the open doors. He passed a couple seated at one of the small tables outside, their faces calm, coffee steaming gently between them, and waved. They returned a quiet smile, eyes lifting from their conversation briefly.
Stepping onto the wooden walkway that led through the well-tended garden, he slowed, letting his hand brush lightly against the horizontal white wooden fence with its vertical black metal bars. The garden was a careful arrangement of roses, tulips, and small evergreens, their colors vibrant in the morning light. He paused for a moment, taking it all in—the symmetry, the care, the simple joy of flowers grown and nurtured with patience.
Entering the shop, the cooler air wrapped around him like a familiar embrace. The large windows lining the wooden walls offered a comforting clarity, letting in light that bounced gently off polished surfaces and illuminated every bouquet, vase, and frame with quiet precision. The soft hum of the air conditioning mingled with the subtle aroma of fresh soil and flowers, creating a gentle symphony of calm.
Every detail—the arrangement of tables, the carefully placed bouquets, the warm tones of the wooden floors and shelves, the string lights draped across the café corner—made the space feel safe and inviting. Even the faint background music, a soft acoustic melody, seemed to belong perfectly. For Percy, it wasn’t just a shop—it was a haven, a pocket of peace in a city that often demanded more than it gave.
He moved through the space slowly, hands brushing over petals, inhaling the sweet, grounded fragrance of roses and lilies, checking the arrangements one by one. Most of the time, the days at the shop passed in a warm haze, the sunlight through the windows softening everything, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional customer or the gentle chatter of his mother in the café corner.
And in these moments, Percy felt it again—the easy smile that didn’t need a reason, the subtle lightness in his chest, the simplicity of being present. In the shop, surrounded by flowers and order and gentle routines, the world outside couldn’t reach him—not truly. Here, the flowers reminded him of beauty, of life, of calm, and that alone was enough to ease the tightness in his chest. Even before the day fully began, even before the first customer stepped inside, he allowed himself a small, unguarded smile, lingering in the quiet warmth of the shop he loved.
The quiet of the shop was interrupted by the soft chime of the doorbell. Percy glanced up, brushing his hands briefly on his apron, and spotted a teenager hesitating in the doorway. Her backpack was slung awkwardly over one shoulder, and she looked slightly overwhelmed by the vibrant chaos of colors and scents surrounding her.
“Good morning,” Percy said, his voice warm, easy. “Welcome! Can I help you find something?”
The girl hesitated, biting her lip, and her eyes roamed over the bouquets as if they were a puzzle she wasn’t sure how to solve.
“Um… do flowers—like, do they really have meanings? Or is it just a whole… Internet thing?” she asked, fidgeting with the straps of her bag.
Percy smiled, the kind that made people feel instantly at ease.
“They do have meanings,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “And my brother knows more about that than I do, but—” He paused, letting the words settle, then added softly, “But I can help you. What do you want to say?”
The girl blinked, surprised by the patience and gentleness in his tone.
“I… I want to say thank you,” she murmured, looking down at her shoes. “But, like, really, not just a card or something. I want them to understand I mean it.”
Percy nodded, kneeling slightly to meet her eyes at her level.
“Okay. That’s good. That’s a real message. Let’s see…” He moved to the nearest shelf, running a hand along the delicate petals of peonies, their pinks and whites soft in the morning light. “Peonies,” he said, lifting one carefully, “they mean honor, good fortune, and happy life. If you want something that says ‘thank you,’ they’re perfect, but maybe a little bold. Something softer might be better.”
Percy paused, adjusting a stem in his hands, then looked up at her with a small, thoughtful smile.
“Do you think this person will know the meaning of the flowers? Or are we assuming they’ll just see the beauty?”
The girl tilted her head, frowning slightly as she considered the question.
“Hmm… I think they’ll probably search for the meaning if they don’t know,” she said after a moment, shrugging. “People do that, right? Google it or ask someone.”
Percy nodded, chuckling softly.
“They do. And that’s good; it means they’ll take a moment to really think about it. But even if they didn’t, the flowers themselves, the colors, the care in choosing them… that’s enough, too.” He held up a small bunch of soft white freesias again, turning them gently so the light caught the delicate petals. “Sometimes, the thought behind it speaks louder than the meaning. And if they like the flowers, that’s already saying something.”
The girl’s eyes lit up a little at that, and she gave a small nod, finally relaxing.
“Yeah… I guess that makes sense. They’ll like it, then. I really want them to feel appreciated. I don’t know how else to do it.”
“You’re already doing it right,” Percy said, his voice quiet but warm. He began arranging the freesias with the peonies, tucking in a few sprigs of baby’s breath to soften the edges. “It’s not about perfect words or perfect meanings. It’s about showing you cared enough to think about it, to make it feel personal. That’s what matters.”
The girl watched him work, fascinated by the care in his movements—the careful trimming of stems, the gentle bending to make each bloom face the right way, the way he didn’t rush but still seemed entirely confident.
“You’re really good at this,” she said softly.
Percy smiled, glancing at her with a faint laugh.
“I’ve had some practice,” he said, shrugging slightly. “My brother would probably argue that he knows more than anyone, though. But I like helping people say what they mean,” he finished arranging the bouquet, holding it out toward her with a flourish, careful not to spill a single petal. “Here. I think this says everything you wanted to say, and maybe a little more.”
The girl took it, her fingers brushing his for a moment as she held it carefully.
“Thank you,” she whispered, genuine and a little shy. “I think they’re going to love it.”
Percy nodded, a soft satisfaction settling over him as he watched her beam at the bouquet.
“They will. And if not, they’ll know you put thought into it. That counts for more than you realize.”
As the girl left, bouquet in hand and a renewed spring in her step, Percy stepped back, leaning against the counter for a moment. The morning sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the polished wooden floors, and the air smelled faintly of fresh earth, petals, and possibilities. Outside, the city hummed with the steady rhythm of New York, but inside, the shop felt like its own little world—calm, kind, and filled with small, meaningful moments.
The day was winding toward evening, the moment when Annabeth could finally let herself exhale.
After a trial mid-afternoon, she had endured two meetings with the kinds of clients who made her want to sleep through the day, and two more with those who made her want to leap out the window. On top of that, a few crises—none technically hers to solve—had landed squarely on her desk.
By the time she finally allowed herself a pause, Annabeth felt not just exhausted, but deeply uncomfortable in her own skin. Every involuntary twitch of her leg sparked irritation, and her head throbbed in a relentless, punishing rhythm. She longed to retreat to the solace of her apartment, to collapse across the couch and let the ceiling absorb her misery, letting herself sleep without thought of tomorrow’s aches or obligations.
Yet, to do that, she would have to drive, navigate traffic, and untangle herself from her buttonen shirt. Too much effort.
Instead, she lingered in her office, surrendering to the quiet. The idea of flopping onto the couch there, letting the world outside the glass windows blur into irrelevance, had never seemed more appealing.
Annabeth dropped the last stack of paperwork onto her desk with a soft thud, massaging her temples and muttering under her breath. Her neck and shoulders ached, her leg pins and needles from the long day, yet her mind refused stillness. It was a warpath of overthinking, spinning ahead of the present.
She rolled her shoulders slowly, trying to coax some ease into the tension. Her doctor would have scolded her posture, no doubt, after the weeks she’d spent hunching over files and screens. Her neck followed suit, rotating carefully until a sharp snap stopped her mid-motion. She exhaled heavily, surrendering to the stubborn ache.
Hands shoved into her pockets, she paced briefly, then froze by the large glass window. Someone had opened the blinds. Her eyes followed the street below, a scene she rarely allowed herself to see. The sunlight, muted by the late hour and urban haze, painted gentle streaks across the asphalt and sidewalk.
It was a rare moment of quiet curiosity. Normally, life outside this office — cars, people, endless motion — made her head throb worse. She avoided looking, avoided the distraction. But now, as she stared, something about the contrast struck her.
Across the street, among the bakeries, boutiques, and quiet crowds of New York, a small, wooden building stood out: a flower shop. Its rustic charm was almost otherworldly against the uniform, imposing concrete structures around it. The façade looked like a country home, wood warm and painted cream with blue trim, large glass windows revealing delicate arrangements within. Flowering vines crawled along the wooden walls, and the small stone and wood pathway leading up to it was lined with carefully tended blooms. Side gardens bore benches and tables, and a hint of a café lingered behind, a soft, inviting promise.
And right by the fence, there was a man.
He couldn’t be much older than she was — messy blond curls, a soft green sweatshirt, dark jeans — stood near the fence. He moved with a fluid kindness, offering blooms to passersby with a gentle smile that reached deep into his face. Dimples marked his cheeks, and the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes hinted at a warmth that seemed instinctive, effortless. People smiled back, sometimes paused, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary, and he did the same for them, nodding, encouraging, attentive.
Annabeth’s breath caught without meaning to. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed something like this before: the ordinary miracle of a kind smile, the gentle care in a small gesture, the way someone could make strangers feel seen without even trying.
She watched as he leaned down to adjust a bouquet in a customer’s hands, his fingers brushing petals with reverence. When he laughed softly at something the girl said, the sound was light and honest, carrying across the street like a note of music in the quiet evening — perhaps it was her imagination making up the sound. He didn’t appear tired, or rushed, or burdened by the invisible pressures of the city. In that moment, he seemed suspended in his own world of small joys and careful attention, and it was almost painful in its beauty.
Annabeth shifted slightly, leaning closer to the window, eyes tracing his movements. The street hummed around him — people in suits and skirts, serious faces, hurried steps — but he existed almost apart from it, a quiet anchor in a restless tide. For a fleeting moment, she imagined the contrast between her world of deadlines, expectations, and endless calculations, and his world, where a simple rose could carry meaning and a smile could linger.
Her lips curved into a soft, unthinking smile. She didn’t know his name, of course; she had never seen him before, and she didn’t know anything about him, but something in the sight of his gentle care — this ordinary, human grace — stirred something long-dormant in her chest.
Of all the documents waiting on her desk and the cases stacked in uneven piles, this was the one thing that intrigued Annabeth the most; not a deposition, not a legal brief, but a fleeting act of gentleness across the street.
She had been called heartless before, too sharp, too clinical, too unwilling to soften her edges for the sake of courtesy. But what she saw through the wide office window—the florist handing out kindness as naturally as breath—felt more improbable than the government ever being fair and efficient. She couldn’t quite look away, not when smiles bloomed alongside the flowers he offered.
Annabeth didn’t know how long she stayed there, eyes fixed across the street, but she startled when the florist finally glanced up and caught her watching.
Their eyes met and, for a second, it felt like the world stopped spinning.
His expression flickered with surprise, his face tinged a faint pink — embarrassment, perhaps, or maybe only the golden spill of the streetlights beginning to glow at dusk.
Heat crept into Annabeth’s own cheeks, though she tried to tamp it down. She almost groaned aloud at herself — imagine that, being caught like some stranger spying from the safety of her office window. But before she could retreat, the man offered her something unexpected: a smile. Sweet, a little shy, carrying with it no mockery, no judgment.
He looked down at the flowers still in his hand, as if choosing carefully, then lifted one — a bundle of lue little things, the petals delicate in the dimming light. He tilted it toward her across the street, a wordless gesture of offering that made Annabeth’s chest tighten and her fists loosen in her pockets.
She hadn’t realized until that moment how tight her turtleneck felt, how heavy her shoulders had been all day. Now, with nothing more than the sight of a flower lifted in her direction, she could breathe again. Involuntarily, her lips curved into a small, genuine smile, quiet and unguarded. She gave a tiny tilt of her head, her own shy acknowledgment, and he in turn lifted the flower just a little closer to his chest.
The spell lasted seconds, no more. A little girl tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, and the florist’s attention immediately shifted downward. He crouched easily, placing himself at her level, his dimples deepening as he handed her a bright red bloom. The child’s delighted laugh echoed faintly even across the street, and Annabeth found herself still smiling as she watched.
Her gaze dropped at last, to the polished floor of her office, and a bemused laugh slipped past her lips. The day’s weight — the endless meetings, the sharp words, the endless stack of cases that blurred together until they tasted like ash — seemed suddenly irrelevant. For the first time that week, she could feel the day easing into evening without bitterness clinging to its edges.
It was ridiculous, she thought. All of it. And yet she could have cried from the quiet relief of it, this sense that the world hadn’t been all cruelty and tedium after all.
The door opening behind her pulled Annabeth back to herself. She turned, smoothing her expression into something more composed, and saw Juniper stepping into the office. Her friend carried her bag over one arm, phone swinging lazily in the other hand. Her expression wasn’t the sharp annoyance she often wore when coming from a long day, but something softer, more knowing.
“Hey,” she called, and then noticed the frown on her friend’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Grover was in the hospital,” Juniper said, the words tumbling out with more breath than voice. “He’s at home now, but he just told me, I—” she shook her head, her usually sharp confidence cracked into something thinner.
Annabeth’s posture straightened. The warmth of the moment at the window drained, replaced by something taut and alert.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Juniper admitted, her voice clipped with the effort of control. She stared at the floor as if searching for answers there. “He just said that he’s fine now, that he’s resting and his mom is with him. I should’ve been with him. I—”
“Juniper.” Annabeth’s tone softened, deliberately slow and firm enough that her friend would cease rambling. “He’s home. You can be with him now.”
“I don’t have my car,” Juniper muttered, frustration spilling over. She clutched her phone tighter, jaw set. “I left it at the shop this morning, and now—”
“I’ll take you,” Annabeth interrupted, like it was the simplest solution in the world. She reached for her coat draped over the chair. “Have you got your things already?”
Juniper blinked.
“What?”
“We can stop for dinner on the way,” Annabeth added, sliding one arm into her coat sleeve with practiced ease, as though she had already made up her mind. “Because he said he’s fine, and I know you haven’t eaten a thing since our early lunch.”
Juniper’s brows shot up.
“You’re leaving work early?”
Annabeth shrugged, her hand brushing over her tie, loosening it with a quiet relief she hadn’t expected to feel today.
“You need a ride. And I had—” her eyes flicked almost unconsciously back toward the window, just for a heartbeat, “—not a bad day. I don’t need to stress over work and ruin that.”
The casual admission left Juniper staring at her, caught between disbelief and curiosity. Annabeth, the one who rarely abandoned her desk before midnight, who measured herself against the weight of deadlines and depositions, who carved her hours to the bone without complaint — was shrugging off work in the middle of the evening?
Juniper narrowed her eyes, suspicion lacing her features.
“What’s gotten into you?”
Annabeth only smirked faintly, the kind of half-expression that revealed nothing yet spoke volumes to anyone who knew her.
“You need to stress over Grover. Of course your peace of mind is more important than working more, Juniper,” she said simply, stepping past Juniper to open the door for her. “Come on. The sooner we leave, the sooner you’re with him.”
The words settled between them, direct and unarguable.
For once, Juniper didn’t push back. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and gave Annabeth a look somewhere between gratitude and quiet wonder, as if she’d glimpsed a side of her friend she wasn’t sure she understood but didn’t want to question too hard.
Annabeth waited patiently, coat collar flipped up against the night air she knew awaited them outside, her expression calm. She wasn’t about to explain the lightness in her chest, or the fleeting glimpse of something different she’d caught across the street. Some things could stay unnamed — for now.
“Let’s go,” she said, and the two of them stepped into the hallway, the fluorescent hum of the office fading behind them.
Across the street, with the last light purple rose resting gently between his fingers, the man lifted his gaze toward the office window once more. He had half-expected, half-hoped, to see the stranger still there, the stern lawyer’s expression softened by something unspoken. But the glass reflected only the dusky sky, streaks of orange and violet melting into the city’s growing shadows. The figure at the sidewalk was gone.
He stood there for another quiet breath, the rose tilting in his hand as though it had lost its intended recipient, before lowering it to his side. Customers called, children laughed, and life in the shop pulled him back. Still, the absence across the street lingered.
When Annabeth finally steered her car down the narrow road, Juniper beside her, her eyes betrayed her mind. She couldn’t help but flick toward the flower shop as they passed, the glow of its windows spilling onto the sidewalk like a pool of warmth against the cool evening. But by then, the florist had cleared the displays. The little vases that had lined the outside ledge were gone, the buckets empty, the door closed. The man and his flowers were nowhere to be seen.
The sight — or the lack of it — stirred something odd in her chest, though she forced her gaze back to the road and her hands firm on the wheel.
And yet, the smile had followed her into the car, threading itself between their conversation, refusing to fade. She caught herself more than once adjusting her collar as if to hide it, but Juniper noticed anyway.
In the shop, as he swept the floor and stacked the empty buckets for tomorrow, the florist felt the same stubborn curve linger on his lips. He shook his head at himself, amused at the absurdity—that such a moment, wordless and fleeting, could leave its trace.
It wasn’t much. Just a handful of seconds, a tilt of a bloom, and the ghost of a smile.
But it lasted hours longer than either of them would have expected.
Percy knew it’d be a terrible day the moment he opened his eyes.
A migraine throbbed behind his temples, relentless and unyielding. Every sound seemed sharper than it should be, the sunlight spilling through the blinds like an accusation. He groaned softly, pressing his palms to his face, wishing for relief that he knew wouldn’t come. Sally would leave him be if he complained, calm and quiet as always. But Grover — he was still resting, insisting he was fine, though Percy and Sally knew better — needed someone to keep watch. And that someone was him.
Three events. Three impossible, intricate, money-and-time-consuming events that had to be set up today. His mother couldn’t handle it alone, and hiring a team would cost far too much. That meant him. And he’d have help, yes — Nico, with his bangs always falling in front of his eyes, quiet and steady but capable of incredible work, and Jason, who loved helping with events despite the early mornings and heavy lifting — but even with them, the thought of the day made him groan again.
The migraine pulsed like a drum in his skull. Every muscle ached from how poorly he’d slept the night before, from staying vigilant next to Grover even when he told him to leave. He swung his legs off the bed, wincing, massaging the back of his neck as if that alone could undo the tension knotted there.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, loathing the hours ahead. The thought of lugging floral arrangements, bending over tables, setting up arches, and coordinating every detail while his head felt like it might split made him want to stay curled up under the blankets forever. But he couldn’t. There was too much to do. Grover needed rest. His mother needed the events to go smoothly. Nico and Jason were counting on him.
With a deep, reluctant sigh, he swung to his feet. His hand ran through his messy curls, trying to tame the stiffness in his neck. He stared at the bouquet of peonies Sally had left on the counter yesterday. The flowers were still sweet, faintly fragrant, a small, silent comfort — but it wasn’t enough to make the day feel manageable.
He forced a small, neutral smile, the kind that wouldn’t give him away if Sally glanced in his direction. Just enough so she wouldn’t fuss over him before leaving to open the café. The smile felt heavy on his face, a mask he knew he’d have to wear for hours, but necessary.
By the time Percy forced himself out of bed and into the kitchen, the migraine had deepened into a relentless pulse behind his eyes. Every flicker of sunlight through the blinds made him wince, every step on the wooden floor felt exaggerated, as if his muscles were rebelling against him. He fumbled through the medicine cabinet, shaking a couple of pills into his palm, and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste. A long drink of water helped slightly, but the throb behind his temples persisted, relentless and merciless.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror before leaving. Pale, even paler than he naturally was. His hair was sticking out in messy curls, his eyes were slightly glassy. A faint shadow of a smile hovered on his lips, the one he forced himself to wear so Sally wouldn’t fuss over him. It felt fragile, almost ridiculous.
His motorcycle sat idle in the parking space, useless today. The headache was too sharp, too persistent; the idea of balancing on two wheels while negotiating traffic seemed absurd, almost suicidal. So, with a resigned groan, he grabbed his backpack and headed for the bus.
The streets were already buzzing with people, the mid-morning hum of New York wrapping around him like a weight. He clutched his bag tighter, squinting against the sun and the glare off the glass buildings. The bus stop felt miles away, every step reverberating up through his skull. The bus arrived with a sighing squeal, and the ride was a nightmare — stop-and-go traffic, blaring horns, and people pressed close in the cramped space. Every bump made him flinch, every cough or shout jarred his teeth.
By the time he stepped off near the flower shop, he felt like death warmed over. Pale, hunched, headache still pounding like a drum in his skull. His shoulder ached from his bag, his feet throbbed, and the sunlight made him blink rapidly as he squinted toward the familiar wooden façade.
Nico, standing just outside the shop arranging a set of blooms for the morning delivery, spotted him immediately. His bangs shadowed his eyes, but his expression was sharp, alert. He walked over in quick, light steps, tilting his head.
“Percy,” he said softly, concern laced in his tone. “You look dead. You okay?”
Percy managed a weak smile, one hand rubbing his temple as if that could banish the throb.
“Yeah. Just a headache,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ll survive.”
Nico’s eyes narrowed, not buying it for a second.
“If you came all the way from your apartment to die in the shop, both your mom and I will keep you alive to torture you,” he said, and Percy tried to laugh softly, failing. “Dude. Today’s a busy one.”
“Precisely.”
Nico tilted his head.
“Yeah, and we need functioning people,” he said. “There are two weddings and a birthday party, man.”
“Which is why you’ll need a third person,” he argued.
Nico huffed.
“You’ve taken medicine, right? Painkillers?” he asked, voice low but insistent.
Percy nodded, pressing his palm briefly to his temple.
“Yeah. It should kick in soon. Give me a bit, and I’ll be fine. I just needed to get here,” he said, forcing a lightness into his tone he didn’t feel.
“You don’t have to do this, though,” Nico countered immediately, gesturing toward the bouquets lined up along the sidewalk. “Jason and I can handle most of it. We could even get Bakendorf and Hazel to help if it gets insane. You really don’t need to—”
Percy lifted a hand, cutting him off with a faint, exhausted smile.
“No, no… I appreciate it. I really do. But it’s easier if I keep things normal. Jason and you already know the routine; I just… want to be part of it. Mom will worry if I sit out, and…” he trailed off, grimacing slightly, “it’s already bad. If I don’t move, everything else feels worse.”
Nico’s mouth twitched, half-frustrated, half-amused.
“You mean to tell me, ‘I’m dying and miserable, but I’m going to jump into chaos anyway because my mom would scold me if I stopped’?”
Percy let out a short, dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Something like that,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s only temporary. I’ll survive until—” he gestured vaguely to the arrangements and paperwork waiting inside the shop “—we get through the day.”
“Temporary?” Nico echoed, eyebrows raising. “You look like someone just threw you through a wall.”
Percy shook his head, his smile thin but steady.
“I’m fine,” he said again, though it was a little weaker this time. “Really. You and Jason have done this with me a hundred times. Today’s no different. Just… let me keep moving, okay?”
There was a pause. Nico studied him carefully, tilting his head as if weighing the exhaustion, the pale face, and the stubborn spark in Percy’s eyes. After a long moment, he exhaled through his nose, giving a resigned shrug.
“Fine. But if you collapse in the middle of tying ribbons, don’t expect me to be gentle about it,” he said. “And Grover will murder you if you end up in the hospital. I’m not stopping him.”
Percy’s lips twitched into a faint grin, just enough to make it look like the old, lighter Percy Nico remembered.
“Deal,” he said quietly, then squared his shoulders and straightened his back. The migraine still throbbed, but he shoved the sharpness to the back of his mind, focusing on the familiar rhythm of flowers and ribbons, vases and bows, the smells of fresh blooms grounding him as he stepped inside.
He moved with deliberate normalcy, arranging the morning deliveries on the counter, brushing dirt from petals, setting bouquets just so. Even with exhaustion tugging at his limbs, the routine — the predictable movements, the tactile comfort of flowers in his hands — gave him a small, fragile control over the chaos of the day.
Hours passed in a blur of movement, floral arrangements, and the low hum of the shop’s air conditioning. By late afternoon, the sun had begun to tilt, casting long, golden streaks through the large windows. The morning haze of excitement and controlled chaos had faded, leaving Percy bone-weary. Every movement felt heavier, the migraine pulsing faintly behind his eyes like a drumbeat he couldn’t escape.
The bouquets for the weddings were arranged, the delivery lists checked twice, and even Nico and Jason had begun to wind down, trusting that Percy would be honest if something required him. But Percy, pale and stiff, had found himself slipping into a rhythm of quiet, almost invisible exhaustion, pretending to tie ribbons and adjust petals while internally willing his head to stop pounding.
Finally, he stepped toward the small bench near the front of the shop, rubbing his temples with a sigh. His sweatshirt was slightly wrinkled from the day’s work, and his curls fell in damp, tired waves over his forehead. He slumped into the bench, letting his shoulders sag as though gravity itself had conspired against him.
Outside, the street was a little quieter now, the crowds thinning as people drifted home or into cafés, leaving the sidewalks calmer than the busy afternoon had been. Percy watched through the glass, noticing the soft sway of pedestrians, the fading light reflecting off the buildings, but he didn’t really register much of it. His hands rested on his knees, his backpack discarded beside him, and he let out a long, low exhale.
The headache throbbed insistently, but he welcomed the dull ache over the rush of adrenaline and responsibility that had consumed him all day. His chest felt tight, a mix of exhaustion and the quiet guilt of leaving his mother to handle the café side alone while he pushed through the floral work. He tried to summon a smile, thinking it would make her worry less, but it felt fragile, hollow even, and he let it slip into a small grimace instead.
For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet — nothing but the scent of flowers, the muted light, and the ache that stretched from his temples down to his shoulders. The world outside could wait. For now, he simply existed in the calm after the storm, fragile, tired, and entirely human.
Even as he sat, trying to gather the last remnants of energy, the ache in his head pulsed insistently, a reminder that he couldn’t stay like this forever. But he didn’t move. He let the shop hold him, let the sunlight settle on his shoulders, and allowed himself to sink into the silence for just a few more moments.
The days that followed blurred into one another in ways Annabeth didn’t particularly enjoy.
According to Juniper’s long messages, Grover was fine — thankfully — but Juniper had practically taken up residence in his house. If her repeated clothes on the following morning were any indication, she hadn’t even bothered to go home that first night. Two days later, Annabeth, exasperated and fond in equal measure, had arrived at Grover’s (she recalled where the man lived) with a bag full of folded clothes and toiletries, handing it to Juniper without a word.
Juniper had blinked at her, confused, until Annabeth deadpanned:
“You’re not fooling anyone with that rotation of sweaters. Here—so you don’t have to worry about appearances at work while you hover.”
Juniper had swatted her arm, muttering something about Annabeth being insufferable, but the bag had stayed. And Annabeth knew she was grateful.
It should have been enough to anchor her back into her usual rhythm. Case files, client meetings, the endless cycles of paperwork. But ever since that evening, Annabeth had found herself pausing — at odd hours, in the middle of dry reports or frustrating calls — with an uninvited memory: the dimples of a stranger smiling through glass, a light purple rose tilted toward her as if it belonged nowhere else.
She hated how it lingered. She hated even more how she didn’t want it gone.
So when her restless steps one late afternoon drew her to the wide office window, she didn’t immediately register what she was doing. Not until her gaze crossed the street and landed squarely on the flower shop.
The rustic wooden frame, the vines climbing its sides, the benches with couples posing for photos; it all looked the same as before. Familiar already, though she’d never set foot inside. What wasn’t the same was the boy.
At first, Annabeth thought he wasn’t there at all. The sidewalk was empty, no cheerful voice calling passersby, no bright-eyed man with curls handing out roses like they were blessings. People came and went as always, too hurried, too sharp, none of them, him.
Her brow furrowed. The last time, when curiosity had gotten the better of her, she’d asked Piper about the flower boy, trying to make it sound casual. Piper had confirmed that it was part of his daily routine: deliveries, a few handed out for free, a quiet kind of ritual. Which meant that absence — today, at this hour — was unusual. The thought sat heavy in her chest.
And then Annabeth looked closer. Through the wide glass windows, just beyond the colorful bouquets and neatly arranged displays, there he was.
The florist.
Only… not the same man from a few days before.
Instead of an open smile and bright laughter, there was something tired etched into his face. His lips trembled, pressed tight, and the easy brightness in his light eyes had dulled, even in the orange wash of the setting sun. A blue beanie covered the familiar mess of curls. He stood behind the counter, shoulders a little slumped, rearranging flowers as if by rote.
Definitely not the same man from that first afternoon.
Annabeth found herself staring, unsettled. It wasn’t common to see someone who radiated light suddenly dim overnight. She’d seen that kind of fading before—too many times, too close to the cases she worked on. And it wasn’t a possibility she wanted to attach to this man, to that smile.
Almost against her will, Annabeth lingered by the glass. Watching. Waiting.
And then the florist lifted his head, catching the gaze fixed on him from across the street.
The florist lifted his head, and for a heartbeat, Annabeth almost stepped back from the glass. It felt strange, being caught like this, like a thief in broad daylight, stealing glances at something that wasn’t hers to look at.
But the man didn’t frown. He didn’t glare or roll his eyes the way most people did when realizing they were under scrutiny. He simply looked surprised, his hand still holding a stem of pale chrysanthemums (or what she was almost sure were chrysanthemums). For a second, his expression flickered with something softer, something that looked almost like embarrassment. He ducked his chin, cheeks touched with the faintest pink — or maybe that was just the glow of the evening sun.
Annabeth’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with stress or late-night coffee.
She pressed her palms against the windowsill, frowning at herself. What on earth are you doing, Annabeth? she thought, irritated at how quickly her pulse had leapt.
This wasn’t like her. She didn’t waste time staring at strangers across the street. She didn’t get caught up in fleeting gestures or soft smiles. She had deadlines, cases, responsibilities. She didn’t have the luxury of letting her mind wander toward someone who belonged to an entirely different life — a flower shop, a café, bouquets tied up with ribbons.
And yet, her feet didn’t move.
The memory of a few days ago slipped back unbidden: the rose tilted toward her from across the street, the quiet kindness behind it. She had laughed at herself then, dismissed it as a curious moment that shouldn’t linger. But here she was, lingering still.
Why was it so easy to remember a smile? Why was it so heavy to see the absence of one?
Annabeth swallowed, irritated at the warmth creeping up her neck. You’re staring, and he sees you, and you should turn away before this becomes something you can’t explain. But her hands stayed braced against the sill, her gaze locked where it shouldn’t be.
And then, as if to answer her unspoken question, the florist smiled again—hesitant this time, fragile, but unmistakably real.
Annabeth exhaled, the breath shaky, her heart twisting at how much lighter the world suddenly seemed.
For one suspended moment, Annabeth froze in place, caught between the weight of reason and the tug of something far less sensible. Her reflection on the glass stared back at her, severe and composed, as if daring her to remember who she was: a lawyer with a reputation, deadlines that ate at her sleep, responsibilities that didn’t leave space for nonsense.
She almost listened to that reflection. Almost turned away. Almost let her hands slip from the sill.
But then, below the reflection, she caught sight of him again — the florist, still there, still looking at her, though clearly unsure if he should. His fingers fumbled with the stems in his hands, adjusting, readjusting, as if he needed something to do. The pink of his beanie was faded, soft, not new, and for some reason that detail lodged itself in her chest. He looked… tired. Not unhappy, exactly. Just not the same easy brightness she had seen before.
Her throat tightened.
It should have been nothing. A stranger across the street. An observation, like noting the weather or traffic. But the way her chest tugged at his duller expression, the way it bothered her more than it should — it was enough to make her mutter, “Oh, for God’s sake, Annabeth,” under her breath.
She stepped back from the window abruptly, dragging a hand down her face.
Her desk was scattered with case files, a neglected cup of coffee, and the thick black marker she sometimes used when she needed to make notes bold enough to cut through her exhaustion. Her gaze lingered on it. On the stack of paper in the printer.
Her sensible self hissed no. Absolutely not. You’re not the kind of person who scribbles notes to strangers in flower shops. You are thirty years old, not a schoolgirl. Grow up.
But another voice, softer, almost weary, pushed back: And what if you don’t? What if you let this moment vanish, and regret it every time you catch yourself looking across the street?
She stood there, warring with herself, pulse quickening. Then, with an exasperated laugh that was more breath than sound, she muttered, “Fuck it.”
The decision, once made, burned through her hesitation. She snatched the marker, tore a blank A6 sheet from the stack, and marched back to the window before she could overthink. Her heart drummed against her ribs like it was staging its own protest, but she pressed the paper flat against the glass, the pen scratching quickly, boldly.
She turned it around before she could chicken out.
Large block letters stared back at him through the glass:
ARE YOU OKAY?
For a beat, there was nothing. The florist blinked, startled, then tilted his head as if he hadn’t quite believed it. He looked up at her, then back at the message, his lips twitching. A small, uncertain smile ghosted across his face.
Annabeth, despite herself, felt heat crawl up her neck. She almost dropped the paper.
But he moved. Slowly, the florist lifted one shoulder in a shrug, his expression caught somewhere between honesty and shyness. Maybe? Maybe not? he seemed to say. Then, with a hesitant movement of his lips, he mouthed across the distance: And you?
Something in Annabeth’s chest cracked open. The weight she’d been carrying all day — the endless meetings, the irritation, the constant exhaustion — it softened under the absurdity of this exchange. She didn’t think. She just let one hand slip from the glass, tilting it side to side in a wobbly gesture. So-so.
The man’s laugh reached her even through the glass, even in the distance, because it was an image her eyes saw that her brain could attach sound to. It wasn’t loud, but it was genuine, dimples pressing into his cheeks. And God help her, Annabeth laughed too, quiet and oddly real.
In her distraction, the marker and extra papers slipped from her hands, clattering onto the floor. She winced, ready to bend down — until she saw him laughing harder now, head thrown back just slightly, eyes crinkling with warmth. She could only imagine what his laughter sounded like, and it was as clear as the sky above them.
It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous, completely stupid, otherworldly silly, and yet there she was, hiding her mouth with her hands like she was embarrassed to be caught smiling. He mimicked her, covering his own grin with his palm, and it only made her laugh again.
Finally, he mouthed two more words. Slow and clear, she could understand his sincere thank you.
Annabeth pressed her forehead lightly against the glass, closing her eyes for the span of one breath. When she opened them again, she simply nodded, her own lips curling into a smile that felt… unforced.
For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t carrying the whole day on her shoulders.
And all it had taken was a sheet of paper, a thick marker, and a stranger with flowers across the street.
Annabeth strode into the office, her heels clicking briskly against the polished marble floor, briefcase swinging at her side. As punctual as ever, she had arrived twenty minutes early, already rehearsing the opening statements she would deliver later that morning. Today was important—a high-profile trial, one that required her sharpest focus and a steady calm. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, adjusted the blazer at her shoulders, and mentally ran through her notes.
Her office door opened with a quiet squeak, and she paused only briefly, expecting the usual sterile arrangement: papers stacked neatly, her nameplate gleaming in the morning light, a faint trace of coffee lingering in the air. But then, she noticed the splash of color over her desk.
A bouquet.
Not small, not subtle, but bold and unapologetically present. It occupied nearly half of her neatly kept workspace, a careful cluster of blooms so vivid it made her pause mid-step. She stopped, briefcase still in hand, brow slightly furrowed, taking it in. Oak geraniums, their tiny, delicate petals the color of muted sunset, mingled effortlessly with tall, spindly stems of flax, their soft blue tones gentle yet commanding in the morning light.
Annabeth blinked once, then twice. She lowered her briefcase slowly, set it against the corner of her desk, and leaned forward just slightly, inspecting the arrangement. The combination was unusual—she didn’t recall ever seeing these two together before. It wasn’t garish, nor exactly extravagant in the ostentatious way some office bouquets could be. There was a quiet elegance to it, a thoughtfulness that made her pause.
Her pulse quickened faintly, a curious prickle of unease and intrigue threading through her usual morning calm. She reached out a tentative hand, brushing the petals lightly, and the scent — a delicate, almost honeyed floral—drifted up, soft and intoxicating in its subtlety.
For a moment, Annabeth was utterly speechless. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if she should laugh at the audacity, frown at the intrusion into her meticulously controlled space, or simply stare. Her mind raced, flipping through possibilities, all improbable: a colleague’s birthday? A court case settlement gift? A company-wide event? None of it fit.
Her fingers lingered over the blooms a second longer, then retracted slowly, confused.
She sat in her chair, still holding the bouquet’s gentle presence in her gaze, letting the confusion settle over her. Her eyes darted to the office clock, noting she had only minutes before she needed to leave for the trial, and yet the bouquet anchored her in the moment, pulling her attention from the day’s pressing demands.
A light flush crept up her neck as she considered the impossible scenarios. Someone had left this here for her. Someone had chosen these flowers. Someone had… intentionally disrupted her morning routine for reasons she couldn’t yet understand.
Annabeth exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. For a woman who thrived on control, this intrusion was both infuriating and strangely comforting. And as she glanced down at the soft blues and muted oranges of the bouquet again, she realized that she couldn’t help but let herself linger just a little longer.
Curiosity sparked, mingling with a faint, unfamiliar warmth. Whoever had done this had gone to some trouble, and Annabeth, meticulously analytical, was already beginning to notice the care in the choice of flowers—the balance of colors, the height of the stems, the neat yet natural arrangement.
Still, she muttered under her breath, partly to herself and partly in an attempt to regain her composure.
“What…?”
The small white card tucked between the stems caught her eye again. She hesitated before sliding it out, her fingers brushing against the cool paper. The handwriting was careful, not rushed, as though each letter mattered. Just one line:
“In case you forget to smile.”
Her breath stilled.
She read it once, then again, as if repetition would grant clarity. But it didn’t. No name, no signature, no clue beyond the words themselves. A part of her prickled with suspicion — was this Juniper again? Trying to smuggle more life into the room when Annabeth wasn’t looking? — but Juniper’s attempts had never been this subtle. Juniper liked bold color, noisy presence. She wouldn’t have chosen muted blues and quiet oranges. And she certainly wouldn’t have left a card like this.
Annabeth lowered herself into her chair, the leather creaking softly as she set the card on the desk beside her. She studied the bouquet again, feeling oddly scrutinized by it, as though someone had been paying closer attention than she thought possible. Flowers were just flowers, weren’t they? Pretty, yes, comforting in their way—but not personal. Not like this.
And yet, here they were.
Her fingers drummed once against the edge of her desk. She didn’t recognize the blooms, for her knowledge of flowers was limited to roses and orchids and sunflowers. She wasn’t sure. Names floated like half-forgotten echoes from some article she’d skimmed years ago, nothing more.
Annabeth leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle it out. A client, perhaps, eccentric and overly grateful? A colleague attempting to soften her edges with kindness? Juniper, despite her most sincere doubts?
She glanced again at the card.
In case you forget to smile.
Her jaw tightened, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curving upward almost against her will. Whoever had done this—whether misguided or not—had managed the impossible: they had unsettled her control.
Annabeth sighed, dragging her chair closer to the desk. The bouquet loomed beside her files and case notes, softening their sharp edges. Infuriating, she thought again, even as her gaze drifted back, caught by the pale shimmer of the blossoms. Infuriating and comforting all at once.
Annabeth leaned back in her chair, the bouquet in the corner of her vision like an unanswered question. A part of her, the practical part that thrived on order and reason, immediately began to frame it as a prank. It had to be. Some intern trying to curry favor? A colleague hoping to rattle her? There was no world in which someone simply decided, out of the blue, that she deserved a gesture like this.
Her fingers brushed over the edge of the little card again, and she felt the faintest tug inside her chest, a warmth she was quick to dismiss. No. It has to be a joke. Because the alternative — that someone had noticed her, had thought of her in a moment of softness — was a thought too delicate, too dangerous, to entertain.
Still, the question refused to settle. She pictured Juniper, grinning as she orchestrated some elaborate scheme to “bring life” to her office again, slipping in the flowers when Annabeth wasn’t looking. Juniper would do something like that, wouldn’t she? Except… no. Juniper lacked subtlety. If Juniper had done this, she’d have burst in already, arms crossed, demanding to know if Annabeth liked her “brilliant” idea.
Annabeth rubbed her temple with the tips of her fingers. Then who? And why?
The clock ticked, steady, indifferent, while the bouquet stood out among her neatly stacked files and heavy case briefs. A blot of color in a world that was otherwise paper and ink. She hated how it softened the room. Hated, even more, how it softened her.
The door creaked open.
“Annabeth?” Juniper’s voice cut through her thoughts, casual, curious. She stepped into the office, dropping her bag onto one of the visitor chairs. Her eyes swept the room, landing on the desk almost immediately. “Oh. Flowers?”
Annabeth’s spine straightened. Her gaze flickered to the bouquet, then back to her friend. A thousand answers rushed to her tongue — I don’t know who sent them. They just appeared. Look at this card, what do you think? — but none of them made it out. Instead, her voice came calm, steady, rehearsed even.
“I thought the office could use some color,” she said lightly, too lightly. “It’s been a bit hectic, and I can’t seem to stop and admire a dingle thing.”
Juniper tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Annabeth’s tone left no room for debate, though she had to force herself not to fidget.
For a moment, Juniper looked like she might push, like she might prod past the surface. But then her expression softened, and she stepped closer to the desk, leaning over to inspect the bouquet.
“Huh,” she said thoughtfully. “Not bad, actually. Pretty choice, by the way. I wouldn’t have pegged you for this kind of flower.”
Annabeth swallowed, her throat tight, and managed a nod.
“Well. I thought it was appropriate.”
Juniper smiled faintly, straightening again.
“It was. Good choice, Annabeth. It brightens the place up.”
The words landed heavier than they should have, leaving Annabeth with the quiet, gnawing knowledge that she had just lied to one of the few people she trusted. She held Juniper’s gaze for a second longer than necessary, then let it drop, her attention sliding back to the flowers.
Juniper didn’t notice—or pretended not to. She was already talking about something else, casual chatter about Grover and the endless rotations of errands she’d been running for him, but Annabeth only half-heard it. Her eyes remained on the bouquet, the soft colors blurring in her vision, and the unsigned card still sitting innocently at her desk.
Her hand closed over it again when Juniper wasn’t looking, thumb brushing the words she couldn’t stop thinking about.
In case you forget to smile.
She didn’t remember smiling so easily before.
Meeting people had never been hard for Percy.
It couldn’t be, not when one’s childhood was framed by the steady rhythm of a bell above the door and strangers wandering into your life with every chime. He’d grown up behind counters stacked with vases, among the earthy perfume of soil and water and blossoms that opened to greet the morning just as faithfully as his mother did. Customers had been his lullabies, his teachers, his distractions, his friends.
By the time he was a teenager, he could tell more about a person from the way they lingered by the lilies or ignored the roses than most could from a week of conversation. He’d learned to smile naturally, to answer questions without hesitation, to handle the delicate balance of commerce and kindness that kept the shop alive. Later, when events became a bigger part of their business, he’d gotten even better at it—at adapting, reading rooms, winning people over when it was necessary.
Meeting people wasn’t hard for Percy.
But never once had he met someone through windows. Or across the street. Simultaneously.
That was new.
It had started out so innocently—or as innocently as anything could when he’d been feeling like hell. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice, much less someone from the other side of the road, looking at him with sharp eyes through glass. And yet, there she was. A lawyer, judging by the suits and the pace at which she always seemed to move when he caught sight of her. Someone who lived in that other world, the one with case files and marble staircases, not blooms and soil.
The first time he’d seen her looking, he’d almost dropped the flowers in his hands. He wasn’t used to being watched. His mother was used to it, maybe—people adored her, respected her. But him? He blended. He was just part of the shop’s fabric, another set of hands arranging stems.
Still, when her gaze had lingered— when she hadn’t looked away as fast as people usually did — something in him had tightened. Not unpleasantly, not painfully. Just… tightly enough to make him realize he was alive, that he was being seen.
And then came the pen and paper, the silent words pressed to glass, her hesitant but deliberate choice to answer him.
ARE YOU OK?
The letters had startled him at first, made him laugh when he didn’t think he had any laughter left in him that day. But it had meant more than he could have explained, to know that someone on the other side of that street, that window, had thought to ask.
He wasn’t naive enough to think it meant anything—people noticed each other all the time, didn’t they? But he was human enough to admit that he kept thinking about it. About her, most of all, because sadly and somehow, he had never seen that woman before.
And what a gorgeous, gorgeous woman it was.
His sight wasn’t unhuman, and therefore there were things to her that he could only imagine. The color of her eyes or the exact hue of the braids in her hair; just how wide her smile could get and if the shine he saw around her was only the sun (unlikely) or something that came from her very skin (he would bet money on it).
So here he was, two days later, arranging flowers with hands that still shook faintly from exhaustion, sneaking glances across the street like he was fifteen again and caught in some schoolyard crush. Ridiculous, he told himself that a dozen times. And yet…
Every time his eyes drifted to the building opposite, he felt the pull of curiosity settle in his chest. Was she there? Would she look again? Was it something she would remember so often during her days?
It was a strange, quiet kind of anticipation. Not like the adrenaline of events or the satisfaction of customers walking out smiling. This was softer, quieter. Something that lived in the cracks between moments and tugged at him when he wasn’t paying attention.
Percy shook his head, more to himself than anyone else, and bent back over the arrangement he was working on. The stems needed trimming, the angles correcting. But his thoughts kept returning to the glass across the street, to the faint memory of her smile—small, hesitant, but real.
Never once had he thought he’d meet someone like this. Through panes of glass, across an entire street, both distant and impossibly close.
And yet, for reasons he didn’t care to name, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.
The stems of the geraniums didn’t quite want to sit the way he needed them to, and Percy muttered under his breath as he adjusted their angle in the vase, trimming just a fraction off the ends with his shears. It wasn’t a particularly popular choice of flowers — oak geraniums and flax — but he hadn’t chosen them solely on their appearance.
Oh, silly his heart, caring so much about hidden meanings.
And perhaps it was doing too much, but Percy grew up learning that kindness could only be paid back with another kind act, and flowers were the best he could do; he understood those, and he could make a nice arrangement. That, and it was part of his routine — he wasn’t insane enough to change his routine and make something unthought of just because his heart made little loops inside his chest.
His concentration on the bouquet was broken by the familiar squeak of the shop door and the light patter of sneakers against the wooden floor. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“If you came here thinking about working,” he said immediately, voice carrying across the counter, “you better turn right around and go back home.”
Grover scoffed, loud and theatrical, rolling his eyes as she set his tote bag down with a dramatic thump.
“I didn’t break any bones, brother,” Grover shot back, pushing a curl off his face. “And before you ask, I’m not here to lift buckets or carry boxes. Calm down.”
He gave Grover a look anyway, the kind only an older brother could perfect, and Grover smirked, clearly pleased with himself.
“Sure,” Percy said dryly, sliding another stem into the arrangement, adjusting it until it looked like it had grown there naturally. “Because sitting down in the café and pretending to ‘supervise’ isn’t working at all.”
Grover walked over to lean against the counter. He tilted her head toward the bouquet he was fussing over.
“Your perfectionism is showing again,” Grover teased. “It looks fine.”
“‘Fine’ doesn’t sell,” he countered, but his voice softened with the words. “People notice the difference when you actually care about how it looks.”
His best friend rolled her eyes again, but this time with less flair.
“You sound just like Sally.”
That made Percy laugh—tired, quiet, but still genuine. He placed his shears down and leaned back, flexing his sore fingers.
“Guess it’s genetic.”
For a moment, Grover studied him, his expression softening. His best friend looked pale still, shadows under his eyes, and though he didn’t mention it, Percy could feel his gaze pricking at him like a needle. He pretended not to notice.
“What brings you here then?” Percy asked instead, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Boredom,” Grover said simply, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Juno had to stop by the office, and I didn’t want to sit at home alone. I figured I’d come here, have a coffee, maybe bother you a little.”
“You’re succeeding,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched up.
Grover grinned, triumphant.
“I’m good at my job.”
Percy shook his head and went back to the flowers. Grover hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging his legs lazily, clearly comfortable in a space that had always been theirs as much as it was their mother’s.
After a moment, Grover reached out and touched the petals of one of the stems he’d just placed.
“These are pretty. Not the usual roses and sunflowers.”
“Right? It’s an order,” he explained, adjusting a sprig of greenery to balance the height and balancing his voice to adjust to the little white lie. “Something cheerful but not too obvious. Something that feels… thoughtful, I guess.”
Grover hummed, thoughtful himself, though his attention drifted quickly.
“Well, they’ll like it. You always make it work.”
Grover’s confidence in him was so casual, so certain, that it disarmed him for a moment. He glanced at the other man, and though Percy didn’t say anything, a warmth settled quietly in his chest.
It was just another ordinary afternoon. Flowers on the counter, Grover being Grover, the faint hum of the café machine in the background. Nothing unusual at all.
And yet, when Percy adjusted the last bloom into place, his eyes — almost without permission — slid once more to the wide windows across the street.
Just for a second.
Just in case.
He hadn’t expected to see her from up close.
The day had been long, like most days, and he was running on the kind of tiredness that made every movement feel heavier than it should. He was locking the shop down, gathering the last of the vases from the display outside and stacking the chairs against the wall in the soft dusk. The street was quieter now, the rush of late afternoon traffic giving way to something slower, calmer.
That’s when he saw her.
She came into view from the corner of the street, walking at a measured pace, and for a moment Percy almost didn’t recognize her—not because she looked different, but because he wasn’t used to her in motion, outside the still frame of glass and distance.
And because his brain short-circuited when he noticed that she was holding the bouquet, his bouquet.
The one he’d left behind on a desk he had no claim to.
Geraniums and flax cradled in her arms like something precious, the soft shapes brushing against the dark fabric of her coat. She wasn’t careless with it. Quite the opposite — she held the stems with both hands, close to her chest, her elbows drawn slightly inward as though she was protecting them from the evening breeze.
Percy froze with one hand on the back of a chair. The sight did something to him that he hadn’t prepared for.
He’d imagined her reaction a hundred different ways when he first sent them — confusion, irritation, maybe even dismissal. But this? Seeing her carry them home with that unconscious tenderness, like she’d accepted them into her space, was something else entirely.
His throat went dry.
From this distance he could see details he couldn’t from across the street: the way the golden light of the setting sun brushed against her cheekbone, how a few curls of hair had escaped to curl against her temple, how focused she seemed in thought as if the flowers themselves had carved a space in her mind.
It was almost too much, and yet he couldn’t look away.
She passed the front of the shop without noticing him at first, her eyes lowered slightly, her arms shifting just enough to adjust the weight of the bouquet. The blossoms tilted, catching a glimmer of the last sunlight before they disappeared into shadow again.
Percy’s chest ached.
He moved without thinking, pulling the chair the rest of the way in, the scrape of wood on pavement loud in the quiet street. She looked up at the sound, her gaze brushing over him briefly—just a stranger closing up a shop at the end of the day—and then sliding past without pause.
The bouquet remained secure in her hold.
For a fleeting second, Percy wanted to say something. Anything. A word, a greeting, even a careless remark about the weather—something that might bridge the chasm between them. But his tongue felt heavy, his jaw locked. The risk of breaking the fragile secrecy of it all was too high.
So he only nodded faintly when her eyes grazed his again—barely a flicker of acknowledgment, nothing more. She didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. The sound of her steps faded slowly down the sidewalk, leaving the air charged in her wake.
Percy stayed where he was, hand gripping the chair harder than necessary.
She had no idea. No idea that it was him, that the stems she held so carefully had passed through his hands that very morning, chosen one by one. No idea that he’d thought of her in the silence of arranging them, in the deliberate placement of color and leaf.
And yet… she had carried them home.
Percy exhaled slowly, lowering the chair with a quiet thud. His body was tired, but his heart was awake, restless, caught between a dangerous hope and a fear that it was nothing more than chance.
Still, as he turned the key in the lock of the shop door, he allowed himself one small thought—unspoken, fragile, fleeting.
Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t feel quite so heavy.
Annabeth hadn’t even recovered from the bouquet of the previous day — now installed in her living room like a guest she hadn’t invited but couldn’t quite send away — when her eyes fell on another arrangement sitting neatly on her desk the following morning.
Another bouquet.
This one was different, less commanding than the oranges and blues she’d spent too long staring at last night, but no less insistent in its presence. Pale yellows, soft purples, and gentle whites blended together in a harmony that seemed almost too deliberate. At the heart of it all were the flowers she vaguely recognized from some corner of her memory—small, velvety petals with faces of color. Pansies, she thought. Or at least she was fairly sure.
She set her bag down carefully, eyes fixed on them. Whoever was doing this clearly didn’t believe in moderation. Two days in a row wasn’t coincidence—it was insistence.
Annabeth’s first instinct, as always, was irritation. She thrived on control, and this—this intrusion of softness into her precise, calculated world—was the opposite of control. And yet, as she leaned closer, irritation wavered. The petals were impossibly fresh, the stems trimmed with practiced precision. Not careless. Not rushed. Every inch of the bouquet whispered of intention.
Her fingers ghosted over a pale violet bloom.
“…Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.
A prank. It had to be a prank. Who would send her flowers otherwise? Out of the blue, as if she—of all people—deserved such gestures? It was laughable, absurd. If someone was trying to amuse themselves at her expense, they’d done a commendable job.
Still, the arrangement didn’t have the garishness of a joke. It was too carefully done. Too quiet, almost gentle. And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Her gaze caught on the small card nestled among the blooms. White cardstock, the ink plain and neat. Just a few words:
Thinking of you.
Her breath hitched, just slightly, before she forced composure back into place. Thinking of her? Who? And why?
No name. No clue. Nothing but the suggestion that somewhere, someone had paused their day long enough to send this into hers.
The thought alone was enough to leave her off balance.
She was still standing there, card in hand, when footsteps echoed in the hall. Instantly, her mask snapped back into place. She tucked the card between her fingers, her expression smooth, unreadable.
“Annabeth?” Juniper’s voice preceded her into the office. “Do you—oh.”
Juniper’s eyes landed on the bouquet, her brows rising.
“More flowers?” she asked. “Well, that’s cheerful.”
“It’s nothing,” Annabeth said, too quickly. “I just thought the office could use some brightening up.”
Juniper blinked.
“So you bought flowers again?”
“Yes,” Annabeth lied without missing a beat. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem,” Juniper smiled faintly, moving closer to inspect them. “Pansies. Nice choice. They add softness without overwhelming the space. Unexpected for you, but… good unexpected.”
Annabeth forced a polite smile, even as the words burrowed beneath her skin. Good choice. As if it really had been hers.
Juniper shrugged and moved on, already shifting the conversation to something else, her presence as fleeting as always.
When the door closed again, silence filled the room. Annabeth turned back to the bouquet, eyes catching on the card still clutched in her hand.
Thinking of you.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. It was absurd. Entirely absurd.
And yet—when she tried to look away, she found she couldn’t.
New bouquets appeared on Annabeth’s desk every other day, and she decided not to think too much about it. It could be her secretaries—Evelyn, with her penchant for surprising people, or Marcos, who had an eye for colors that made him an expert at choosing office ties—or even Bobby, the previous director who still dropped by the firm once in a while. Bobby adored both her and Juniper, always leaving behind sweets, magazines, or small gestures to show his affection. Brightening up her office with flowers seemed like something he might do.
Worst-case scenario, it was a prank. But even then, it was a harmless one, and she could hardly complain about her space being filled with fresh blooms instead of paperwork.
So Annabeth accepted it. Quietly, reluctantly, but she accepted. The never-the-same arrangement became part of her routine, a detail she didn’t want to question too much.
Looking out the window, however, became something else entirely.
She told herself it was curiosity, that old itch of the lawyer in her—the desire to notice patterns, to make connections, to see the world play out in small fragments. She told herself it had nothing to do with the man across the street.
And yet, her eyes found the shop more often than she liked to admit.
It wasn’t even always about him. Sometimes it was just the blur of colors in the window, the way sunlight fell through glass onto rows of petals, or the soft movement of someone rearranging vases. But more often than not, her gaze landed on him.
The florist with curls that never seemed tamed, with sleeves rolled up and a quiet presence that carried even through the distance. She told herself it was simply because he was a delightful sight—because he was. There was something magnetic in the ease of his movements, in the gentle way he touched the flowers, in the quiet competence with which he lifted crates or directed others around the shop.
That had to be it. Purely aesthetic.
And yet, each time she caught herself lingering, she felt the corners of her mouth soften, the rigid lines of her day blur into something lighter. It unsettled her. She didn’t have space for mystery in her life, not when it came tied up in curls and dimpled smiles she pretended not to notice.
On a Thursday, just before lunch, Annabeth left her office later than she’d planned. Juniper had teased her that morning about her habit of skipping meals, so she made herself go, bag on her shoulder and coat folded over her arm. She walked briskly down the hall, heels clicking, determined to clear her head before the next wave of obligations.
But as she stepped out of the building and crossed the sidewalk, her attention betrayed her.
There he was.
Not behind the glass this time, not framed at a safe distance. He was outside, near the curb, loading buckets of blooms into the back of a small truck. His curls were pulled half under a cap, and his laughter carried faintly across the street — warm, unguarded.
He wasn’t alone. A tall man with bangs that fell over his eyes, pale skin and a slim figure, was helping him, juggling crates in a way that made the florist laugh harder, bending slightly at the waist, pressing his hand to his stomach as though he couldn’t hold it in.
The sound surprised her.
Annabeth had seen him smile, even laugh faintly through the window once or twice when the sound itself had been more imagination than anything else, and it was never like this. Never this open, never this bright. His whole face shifted with it, the kind of laughter that made his eyes gleam and his shoulders shake, the kind that was impossible not to watch.
Her steps slowed without her permission.
For a moment she forgot herself, standing still on the edge of the crosswalk, pretending to check her phone while her gaze flickered back to him. The flowers in his hands seemed an extension of him, vivid and alive. And though she would never admit it aloud, she envied the ease with which he inhabited the world, as though even exhaustion couldn’t steal the warmth he carried.
She caught herself staring and shook her head slightly, pulling her coat tighter against her side, forcing her feet forward.
It was nothing. Just a man at work. Just laughter in the air. Just another bouquet waiting somewhere for someone else.
But even as she turned the corner toward the café, she realized her pulse was quicker than it should have been, her mind already replaying the sound of his laugh.
Annabeth told herself to look away.
She had already been standing there too long, pretending to check her phone, fingers scrolling across a blank screen that hadn’t even lit up with a notification. But her eyes betrayed her, drifting up again—back to the florist with the messy curls and the laughter that seemed to paint the street brighter than it had any right to be.
And then, without warning, his gaze lifted.
She froze.
It was a second too late when she realized he’d seen her, standing across the street with her coat tucked to her side and her phone clutched in her hand like a shield. Their eyes locked, startling her into stillness.
The man blinked, laughter softening into something quieter, more hesitant. And then—almost shyly—he smiled. It wasn’t the full, unguarded smile from a moment ago, but something more timid, reserved, as though he, too, wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden connection across the traffic and noise.
Before Annabeth could think, he lifted one hand—still holding a stem of greenery—and gave a small wave. Tentative. Gentle. As though testing the air.
Heat surged into her face so fast she could feel it beneath her skin. Caught red-handed, caught staring, caught in a moment she hadn’t even realized she’d walked into. Her first instinct was to look anywhere else—to the ground, to the cars rolling past, to the buildings around her. But her body refused to obey.
Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, heart stumbling in her chest. The faintest, stiffest motion escaped her as she raised her own hand, halfway, in some vague approximation of a wave. Not graceful, not natural, not anything like the control she prided herself on. Just… human.
The florist’s smile widened at that, dimples appearing faintly, though he didn’t make any move closer. He simply acknowledged her, the way one might acknowledge a secret spoken between two strangers in passing.
It was unbearable.
Her cheeks burned hotter, her chest felt tight, and before she could make a complete fool of herself, Annabeth dropped her hand and spun her attention back to the street. She took the first chance to cross, her stride brisk and sharp, the sound of her heels faster than before.
Annabeth didn’t look back. She couldn’t.
But she could still feel the ghost of his smile lingering at the edge of her thoughts, the echo of her own ridiculous, stiff wave replaying in her mind. By the time she reached the café, she was certain her face was still flushed, certain the image of him laughing, then smiling shyly at her, would not be easily shaken.
Meanwhile, across the street, Percy stood for a moment longer, watching her retreat around the corner. His hand dropped back to his side, and he exhaled slowly, his chest still warm from the strange, fleeting exchange. Nico said something beside him, probably about the crates, but Percy barely registered it.
For reasons he couldn’t quite name, his heart was beating a little too quickly.
She didn’t come to the window, that day.
As much as Percy didn’t want to admit it, that had discouraged him a bit, which was pathetic. They had barely exchanged more than a smile and a timid wave, and he was letting the absence of that tiny, fragile ritual weigh on him. The woman was busy, of course — everyone who worked in the mirrored building seemed to live by schedules tighter than the knots that kept his flower bundles together.
Or maybe — maybe she just didn’t want to waste any more time looking out the window, waiting for him to look back. And Percy, for some reason, wanted to cling to that possibility. Because it meant she had waited at least once.
By late afternoon, the flower shop had quieted. The usual bustle of deliveries and customers had faded, leaving behind two forgotten bouquets on the counter—already paid for, but never picked up. It happened often enough, and as always, he and his mother had a simple rule: no flower should wilt on the counter. The forgotten arrangements would be given away, scattered into strangers’ hands, so at least the petals would find their way to smiles.
Outside, under the dimming sky, Percy handed the last bloom of the day—a white rose — to a little girl with curly hair who grinned wide before running off to her parents. He couldn’t help but soften at the sight, though the weight in his chest lingered.
When he stepped back inside, the shop felt too still, too empty. He thought about closing early — just half an hour, his mother wouldn’t mind. Nico could watch over the café side for a little longer. He was tired.
At the counter, a splash of color caught his eye: one flower had slipped loose from the bouquet he’d prepared that morning. The dark purple ice plant lay quiet against the pale wood, its tiny star-like petals spread wide. He picked it up between his fingers, brushing the stem absently.
Your looks freeze me.
That’s what the flower meant. It was absurd, he knew — childish, foolish, maybe even a little reckless. Leaving these coded messages tucked into bouquets, hoping she might notice or care enough to look them up. And yet, it was the only way he knew to explain the strange rush that overtook him whenever he caught sight of her.
The pretty girl with the careful arms. The way she cradled the flowers, as if she knew how easily they bruised. The way her eyes softened when she smiled, even if it wasn’t at him.
He told himself it was enough, this quiet folly. To see her leave, bouquets pressed to her chest, as though she was carrying something worth protecting. That should be enough.
Sighing, Percy placed the ice plant gently into a slim glass vase on the counter, the petals still open as though they hadn’t noticed his indecision. He untied the black apron from his waist and tugged the green bandana from his hair, folding them together with practiced ease. His keys clinked softly when he pulled them from the apron pocket. One by one, he locked each glass door, the sound echoing faintly in the empty shop, like punctuation to a long and weary sentence.
His bag sat waiting for him behind the counter. He slung it over his shoulder and checked his phone out of habit — only the usual flood of group messages from his friends, unread memes, and a few social media notifications flashing across the screen. He ignored them. The fatigue dragging at his body was enough to dull even the smallest curiosity.
When he finally pushed open the front door, the dusk air was cool against his face. He adjusted his bag across his torso, but his steps faltered.
Someone was sitting on the bench just beyond the path, hunched forward, their elbows balanced on their knees, face hidden in their hands. Whoever it was, they looked worn out in a way that Percy recognized too well — like the weight of the day hadn’t just pressed against their shoulders but seeped into their bones.
He lingered in the doorway, torn between retreating quietly and doing something, anything. His gaze drifted back to the counter. To the vase. To the flowers waiting there.
Among them, the sunflower caught his eye. Its golden head tilted slightly, petals spread wide in unapologetic brightness.
Percy plucked it from the water and held it gently, the stem cool between his fingers. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was nothing — but flowers were meant to be given, not left behind.
He stepped outside, locking the door carefully behind him before turning toward the bench. His footsteps were soft against the stone path, his body slipping into the shadow of the vine-covered fence. The vines climbed upward in a tangle of green and blooms, their scent faint in the evening air.
The woman on the bench hadn’t moved. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if each breath was measured, forced into rhythm. Beside her sat a black leather briefcase, worn but neatly kept. And next to it—
Percy froze for a heartbeat.
Ice plants.
Their star-shaped petals rested in a small bundle, tied together with twine. And resting against them, folded carefully, was a note.
A note written in the same looping, deliberate handwriting Percy knew, of course, by heart (and own hand).
continue
For a moment, the exhaustion in his body melted into something else. He felt it spark low in his chest, an almost foolish warmth. He smiled — to himself, to the flowers, to the absurd generosity of the universe that kept twisting and weaving their paths together.
Percy walked a few more steps towards the bench, eyes tracing the last brushstrokes of gold dissolving into indigo across the sky. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and warm stone, the kind of evening that asked for unhurried breaths.
A soft gasp pulled him out of the daze he had gotten himself into as he tried to remember words to speak as a greeting. He turned his head slightly, and she was looking at him now, wide-eyed, her face half-shadowed by the dim light spilling from the café windows and the cars passing with low lights. The woman glanced at him, then back toward the shop front as if the sight of him there, seated so casually with a sunflower in hand, didn’t make sense.
“Oh, you’re—” she stammered, voice low but sharp with surprise. “You’re closing. I’m sorry, I—”
Percy shook his head gently, interrupting before she could retreat into apology.
“Just the shop,” he said. His voice was quiet but sure, steady enough to anchor the space between them.
Her head tilted, confusion softening into something almost curious.
“The café stays open a while more,” he added, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. “I’m only closing the shop.”
She blinked once, twice, as though the clarification was more revealing than it had any right to be. Her gaze darted away almost immediately, fixing somewhere beyond the vines that curled along the fence. It was easier, maybe, to study leaves than the stranger she’d only ever watched through glass.
He, however, didn’t look away. Percy studied her profile quietly, the sharp line of her jaw softened by weariness, the faint crease between her brows speaking of a day that had asked too much of her. She looked tired — not the kind of tired that sleep fixed, but the kind that settled deeper, like ink on paper.
And yet, she was here. Flowers resting on her lap and a briefcase at her side, watching time as it passed by his flowershop and the street before them.
He let the silence hold for a moment longer before his voice, careful and calm, broke it.
“What brings you here?”
The question was gentle, without pressure, but it landed all the same.
Her shoulders tensed just slightly. She let out a groan — not annoyed, not exactly — more like the sound of someone caught between honesty and the instinct to retreat. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her case, and for the first time since she’d gasped at seeing him, she hesitated.
Her lips parted, but no words came right away. The hesitation was almost tangible, like a weight pressing against her chest. She stared ahead, into the deepening dusk, as if the answer could be found in the way the streetlamps flickered to life.
Percy didn’t rush her. He only leaned back slightly, sunflower loose between his fingers, waiting with the kind of patience that was both disarming and unfamiliar. The woman exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed forward.
“Nothing,” she said at last, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. There was a pause and then, softer, like the words were sneaking out before she could stop them, she added: “No, that’s not true. It’s… something. I just don’t know if it’s worth saying out loud.”
Her fingers fidgeted with the petals of the bouquet balanced on her lap, tracing the edges with restless care. The motion steadied her voice as it grew uneven, words tumbling out faster than she’d intended.
Percy tilted his head but didn’t speak. There was no need to, he tought, and part of his brain was making the effort not to startle her thoughts away, or the possibility of opening up to a stranger.
Perhaps because of that, or because of something else entirely, the silence between them felt safe enough that she dared to continue. With a sigh, the woman gave in.
“Today was— hard. Work is… work is always hard, but today—” she stopped, her throat tightening. “I won. We won. Everyone keeps saying it was the right thing, the good thing. And I know that. I know it,” she shifted, the leather strap of her briefcase creaking faintly under her hand. “But I can’t stop hearing them. The children. Screaming, crying, clawing at their parents. They don’t understand. They can’t. And I-I had to stand there and not look away.”
Her breath caught, her words rushing to fill the silence as if slowing down would make them unbearable.
“And what if that makes me… horrible? What if— what if doing the right thing makes you into something else? Something cold, or cruel? What kind of person is proud of tearing families apart, even if it’s for their safety?”
The confession fractured at the edges, her voice breaking without fully collapsing. She laughed once, softly and bitterly, shaking her head.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this to a stranger. You didn’t ask to hear—”
Her sentence faltered. Her eyes dropped to the flowers in her lap, their colors blurring as her fingers pressed too tightly against the stems. She loosened her hold quickly, as if she might hurt them too, and smoothed a petal with the pad of her thumb.
Through it all, Percy had said nothing. But his silence wasn’t empty. It was listening, steady and warm, the kind of silence that let her words have weight instead of dissolving into nothing.
She turned her face slightly, not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to feel the gravity of his presence beside her. For the first time that day, Annabeth realized she wasn’t carrying the weight alone—not entirely.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of passing cars and the hum of the café sign still lit above the shop. Percy shifted, resting his forearms on his knees, sunflower balanced delicately between his fingers.
Then, in a voice low and steady, he said,
“I doubt that.”
Annabeth blinked, startled, and finally turned her face toward him.
“That I shouldn’t be spilling about my life to a stranger?” she asked, and Percy shrugged as if it was a debatable truth, and shook his head quickly, softly. His smile was sided, small and almost challenging, but there was clear amusement on his face.
“The other thing.”
Annabeth frowned. It was a second until she managed to rewind and bring back the words she had spoken.
“That I’m a horrible person?” she asked, incredulous.
He angled his head, studying her profile without flinching.
“Are you?”
The question was simple, almost too simple, and it disarmed her. Her lips parted. She faltered.
“I… No?”
He nodded once, as though that settled it.
“Then that’s it.”
The faintest curve tugged at his lips, not quite a smile but close. His voice carried no argument, only certainty — gentle, grounding certainty that Annabeth didn’t know how to hold without her throat tightening again.
Her fingers stilled against the bouquet. The silence stretched, and Percy let it, before speaking again. His tone was lighter now, as if easing her out of the heaviness.
“You don’t strike me as someone who does things halfway. Whatever it was you did today, I’d bet you gave everything you had. That doesn’t sound horrible to me. It sounds just like someone who cares too much, maybe.”
Her throat worked around a protest, but nothing came out.
“And besides—” Percy shifted slightly, tilting his chin toward the flowers in her lap. “Those agree with me.”
She blinked, following his gaze, confusion breaking through the fog of her thoughts.
“What?”
“The flowers,” he said simply, a quiet warmth in his tone. “I’d bet you’re an amazing lawyer. And they agree.”
Annabeth looked down at the ice plants, their delicate faces tilted toward her as if conspiring with his words. Her brows furrowed, lips parting in an incredulous, almost helpless laugh.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted, shaking her head slightly, still avoiding his eyes. “What does that even mean?”
Percy leaned back against the bench, twirling the sunflower idly between his fingers. His voice was unhurried, softer than the evening air.
“Their meaning.”
Her brows knit, and she turned her face toward him at last.
“Whose meaning?”
“The flowers,” he replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the circling dialogue.
Annabeth glanced down at the bouquet in her lap, blinking as if the petals might suddenly start speaking for themselves.
“These flowers have a meaning?”
He gave a little shrug, half sheepish, half proud.
“They do. Every kind does.”
That earned a faint laugh from her, more surprised than amused. She lifted one stem slightly, the purple petals trembling in her hand.
“These are ice plants, right?”
His eyebrows arched, clearly impressed she even knew the name.
“Yeah.”
“And they mean I’m… cold?” she asked, her tone caught between sarcasm and genuine uncertainty.
Percy chuckled softly, shaking his head. His gaze flicked to her face, lingering a second too long before returning to the flower in her hand.
“It’s more like you stun people,” he said gently. Then, with a playful tilt of his lips, “If it was me in a courtroom with you, I’d go speechless before you even made an argument.”
Her breath caught. A flush crept up her neck before she could stop it, and she ducked her head as if the flowers had suddenly become very interesting.
“That’s… ridiculous,” she muttered, her voice thinner than she would have liked.
“I don’t think so,” he countered easily, still looking at her profile. There was no teasing edge to his tone now—only sincerity, cloaked in that calmness that seemed to belong to him.
Annabeth fiddled with the bouquet, tucking one stem back into place with more force than necessary. Her pulse was unsteady, her cheeks still warm. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had managed to throw her so off balance with a single sentence.
Percy, sensing her fluster, leaned back a little, letting the space between them breathe again. He tilted his face toward the sky, speaking as if to himself.
“Flowers say things we don’t always know how to. Or maybe things we’re too afraid to.”
Her eyes flicked to him despite herself, the curve of his jaw lit softly by the fading daylight, the sunflower still spinning idly between his fingers. And for the first time that day, something in her chest eased, the heaviness thinning into something quieter, gentler.
“Do all flowers have a meaning?” Annabeth asked after a moment, her voice soft but laced with genuine curiosity.
Percy nodded, almost without hesitation.
“Yeah. Every single one of them.”
Her brows furrowed, lips tugging down into a slight frown.
“But do people actually think of it when they send flowers?”
He tilted his head, considering her, then shook it.
“Not usually, no. Most just pick whatever looks nice.”
“Then why do you know their meaning?” she asked, eyes narrowing with a half-smile that was both skeptical and intrigued.
His mouth curved, slow and unhurried, like he’d been waiting for her to ask.
“Because I’m a florist with a lot of free time at night. And because I like hidden messages.”
The confession settled between them, warm and unexpectedly intimate. She blinked, picturing him in a shop surrounded by rows of blossoms, reading them like lines of poetry only he knew. Her fingers twitched against her thigh, wanting to tuck away the image before it vanished.
She opened her mouth to ask another question, but he cut in gently, his tone dipping into something lighter, teasing.
“Can I ask a question now, though?”
Annabeth felt her cheeks heat immediately, caught between anticipation and nerves. Still, she nodded.
“Sure.”
His grin widened, and for the first time, it felt directed only at her, not the kind of smile he threw out into the world casually.
“What’s your name? Because ‘Lady with blue braids I met through windows across the street’ is a mouthful… and, honestly, a way too long thought to keep repeating.”
For a heartbeat, she just stared at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. Then it struck her — she didn’t know his name either. She’d seen him through the glass enough times to imagine she knew something of him, to piece together little stories about the man with the hands always busy with flowers, but his name? It had never even crossed the windows to her.
The realization bloomed inside her chest and made her laugh. It wasn’t nervous, not mocking either, but something light that broke out of her as though the thought itself was too ridiculous to hold in.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, tilting his head, a flicker of surprise and amusement at the sound of her laughter.
“I just realized,” she said between little fits of it, “I didn’t know your name either. I have no idea what your name is. And yet…” she waved a hand vaguely toward the street behind them, toward the glow of their separate windows, “I thought I knew you.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, softer this time, almost shy.
“Guess we’ve been terrible at introductions.”
“Guess so,” she agreed, breath still caught from her laugh. “Anyway. Annabeth.”
He repeated it again, slower, like the syllables themselves were worth savoring.
“Annabeth,” the word lingered in the night, carried on his breath. Then, without pause, his voice dropped into something quieter, certain. “That’s a beautiful name. Fitting for you.”
Her face heated all over again, the warmth rushing to her ears before she could stop it. She tried to cover it with a little roll of her eyes, muttering.
“Smooth.”
“Not trying to be,” he said with a grin that undid his own words. “Just honest.”
She pretended to scowl, but it didn’t hold for long. Curiosity overrode everything else, tugging the words out before she could stop them.
“And yours?”
He straightened a little, as if bracing for a reveal, though his eyes twinkled like he was in on a secret only he could find funny.
“Percy.”
Annabeth blinked at the sound of it, trying it silently once, then again aloud.
“Percy.”
The way she said it was careful, deliberate—like she was testing its weight, the way it tasted in her mouth. He caught her watching him as she spoke it, and it sparked a grin that reached his eyes.
“Now we’re even,” he said.
“Not even,” she countered, lips curving. “Because I have a feeling that you know something about my name like you knew something about the flowers.”
“That just gives me a head start,” he teased, leaning back a little as if he’d won some unspoken point.
She shook her head, but she couldn’t help the way her smile lingered, soft and unguarded, as if the whole world had briefly shrunk down to the two of them, names exchanged under the quiet glow of streetlights, as though it was the most important secret they’d ever trade.
For a while after that, silence lingered between them—not uncomfortable, but steady, almost fragile. Annabeth’s fingers worried at the edges of the bouquet in her lap, smoothing and unsmoothing the paper as though it could ground her. Beside her, Percy leaned back against the bench, posture relaxed, though his gaze occasionally flicked her way, studying the line of her profile in the dim light.
Her name had settled into the air between them, and something about the way he’d said it left her oddly unmoored. She wasn’t used to it sounding like that—soft, careful, almost reverent. A part of her wondered if he knew more than he let on, but she didn’t dare ask.
She cleared her throat instead, trying to chase the quiet away.
“Well. At least now we don’t have to keep calling each other ‘window person.’”
That drew a small laugh from him, warm and easy.
“True. Easier this way.”
The silence that followed was gentler, the kind that made time feel slower. She thought she could almost get used to it, but the weight of her suitcase nudged at her reminder of reality. Annabeth shifted, rising to her feet and adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
“I should… get going,” she said quietly, almost regretful.
Percy stood as well, matching her pace without rushing, and just when she thought their first real meeting was about to end, he reached for the flower behind him and took the flower in hand. Its golden petals seemed almost to glow in the dusk, bold against the night. He held it out, wordlessly at first.
Her brows furrowed.
“I don’t think I deserve so many flowers,” she said, her voice uncertain.
“I disagree,” he replied without hesitation, pressing the stem lightly into her hand. Then, after a beat: “What do you think sunflowers mean?”
Caught off guard, she looked down at the bloom, then back up at him.
“Happiness?” she guessed.
A spark of amusement tugged at his lips.
“And you say you didn’t know the language of flowers.”
Annabeth’s cheeks warmed.
“It’s not a hard guess.”
“Maybe not,” he said softly. “But at least we know the effect is immediate.”
Her forehead creased.
“What do you mean?”
He gestured toward her face, faint smile deepening.
“You didn’t even notice you’re smiling, uh?”
It hit her then — her lips curved, easy, without effort. The realization burned through her, sending warmth straight to her ears, and she ducked her head quickly, clutching the sunflower tighter.
But the smile didn’t go away. If anything, it widened, tugged freer the longer she tried to suppress it. Annabeth pressed her lips together, only for the corners to curl again, traitorous and bright. She hadn’t smiled like that in days—not the polite kind she carried for work, not the quick flashes for the people who needed reassurance, but a real smile, unguarded and alive.
And Percy saw every second of it. His chest lightened as though someone had tugged the air out of his lungs and replaced it with something warmer, softer. He didn’t laugh, didn’t tease her further; he simply let himself look, storing the image away like it was something rare.
Her eyes flicked to him for only a second, as though testing if he was still watching. He was. And that made the smile falter into a breathless sort of laugh, a quiet sound she seemed to want to swallow back down but couldn’t.
“I should go,” she said again, though it came out weaker this time, more like a confession than a decision.
He nodded, as if he understood.
“Of course,” Percy said. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
She hesitated for one beat longer, then gathered the bouquet closer to her chest with one arm, the sunflower cradled carefully in the other, as though it were more delicate than glass. Her suitcase scraped lightly against the pavement as she turned, but she didn’t seem to notice; all her focus was fixed on the bundle of color she carried and the weight of his gaze she still felt against her back.
Halfway down the street, she risked a glance over her shoulder. He hadn’t gone back inside yet — Percy stood by the little gate, apron and bandana gone, but still every inch the florist, framed by vines and blossoms. The streetlight caught in his curls, casting him in an easy glow, and when her eyes met his again, he raised a hand in a small, wordless wave.
Her smile broke wider still, helpless this time, before she turned quickly away, steps quicker than before, as if distance might protect her from how easily he’d gotten under her skin.
The bouquet was still heavy in her arms, but it was the single stem she kept adjusting, holding steady, as though it mattered most. The sunflower brushed against her cheek as she walked, petals brushing her skin like a reminder.
And, she thought as she disappeared around the corner, the happiness fluttering in her chest had very little to do with the flower.
She walked away with his sunflower in her hands, and he swore he could still feel the ghost of her smile echoing inside his chest. It fluttered there, erratic and soft all at once, the way a caged bird beats its wings when it first remembers the sky. His heart hadn’t done that in a long time — not for anyone.
And yet, for the woman with too many thoughts and tired eyes, it did so with abandon.
He leaned a little against the gatepost, letting his eyes linger on her retreating figure, bouquet pressed carefully to her chest, sunflower brushing her cheek as if it, too, wanted to stay close. She was swallowed by the crowd too quickly for his liking, her blue hair vanishing into the stream of bodies moving through the city, but the warmth she left behind clung to him stubbornly.
Percy inhaled, trying to steady himself, but instead found himself smiling. A small thing at first, then wider, uncontainable, spreading until it reached his eyes and made them crinkle. It was ridiculous, absurd even, to feel this kind of rush after a few scattered words and the briefest of shared moments—but there it was. A truth, undeniable and persistent: he liked her. He really liked her.
With a small, self-conscious chuckle, he rubbed the back of his neck and finally pushed away from the gate, intent on going back inside. And that was when he noticed it—something faint against the wood of the bench where she’d been sitting.
Percy’s brows furrowed as he stepped closer.
A flower.
He stilled, blinking once, twice. Because there it was, lying perfectly against the grain of the bench: a dark purple ice plant, edges sharp and petals gleaming as though they’d been cut from twilight itself.
For a second, he thought perhaps he’d dropped it earlier, when he’d moved the leftover stems from one vase to another. But no—the bouquet he had sent her that morning, he knew with certainty, had been tied tight. No loose stems. No carelessness. He never allowed it. His knots held, always.
So how—?
Percy bent down, almost reverently, and picked the flower up between careful fingers. The bloom rested lightly in his palm, impossibly present, impossibly real. He turned it once, studying the stem, the petals, the way it seemed both ordinary and impossibly strange at once.
An ice plant. Again.
He let out a slow breath, glancing instinctively toward the street corner where she had vanished, as though the universe might provide an explanation in her absence. But she was gone. The crowd had swallowed her whole, no flash of blue hair left to anchor him.
The florist’s chest tightened, a breath catching there that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Something about the impossibility of it, the mystery, sent a thrill racing down his spine. And for reasons he couldn’t name, it didn’t frighten him—it exhilarated him.
A soft laugh escaped him, low and incredulous, bubbling up until he had to shake his head. His smile widened, helpless and genuine.
“Of course,” he murmured to himself, amused, as if the universe had conspired to play its hand openly for once. “Of course it’d be like this.”
Clutching the ice plant delicately, Percy straightened, the flower held as carefully as a secret. His heart was still fluttering, louder now, steadier. Whatever this was—chance, fate, or just his own foolish imagination — it was something he wasn’t ready to let go of.
Not just yet.
Annabeth’s apartment was quiet in the way only a lived-in place could be — warm, familiar, carrying the faintest scents of paper, tea leaves, and the lavender soap she always used. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, she simply stood there, leaning lightly against the wood as if the silence itself could cradle her tired body.
The day had been brutal. They usually were, considering her usual routine and how things normally went in her field, but this one had carved deeper than most. Even now, the echoes of the children’s voices still rang in her ears — cries that were both victory and loss at once, reminders that justice never came without wounds. She’d been trained to withstand it, to compartmentalize, to walk out of a courtroom with her head high no matter the storm tearing inside her. But that didn’t make her human heart any less porous.
Her bag slipped from her shoulder onto the soft rug, and she walked slowly toward the couch, pulling her shoes off with tired precision before curling into the cushions. The sunflower, impossibly bright, still rested in her lap, the yellow petals glowing softly against the dark fabric of her skirt. It had made the walk home lighter somehow, though she hadn’t let herself question why.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Juniper.
Of course she thought, it was Juniper; her best friend always knew, in a terrifying way when the lawyer was spiraling out of control. She’d seen too many of Annabeth’s silent storms to miss the signs, and it was all of the most steady things in their friendship —- they were an open book to each other, and there was safety in that.
Annabeth thumbed open the message, sighing.
Juniper
How are you holding up?
You don’t have to answer right now.
But today was a lot.
I’m here, okay?
The simple words tightened something in her chest. Juniper knew how children’s cases always tore Annabeth’s chest open more than the others, because how could they not? Annabeth had lived on the sharp edge of abandonment herself. She knew the taste of losing things before one had even had the chance to love them.
Her parents were names, blurred faces in photographs she could barely recall. What she remembered vividly was the ache. The endless shuffle through foster homes, the unfamiliar beds, the gnawing fear that maybe she’d never belong anywhere. It had been Chiron—an old acquaintance to of her mother’s—who had refused to let her be lost to the system. Chiron who fought tooth and nail, who burned through every resource, every ounce of energy, to pull Annabeth back into something resembling a home.
Annabeth owed her life, her grounding, to that relentless love. But the scars of those first years… they had never quite faded.
She should have answered Juniper with honesty. I’m unraveling. I can still hear them cry. I wonder if I’m cruel for believing I did the right thing, even when it hurt them.
But what her fingers typed instead surprised her.
Annabeth
I’m fine.
Tired, but fine.
She stared at the words after sending them, almost disbelieving. Fine. Tired, but fine.
Annabeth wasn’t lying, not entirely, because even as the exhaustion tugged at her bones and the memories gnawed, there was a weight that wasn’t there tonight. A heaviness she usually carried home after days like this seemed thinner, somehow; less suffocating.
Her eyes dropped to the sunflower still balanced carefully on her lap.
Its head was slightly tilted, as though it were peering back at her, unapologetically golden against the dim light of her living room. She traced the edge of a petal with one finger, slow, thoughtful. She didn’t know what sunflowers meant, not in the way florists or poets might, but somehow the sight of it there—simple, unapologetic—made her heart soften.
And for the first time in what felt like forever after a case like this, she realized she wasn’t drowning.
She was tired. But fine.
The sunflower stayed right there, in her lap, as though it belonged.
Annabeth shifted, curling her legs beneath her as she lifted the sunflower with both hands. It was almost comically large in her small apartment, the golden head far too bright for the dimness of the evening. She twirled the stem slowly, watching the petals catch the light as they spun, brushing against her knuckles with the gentleness of paper.
For a moment, she just let herself play with it — like a child, she realized with faint embarrassment. The part of her that was disciplined and tightly wound scolded the impulse. But another part, softer, insisted she keep going.
Her phone buzzed again.
Juniper
Are you sure, Beth?
Really sure?
You don’t have to be fine for my sake. I know today wasn’t easy.
Annabeth exhaled through her nose, her lips pressing into a thin line. Juniper was persistent like that—like a sister, really. She didn’t let Annabeth’s walls stand unchallenged, and sometimes it was infuriating. But mostly, it was comforting. A reminder that someone was there.
She typed back, slower this time, each word deliberate:
Annabeth
I promise. I’m okay. I’ll rest tonight.
A pause. Then another buzz.
Juniper
Good.
Rest. You deserve to rest.
The words made her throat ache unexpectedly. She placed the phone down again, fingers still grazing the sunflower’s stem.
Deserve.
That was always the sticking point, wasn’t it?
She thought back to the days before Chiron had managed to take her in, when she’d been shuffled from one foster home to another. Some of them had been kind, even gentle — but temporary kindness had always carried the sting of its expiration. Others had been indifferent at best, harsh at worst. And through it all, Annabeth had clutched to this persistent, gnawing belief that maybe she didn’t deserve love, didn’t deserve stability.
That losing her parents so early, in such abrupt, violent absence, had branded her with some invisible mark that said she was disposable.
Chiron had fought tooth and claw against that idea. He had told Annabeth a thousand times that she was wanted, that she belonged, that she wasn’t broken or unlovable. But scars ran deeper than reassurancesm after all, and even now, as a woman grown and fiercely competent in her career, Annabeth carried that question tucked away in her heart.
What did she deserve?
The sunflower tilted in her hand again, and she studied it with furrowed brows. Annabeth thought of the man outside the flower shop, the gentle humor in his voice, the warmth of his eyes when he had handed it to her. She thought of how strange it felt to smile when she’d been so weighed down, how startling it had been to catch herself doing it at all.
It wasn’t an answer to the question. But it was something.
And for that night, it would be enough.
Annabeth set the sunflower gently against her chest, leaned back into the cushions, and let her eyes close for just a moment, her heart steadying itself with each quiet breath.
The weight of the day had finally begun to lift from her shoulders, thread by thread, like someone loosening a too-tight corset. Annabeth lay back, the sunflower resting across her chest, its petals brushing her chin whenever she shifted. Her eyelids grew heavy; the hum of the city outside her window blurred into a distant drone.
Her breathing slowed. For the first time in what felt like weeks, her body remembered how to let go.
But just as she hovered at the edge of sleep, something pierced the haze. A thought, sharp and sudden, like a bell ringing inside her skull.
Flowers have meanings.
Her eyes snapped open. The sunflower lay where it had slipped to the hollow of her collarbone, tilted slightly as if it were staring back at her. She froze, every muscle stiff with the pull of recognition she couldn’t yet name.
The thought threaded deeper, insistently. She knew this—she had read about it, long ago, in one of those books she used to bury herself in, the kind no one else in her foster homes ever touched. Floriography. The language of flowers. She remembered tracing the words with her finger on the page, fascinated that something so silent, so fragile, could hold secret codes, confessions, promises.
Her gaze slid past the sunflower, toward the shadows that stretched across her small kitchen. The air seemed heavier there, waiting.
Annabeth sat up abruptly, the sunflower still clutched in her hand, and swung her legs off the couch. She moved with purpose, barefoot steps whispering against the wooden floorboards. No hesitation, no pause — the straightest line between her and the answer she didn’t realize she’d been waiting for.
The kitchen greeted her with its usual warmth and clutter: white cabinets whose paint had chipped at the corners, an old stove with a handle that squeaked when you opened it, a small window above the sink where she liked to leave herbs soaking in the sun. But tonight, all of it blurred around one singular anchor.
On the counter, against the tiled backsplash, sat a glass vase. It was half filled with water that caught the dim overhead light, rippling faintly, as though it too had been disturbed by her sudden entrance. Inside were flowers — some still alive, others beginning to wilt, their heads bending slightly as if in surrender to time itself.
She stopped in front of it, heart thudding harder than it should for something so ordinary.
Except it wasn’t ordinary, exactly. Because she had chosen these.
From each bouquet she’d ever been given, she had taken three stems. Just three, clipped with careful hands, placed in that large vase, and kept alive for as long as she could manage. It wasn’t practical, not really; flowers obviously didn’t last forever, no matter how often Annabeth refreshed the water or trimmed the ends. But to her, it was a ritual, some proof. A way of saying to herself that that moment mattered.
Her gaze swept over them now, the pale roses, the lilies, a pair of orchids that still clung to their elegance even as their edges browned. She reached out, almost unconsciously, and adjusted one stem that had tipped too far to the side. Her fingers lingered there, cool against the glass, as her chest tightened.
The sunflower in her other hand seemed to burn hotter by contrast, its weight grounding her. She looked down at it, then back at the vase, and an ache bloomed inside her.
Because flowers had meanings. And she had collected them all without ever daring to look too closely at what they might have been trying to tell her.
Her hand tightened on the sunflower, thumb brushing its coarse stem. It felt alive, sturdier than the others, as though it carried something more than its bright, unyielding face.
She pulled out her phone with her free hand, the screen’s glow sharp against the dim kitchen. For a moment she just stared at the search bar, her pulse ticking loud in her ears. Then she typed, “sunflower meaning flower language.”
The results popped up immediately. She skimmed the words: adoration. loyalty. longevity. resilience. warmth.
Her throat worked. She scrolled again, eyes blurring. It could mean anything, couldn’t it? Depending on the source, the culture, the interpretation. A handful of words that, in this moment, felt both too much and not enough.
She frowned and backed out, erasing the query as though even the act of looking were a betrayal of something fragile. But her fingers hovered again, restless. She could look up the others too — the roses, the orchids, the lilies. Every flower she’d carefully snipped and set aside, every little symbol tucked unknowingly into her vase. Maybe there was a story waiting to be read there, a hidden thread linking them all.
Her thumb hesitated over the keyboard. She could. She really could.
But what if… what if it was all a joke?
The thought iced her spine. If someone had sent those bouquets as a prank—pretty, harmless on the surface, but calculated to sting underneath—then the meanings might not be sweet at all. They might be mocking. Cruel.
And suddenly, she couldn’t bear it.
Because she liked the flowers. She liked them as they were, without the risk of someone else’s cruel intention twisting them. The bouquets had been kindness in her eyes, company in lonely weeks, proof that the world still had corners where beauty lingered. She had created her own story out of them, her own little illusion. A stranger across a window, a smile, a hand raised shyly to wave—it had given her something gentle to hold onto.
If she searched deeper, if she let herself believe too much, it could unravel. It could turn dark.
So she wouldn’t.
Annabeth set her phone face-down on the counter, pushing it a little farther away as if to keep the temptation out of reach. She looked back at the vase, at her little collection of salvaged stems, and let her chest rise and fall slowly.
Maybe they meant nothing. Maybe they meant everything. She didn’t need to know.
She brought the sunflower close, its wide face brushing against her cheek as she closed her eyes. A half-smile touched her lips, private, tender. She would keep her own meanings, her own thread through the bouquets, and that was enough.
The worst case? It had been just a joke, or a kindness, simple as that.
Best case?
She didn’t dare name it yet.
Either way, she decided, she would rather hold onto the sweetness she had built than risk tearing it apart.
The vase waited in its usual place by the corner of the counter, a humble glass cylinder half-filled with water, catching fragments of light from the streetlamps outside. Inside, the survivors of past bouquets stood with quiet dignity—three from each arrangement, carefully chosen and tended to as though Annabeth could preserve something intangible through their stems. A fragment of time. A fragment of hope.
Her eyes lingered on them now. Each flower carried its own memory: the joy of the first unexpected delivery, the curiosity of the second, the comfort of the third. She had plucked these few out of their larger whole as if refusing to let go entirely, refusing to let beauty slip away without resistance.
And now she stood with the sunflower in her hand. Its golden face seemed almost too radiant for the dimness of her kitchen, defiant in its brightness. It didn’t belong on her lap, or forgotten at her bedside. It was alive, standing tall, as though waiting for its place among the others.
She hesitated, turning it between her fingers. A single flower, pressed into her palm by a stranger who wasn’t quite a stranger anymore. Could she fold it into the same collection, as if acknowledging that tonight had already become a part of her ongoing story?
Her chest tightened with something she didn’t want to name. Affection? Longing? Fear? Perhaps all three.
She stepped toward the vase, her movements slow, deliberate. With her free hand she shifted a lily aside, making space. Then she lowered the sunflower in. Its stem slid easily into the water, and the wide bloom tilted toward the others as if greeting old friends.
Annabeth exhaled softly, a release she hadn’t known she was holding. The act was simple, almost ordinary — placing a flower in a vase — but the weight of it lingered. She wasn’t just adding another bloom. She was admitting, in her quiet, private way, that she wanted this moment, this feeling, to last.
Her gaze lingered on the vase longer than necessary. The sunflower towered above the others, bold and unashamed. A centerpiece. A declaration. And though she told herself she didn’t want to know its “official” meaning, something inside her insisted she had already given it one of her own.
She smiled faintly, brushing her fingertips over the cool rim of the glass. This was her little archive of tenderness, a record of weeks that could have otherwise drowned in exhaustion and grief. No one else had to know the story she had stitched together; it was hers, wholly hers.
And maybe that was the beauty of it. The meaning didn’t need to be written in any book, or confirmed by anyone else. The flowers lived in her space now, watered by her care, woven into her memory.
As she turned away, leaving the vase glowing softly in the darkened kitchen, the sunflower seemed to stand taller, its brightness unshaken by shadows.
And for the first time in a long while, Annabeth felt the corners of her heart unclench.