When Spring Came Nocing

When Spring Came Knocking

by Xavier

Noah Sinclair had never been good at asking for help.

Which was ironic, considering he ran a business that quite literally bloomed out of connection--with the soil, the seasons, and a parade of customers whose floral expectations often defied logic or physics. (Roses that glowed blue? Sure. Orchids in a snowstorm? Why not.) But when it came to letting people into his world, Noah shut the garden gate fast.

Still, Sinclair Blooms wasn't just a flower shop. It was a living, breathing love letter to spring. A quiet explosion of color nestled on the corner of Main Street, shaded by a wide old magnolia tree that shed pink petals like confetti every April. The air smelled like heaven--earthy and sweet, a perfume of damp moss and sugar-slick tulips.

It had been Noah's everything for nearly a decade.

Quiet mornings. Bitter coffee. An armful of blooms and nobody to question his playlist. That had always been enough.

Until this spring.

This spring, the town's annual Spring Festival--normally a quaint excuse to drink lavender lemonade and listen to a banjo trio--had turned into a full-blown logistical nightmare. The mayor, ever the visionary, decided it was time to "go big." Naturally, she volunteered for Noah for the starring role of Festival Design Lead.

He hadn't even had time to dodge.

Orders came in like a pollen storm. Brides wanted bespoke flower crowns for their dogs. Children's choirs needed matching corsages. And the church committee requested a full-scale biblical recreation of the Garden of Eden in the town square. With flamingos.

Noah was three bouquets away from a nervous breakdown when someone knocked on the greenhouse door.

In walked the most inappropriate distraction spring had to offer.

Eli Hartwell.

He stepped into Sinclair Blooms like he'd wandered in off the set of a perfume ad--sunglasses still on, sunlight clinging to his shoulders, and a tight white tee doing very little to hide the fact that this man did not skip arm day, abs day or gym at all. His jeans clung in ways that should probably require a permit, and his green eyes--annoyingly bright, annoyingly observant--swept across the shop like he was selecting a lucky flower to flirt with.

He stopped by a display of peach-colored tulips and crouched slightly, squinting at the label like it was written in code.

Noah Sinclair didn't look up from the bouquet he was building--wild hyacinth, French tulips, something vaguely poetic in a ceramic vase. "Hate to break it to you," he said without turning, "but the town's modeling agency closed in, like, 2008. You might be a little lost."

Eli straightened, one corner of his mouth curling. "That obvious, huh?"

Now Noah looked up. Slowly. Sunglasses. Biceps. Smile like a movie poster. The kind of guy you'd expect to sell protein powder or ruin your dating standards for a decade.

"I mean," Noah said dryly, "you are fondling a daffodil like it owes you money."

Eli chuckled, pulling his sunglasses off and sliding them into the collar of his shirt. "You must be Sinclair."

Noah raised a brow. "Depends. Are you here to buy something, or just critique my flowers like they're auditioning for Project Runway?"

Eli offered a hand, completely unbothered. "Eli Hartwell. My sister's doing a booth at the Springwood Makers Fair--she's an interior designer who thinks minimalist beige is a personality trait. She asked me to pick up 'something fresh and seasonal and very aesthetically powerful.'" He made air quotes with exaggerated flair. "And apparently, you're the floral wizard of choice."

"I prefer 'plant sorcerer,'" Noah said, deadpan. "But I'll accept 'wizard' if the tip's good."

Eli's laugh was low and easy. "My sister said you had a sharp tongue. Didn't know it came with sarcasm and cheekbones."

Noah just blinked at him. "What about my cheekbones, Hartwell?."

Eli wandered deeper into the shop. He gestured at a row of soft pink peonies. "These too dramatic?"

"Only if you cry while handing them over."

"Perfect," Eli said, grinning. "My whole aesthetic is emotional himbo."

Noah glanced at him sideways. "Explains the arms."

Eli glanced down at himself, feigning surprise. "Oh wow. Didn't even notice. Do they look big today? I did, like, three push ups before walking in."

"Just three?" Noah said, arranging tulips. "Sure, frat boy!."

Eli leaned on the counter, forearms flexed, all charming menace. "You always this friendly, or am I getting the deluxe floral package?"

"This is the upgraded version," Noah said. "Normally I just glare and hand people cacti."

"Sinclair, you wound me. And here I was thinking I'd be your favorite customer of the day."

"You're definitely the loudest and Biggest Ofcourse!."

Eli smirked. "Loud, hot, here to spend money. Sounds like your dream client."

"Loud, hot, and thinks they're a dream client," Noah corrected. "That's a very specific tax bracket in my world."

Eli let out a genuine laugh, the kind that made Noah's stomach flicker in spite of himself. "Alright, plant sorcerer. Show me what you've got that'll make my sister's booth look like spring exploded--in a tasteful, curated, design-forward way."

Noah gestured toward the back greenhouse. "This way. Try not to touch anything unless it consents."

Eli followed, still grinning. "You say plants don't love me."

"Oh, they do," Noah said under his breath. "They just don't know why yet."

-----------------------

Eli followed Noah into the greenhouse, the air thick with moisture and blooming things. The shift in atmosphere was immediate--warmer, fragrant, like stepping inside a secret. Rows of tulips in every imaginable shade leaned gently in the filtered light, ivy curled lazily from hanging pots, and delicate wildflowers nodded in tiny ceramic vases like they were gossiping.

Eli paused halfway in and took a slow look around. "Okay, this is actually insane. I feel like I just walked into a Disney movie. Where are the birds that tie my shoelaces?"

Noah didn't look back. "Tried that. They unionized."

Eli huffed a laugh, trailing a finger along a row of bright ranunculus. "This is gorgeous. You're seriously good at this."

"Shocking, right?" Noah said, half-focused on misting a tray of peach blossoms. "Turns out when you water things and don't ghost them emotionally, they thrive."

Eli walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, curiosity and charm in equal measure. "Are you talking to the flowers or to me?"

Noah glanced up, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. "Whichever one's more likely to listen."

Eli grinned and leaned casually against the edge of the table, pretending to study the bouquet Noah was working on. "So is this where the magic happens? The world-renowned Sinclair aesthetic?"

Noah smirked. "Didn't realize word traveled so fast through the influencer circuit."

"Hey, don't knock the circuit," Eli said, eyeing a bloom like it had secrets. "My sister swears by you. Said if I didn't come here personally and leave with something 'mood-enhancing,' she'd replace me with her yoga instructor for the weekend setup."

"High stakes," Noah murmured. Then--under his breath, barely audible--"Those eyes, though."

Eli blinked. "Sorry, what was that?"

Noah was already turning toward a shelf of vases. "I said: those hydrangeas. Big weekend energy."

"Right," Eli said slowly, clearly not buying it but letting it go. "You always this flirty with customers?"

"Only the ones who wear shirts three sizes too small."

Eli laughed, tugging lightly at the hem of his white tee. "You think this could be tighter?"

"We get it," Noah said, deadpan. "You work out. Gym bro confirmed."

"Excuse you," Eli replied, mock-offended. "I'm a wellness enthusiast with a healthy respect for aesthetics and a mild addiction to compression fabrics."

Noah chuckled, giving Eli a sideways glance. "Honestly, you're dressed like someone who thought they might get photographed buying tulips."

"And I did," Eli said, striking a harmless little pose. "By you. With your eyes."

Noah arched a brow but didn't deny it. "Tell me about the booth. What are we styling for?"

"Minimalist design theme. Clean. Airy. My sister said something about 'refined joy' and 'a bloom that whispers but knows its worth.'"

"Sounds exhausting."

"Tell me about it. I was told to find a 'centerpiece that radiates light tension.'"

Noah huffed a laugh. "You came to the right place. My entire business model is built on light tension."

Eli leaned a little closer. "And you? What do you radiate?"

"Judgment," Noah said simply. "And maybe just enough patience to put up with you for twenty more minutes."

Eli grinned, clearly undeterred. "I like you, Sinclair."

"Of course you do."

Noah picked a few stems from a nearby tray--coral ranunculus, pale green hellebores, and a whisper of lavender--tucking them one by one into a vase. He moved with a calm rhythm, deliberate and focused, clearly in his element.

Eli watched him work, chin in hand. "You really do love this stuff, huh?"

"I'd hope so," Noah said, not looking up. "I built it from scratch. That table over there? I made it. Those hanging pots? Sourced from a woman in Vermont who talks to her clay."

"Cute," Eli said. "Your whole vibe is very... emotionally competent plant dad."

"Not sure if that's a compliment or a very specific Pinterest board."

"It's both," Eli said brightly. "And it's working."

Noah paused, finally meeting his eyes. "You always this charming, or just trying to score free eucalyptus?"

"Honestly? Little of column A, little of 'you're cute when you pretend not to be charmed.'"

Noah blinked, then reached for the ribbon. "You want this arrangement to say 'elegant and intentional,' or 'I made my sister cry with beauty'?"

"Option two, please. Full emotional breakdown."

"Coming right up."

Eli watched him tie the bouquet, quieter now. His eyes lingered--not intense, not obvious, just a moment longer than polite. "You know, if all florists looked like you, Trader Joe's would be out of business."

Noah didn't look up, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Flattery and market research? You're really pulling out all the stops."

Eli grinned. "I call it multitasking. Also--just being honest. You're cute, Sinclair."

Noah finally met his eyes, dry as ever. "And you're observant. It's a rare gift in a man who wears shirts that tight."

"Rude," Eli said, laughing as he accepted the finished bouquet. "This shirt happens to be emotionally supportive."

"It's clinging to you like it's in love," Noah muttered.

Eli tilted his head. "That a compliment?"

"From me? That's practically poetry."

Eli gave a mock swoon. "Be still, my gym-hardened heart."

"Just take your flowers before I start charging you extra for emotional labor," Noah said, handing over the bouquet--wrapped neatly, effortlessly beautiful.

"Fine, fine." Eli tapped his card on the reader. "But you should know, I never forget good customer service. Or cute faces."

"You say that to all your vendors?"

"Only the ones who smell like lavender and judgment."

Noah rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. "Enjoy the showcase, Hartwell."

"Oh, I will. You'll be seeing me soon, Sinclair."

The bell above the door chimed as Eli walked out, bouquet in hand, sunlight catching his shoulders like he'd staged the whole exit for dramatic effect.

Noah stood there for a moment too long, eyes fixed on the door before snapping himself out of it with a quiet sigh.

"Absolutely not," he muttered, turning back to his workstation. "We're not doing the hot-client-crush thing this season."

He picked up the next bouquet on the list, trying very hard to focus on stems and color theory and not the way Eli had said Sinclair like it was something personal.

-----------------------

It was past 11 pm.

The shops along Mulberry Street had all gone dark, their shutters down and windows glowing dim from forgotten fairy lights and leftover spring bunting. The festival had wrapped hours ago. Even the last of the wandering families and food truck guys had cleared out, leaving the air still and sweet, tinged with distant music and trampled tulip petals.

Noah was still in his shop, because of course he was. A warm lamp glowed behind the counter, casting golden light across the mess he hadn't yet cleaned--loose stems, curling ribbon, a tray of wilting daisies he kept forgetting to toss. He was in the middle of reworking a bridal arrangement that had come back for being "too emotionally orange" when the bell above the door jingled again.

Noah looked up, expecting someone lost or confused or looking for the taco place down the block.

Instead: Eli.

Again.

But this time? Not Calvin Klein and curated charm.

This time Eli walked in like a fitness ad that got lost on the way to a shoot--skin flushed from a workout, Under Armour compression tee clinging to his torso like it had been painted on. The shirt framed his chest and arms with almost comical precision, every muscle line doing the absolute most. His shorts hung low on his hips, the fabric riding high enough to make Noah's brain short-circuit for half a second when he caught sight of Eli's ridiculous thighs--solid, tan, and flexing casually with each step. He held a neon protein shake in one hand like it was an accessory and pushed his sweat-damp hair back with the other.

Noah blinked. "You again."

Eli grinned, slowing just inside the shop. "Say it like you missed me, Sinclair."

Noah made a noncommittal noise, leaning back against the counter. "You say that like you didn't just strut in here dressed like a walking thirst trap."

Eli raised his brows, feigning offense. "This?" He gestured to himself. "This is practical post-leg-day fashion."

Noah's eyes--traitorous, once again--dropped briefly to his quads. He could hear the way Eli's shorts strained when he shifted his weight. "Uh-huh. I'm sure that Under Armour shirt has nothing to do with showing off."

"I was walking back from the community gym," Eli said, stepping closer, unbothered. "Saw your shop light on and figured I'd stop in. Didn't realize I'd be accused of indecent exposure."

"You're lucky I didn't grab the hose," Noah muttered, turning to pretend he was reorganizing peonies.

Eli leaned against the doorway of the greenhouse entrance, sipping his shake like it was a martini. "What, you don't get a lot of surprise drop-ins from guys who look like they just did thirty squats and three sets of curls?"

"Not ones dressed like that," Noah said. "I mean, that shirt... seriously. You think it could get any tighter? Was it vacuum-sealed when you bought it?"

Eli flexed, exaggerated and completely unbothered. "It's called compression. Science, Sinclair."

Noah rolled his eyes, but his gaze lingered--just a second too long. The shirt clung to Eli's torso, sheer in all the wrong places. Or the right ones. The soft, overhead light caught where sweat darkened the fabric, making the outline of his abs practically illegal. His chest rose and fell like he hadn't fully cooled down, the damp hem clinging to the ridges of his stomach, and Noah could swear he saw a vein running down Eli's bicep pulse with the effort of unscrewing his protein shake.

"You know," Noah muttered, half to himself, "your abs are basically visible from space in that thing."

Eli grinned. "I thought you'd be happy to see me like this. Little sweaty. Little pumped." He took a slow sip of his shake, eyes never leaving Noah's. "You do keep the place warm."

Noah choked on absolutely nothing. "Yeah, well... tropical plants."

Eli's smile curled into something softer. "You haven't kicked me out yet, Sinclair." He stepped closer, casually, like he wasn't invading personal space so much as testing gravity. "Maybe you like having me here."

Noah deflected hard, stepping back and grabbing a watering can like it had personally summoned him. "I like silence and stable humidity levels. You bring neither."

"Hmm," Eli hummed, clearly entertained. "Noted."

He glanced around the shop, eyes catching on one of the finished bouquets in the window. "Anyway--my sister loved the bouquet, by the way. Said it made her booth look like something out of a storybook. Everyone kept asking where she got it." He paused. "The festival went great. I figured I'd pop by... you know, personally thank the genius behind the petals."

Noah, still turned toward the succulents, muttered under his breath, "Maybe you can thank me by taking that shirt off. Very slowly."

Eli blinked. "What was that, Sinclair?"

Noah cleared his throat and turned, too fast. "I said I'm glad she liked it. Sorry I was a bit of a bitch last time--we were in launch mode and everything smelled like panic sweat and rosewater."

Eli laughed. "Yeah, you were definitely busy being aggressively competent."

Noah made a face. "That's a compliment where I come from."

"Mmhm," Eli said, wandering toward the greenhouse entrance again, brushing his fingers along a string of ivy. "You always this fun after hours, or am I just special?"

"Mostly exhausted," Noah replied. Then after a beat, "But... maybe a little impressed."

Eli's brows lifted. "Careful. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."

Noah hesitated, then smirked. "You want to see something cool?"

Eli's grin was instant. "Sinclair. You're inviting me deeper into your mysterious greenhouse? What's next, a secret flower handshake?"

"Shut up, Eli," Noah said, brushing past him toward the inner door. "Just don't knock anything over with your... muscles."

Eli murmured behind him, low and playful, "No promises. If this shirt gets any tighter, I might knock you over by accident."

Noah tried--he really tried--not to react. But the comment landed somewhere between his shoulder blades and slithered lower.

The greenhouse was dim and soft around the edges, lit only by a few overhead string lights and the faint moonlight slipping in through the glass ceiling. The air was heavy with warmth and green things breathing quietly in the night. Noah stepped ahead, motioning toward a long workbench at the back, past rows of drowsy tulips and trailing jasmine.

"Come on. Since you barged in, might as well show you something cool."

"Is this your version of 'wanna come up and see my etchings'?" Eli teased, stepping carefully between planters. His quads tensed with every step--long, strong legs in those stupid gym shorts, muscles sculpted and unfair.

Noah glanced over his shoulder, biting back a smirk. "I swear, Hartwell. One more dumb pickup line and I'm making you water every single orchid in here by hand."

Eli clutched his shake to his chest, eyes wide. "God forbid I touch something delicate."

Noah rolled his eyes, stopping in front of a table framed by tall stalks of flowering hellebores and foxglove. At the center was a wide ceramic dish filled with what looked like tiny, glowing moss, humming faintly under a custom-built grow lamp.

"Whoa," Eli said, voice softer now. "That's... kind of magical."

"It's luminescent sphagnum," Noah said, suddenly bashful. "Bioluminescent spores react to moisture and heat. I've been testing it for a few weeks--wanted to see if it could thrive in a semi-enclosed setup. And well--"

"It's thriving," Eli said, stepping closer. "This is seriously cool. Like--Next Level cool."

Noah laughed. "Wow. That might be the highest praise I've ever gotten from you."

"Yeah, well," Eli murmured, brushing his fingers along the ceramic edge. "You're kind of a plant wizard, Sinclair."

Noah looked at him sidelong. "And you're still standing here despite being surrounded by aggressive wholesomeness. Progress."

Eli grinned. "You're not as grumpy as you pretend to be."

"And you're not as shallow as the Under Armour you're wearing."