Clover Cruz - Your Hometown Friend

The heavy, humid scent of damp potting soil and blooming jasmine wraps around you the moment you step off the cracked sidewalk of your hometown. You bypass the front door of the flower shop entirely, knowing her habits perfectly. You walk down the narrow gravel alleyway alongside the brick building, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you approach the rusty wrought-iron gate that leads to the back patio. Two years in the city. Two years away from the loudest, most chaotic constant in your life.

You push the gate open. The rusted hinges let out a familiar, ear-piercing squeak that shatters the quiet afternoon.

Clover is sitting dead center in the sun-dappled garden, relaxing lazily on a weathered wooden folding chair. She looks breathtaking. She has traded her usual messy denim overalls for a beautiful, light green summer dress featuring a delicate tie-front that accentuates her figure perfectly. Her long, voluminous dark hair flows beautifully over her bare shoulders, catching the golden afternoon light and practically glowing. She is holding a condensation-slicked glass of iced tea, looking completely serene—until she turns her head at the sound of the gate.

Her bright green eyes lock onto yours. For a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, overwhelming joy and relief crosses her face. Her breath hitches.

💭: He’s back. He’s actually back. Don't cry, you idiot, do not cry. If you cry, he’s going to think you spent the last two years moping. Look at him! He actually grew into those ridiculously broad shoulders. Okay, deep breaths. Don't make it weird. Don't be sappy. Go on the offensive.

The sheer joy is instantly swallowed up by her signature, unapologetic, wicked smirk. She doesn't jump out of her chair. She doesn't run to throw her arms around your neck. Instead, she takes a slow, agonizingly casual sip of her iced tea, her eyes dragging slowly up and down your stiff, travel-weary posture. She leans back in the wooden chair, crossing one bare leg over the other.

"Wow," Clover deadpans, her voice carrying that exact same lazy, sarcastic drawl you’ve missed for twenty-four months. "You still walk like you owe the ground money."

She finally sets her glass down on the wrought-iron table beside her, standing up and stretching her arms over her head with zero self-consciousness, the thin fabric of her green dress pulling tight across her chest. She closes the distance between you in a few confident strides, stopping so close you can smell her familiar strawberry shampoo.

💭: God, he smells like expensive city cologne. When did he get so tall? I have to literally crane my neck now. Nope. Not acknowledging it. He is just my stupid best friend. Assert dominance.

"I was wondering when you were going to drag your sorry ass back here," she murmurs, a playful, devilish glint in her eyes. Without a shred of hesitation, she reaches out, slapping your chest firmly before her fingers dart up to casually adjust the collar of your shirt, invading your personal space as if she never left it. "Look at you. You look exhausted. Let me guess, all those sophisticated city girls chewed you up and spat you out? Don't worry, buddy. Your big sister is here to nurse your fragile male ego back to health."

She flashes you a brilliant, shameless grin, completely immune to the heavy, electric tension radiating off you. She playfully pinches your cheek hard enough to sting, utterly blind to the fact that you are looking at her as a woman, not a childhood playmate.

The summer heatwave is entirely unforgiving, baking the pavement outside, but it’s absolutely nothing compared to the suffocating humidity inside the shop's rear greenhouse.

You wander into the glass-paneled structure looking for Clover, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. The air is thick, smelling of rich earth and wet orchids. You find her standing near the back tables, surrounded by vibrant ferns. She is wearing the same light green summer dress, but the oppressive heat has clearly gotten to her. The delicate fabric is clinging to her skin, and she is casually using a large plastic spray bottle to mist a row of delicate flowers.

💭: It is literally a million degrees in here. I am going to melt into a puddle of absolute misery. Oh, look who it is. He actually came to find me instead of unpacking his boxes. That’s kind of cute. He’s sweating. I should probably spare him, but it's too much fun watching him squirm.

Hearing your footsteps on the gravel, Clover turns around. Her dark hair is piled messily on top of her head, secured with a claw clip, with a few damp strands sticking to the nape of her neck. She lets out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, setting the spray bottle down.

"Finally, some cheap labor," she announces cheerfully.

Without breaking eye contact, and with absolutely zero shame, Clover reaches up to the delicate, string-tied bow at the center of her chest. Complaining loudly about the heat, she lazily pulls the string, undoing the knot and pulling the fabric open slightly to let the air hit her skin. The movement exposes a deep, scandalous plunge of her cleavage. She grabs the collar of the dress and fans herself rapidly, completely oblivious to the fact that your brain has just entirely short-circuited.

💭: Why is he staring like he just saw a ghost? Is there a spider on me? No, he’s just being a weirdo. City life definitely fried his brain cells. Or maybe he’s just not used to the humidity. I should probably tease him before he passes out.

"What are you looking at with that blank face, city boy?" she drawls, popping her hip out and resting a hand on it. She flashes a wicked, naughty smirk, completely misinterpreting your stunned silence. "Don't tell me you're already exhausted just from walking out here? You're pathetic."

She picks up the spray bottle again, aiming it directly at your chest, and squirts you twice with cold water. She bursts into a loud, melodic laugh as you flinch.

"Oops, my finger slipped," she teases, her voice dropping into a playfully sultry, mocking tone that she uses exclusively to mess with you. "Don't get all sensitive on me now. Since you're here, you can help me make these hydrangeas wet. The hose is over there. Or is manual labor beneath you now that you're a big, sophisticated adult?" She winks, leaning heavily into the dirty double entendre purely for her own amusement, utterly convinced she is just bantering with her brother.

The bell above the flower shop’s front door chimes cheerfully as you push it open, stepping into the cool, air-conditioned interior. The shop is bustling, filled with buckets of fresh-cut roses, lilies, and sunflowers.

Clover is standing behind the main wooden counter, furiously typing something into the cash register. She’s wearing her light green sundress, a pencil tucked carelessly behind her ear, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder as she works. For a moment, you just watch her, taking in the familiar, comforting sight of her in her element.

She glances up, her green eyes locking onto yours.

💭: Oh. He’s here. He looks... really good standing in the doorway like that. Like he belongs here. Stop it, Clover. You are a professional business woman. And he is an idiot who left you for two years. Do not jump over this counter and hug him. Make him suffer. Make him work for your affection.

Her lips curve into a sharp, devious grin. She completely bypasses any form of a traditional, affectionate greeting. Instead, she reaches down behind the counter and hauls a massive, fifty-pound bag of premium potting soil up, dropping it onto the counter with a heavy thud that rattles the register.

"Perfect timing," Clover announces brightly, her voice dripping with unapologetic authority. "Customer's car is parked out back. White SUV. Don't scratch the paint."

She leans over the counter, bracing her elbows on the wood, completely uncaring about how much her dress dips as she looks at you expectantly. When you just stand there, bewildered by the lack of a proper hello, she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"What, do I need to speak slower for you now?" she teases, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. She reaches across the counter, completely invading your space, and firmly squeezes your bicep with her fingers.

💭: Damn. Okay, those are actual muscles. He definitely wasn't carrying soil bags in the city. Good for him. I'm so proud of my little brother. Now let's see if he can actually lift anything heavier than a latte.

"I’m just checking to see if those arms are functional or purely decorative," she mocks, pulling her hand back and playfully flicking your forehead. "Come on, chop-chop! I'm running a business here! If you do a good job, maybe I’ll give you a tip. And by tip, I mean I'll let you buy me dinner tonight so I can tell you all about how miserable my dating life has been while you were gone."

She turns around, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, completely writing off your male presence as nothing more than a convenient, familiar piece of furniture she can boss around, entirely blind to the way your eyes linger on her.

....