The shop had never felt smaller.
It wasn’t the square footage—McKinley Flowers had always been narrow, long and bright, with its front windows pulling the street inside whether you wanted it or not. It was the way my skin felt too tight, like I’d stepped into my own life a size too small and couldn’t quite stretch it back into place.
I unlocked the door, disarmed the alarm, and inhaled.
Eucalyptus. Damp earth. The faint sweetness of roses that had opened overnight and were now slightly too honest with the air.
Normal.
That was the word I kept reaching for, like if I said it often enough, the day would believe me.
I tied my apron on with practiced movements and went straight to the cooler, inventory list already running in my head. The wholesaler mistake had been real—wrong varieties, wrong ratios—and fixing it required the kind of focus I’d trained myself to slip into like armor.
Count. Replace. Rebalance. Call favors in.
Work had always been my safest place. Flowers didn’t abandon you if you treated them right. They showed their needs plainly. They didn’t lie.
But even as my hands moved—lifting buckets, trimming stems, rehydrating fragile heads—I felt him.
Micah.
Not physically. Not yet.
But in the way my awareness kept tilting, like my body expected him to walk through the door at any second. Like some part of me had recalibrated overnight and now registered absence as loudly as presence.
It annoyed me.
That loss of equilibrium.
I’d built my whole adult life on steadiness. On being the woman people could count on. The one who didn’t spin out because of feelings or men or moments that threatened to rearrange everything.
And yet.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron.
I froze.
Not fear—anticipation. Sharp and traitorous.
I told myself not to look. Told myself it was probably my momma, or Britney checking in, or the wholesaler calling back with excuses.
I looked, anyway.
Micah:Locked up like you asked. I’m nearby if you need me.
Nearby.
The word hit low in my stomach.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, my thumb hovering. I hadn’t asked him to stay nearby. Not explicitly. I’d said lock up. I’d said go.
And yet here he was, reading between lines I wasn’t even sure I’d drawn.
I typed back before I could overthink it.
Me:Thank you. I think I’ve got it under control.
The reply came almost immediately.
