Something shifted in his face. The focus he'd worn all day cracked, and underneath I saw something unguarded. Raw. Something that looked a lot like what I was feeling.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice came out rough. “We do.”
He turned back to the workbench. Pulled out a few stems: ranunculus in shades of peach and coral. Some silvery eucalyptus. A single garden rose the color of a summer sunset. His hands moved quick and sure, building something small and perfect without consulting any order slip.
“What's that for?” I asked.
He didn't answer until he'd finished. Wrapped it in brown paper, tied it with twine, set it on the counter in front of me.
“Just because,” he said. The words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there, echoing the card from that very first arrangement. “You deserve flowers too.”
I picked it up. The ranunculus were still tight, just starting to unfurl at the edges. By tomorrow they'd be open, layers and layers of petals like something from a painting. The garden rose was soft against my fingers. The eucalyptus smelled like something clean and safe.
“Holden—”
The bell rang. Another customer. He was already turning away, toward his workbench and the next order, and the moment passed.
But I kept the little arrangement close for the rest of the afternoon, tucked behind the register where I could see it.Every time I glanced at it, the weight of everything we hadn't said pressed against my chest. And every time I caught Holden looking my way, I let myself hope that he was feeling it too.
Holden
The last customer left at six-forty-five.
I locked the door behind her: a young woman buying a single red rose for her girlfriend, hands shaking, smile so wide it hurt to look at. First Valentine's together, she'd told me while I wrapped the stem. She was so nervous she shook.
I understood the feeling.
I turned to find Jamie standing in the middle of the shop. The green henley he'd worn all day had a smudge of pollen on the sleeve. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it during the afternoon rush. He looked exhausted and exhilarated and beautiful in the fading light.
“We did it,” he said.
“We did it.”
The place looked like a disaster zone. Ribbon scraps scattered across the floor like confetti from some floral parade. Empty buckets stacked against the wall, their water rings marking the concrete. Bits of greenery everywhere: stems and leaves and the occasional crushed petal ground into the floor by a day's worth of foot traffic. The cooler held tomorrow's wedding arrangements, centerpieces and bouquets waiting for their moment. The whiteboard was nearly blank for the first time in weeks.
Marceline and Bubblegum emerged from their corner, stretching and yawning like they'd done all the hard work. They padded through the debris, Marceline nosing at a pile ofdiscarded stems with great interest, Bubblegum following more cautiously.
“I should clean up,” I said, but I didn't move. The smart thing would be to rest for an hour, eat something, then come back down and prep for tomorrow. Get ahead of the chaos before it could build again.
But Jamie was standing there in the golden evening light, and I couldn't make myself care about being smart.
“It can wait.” He crossed the shop toward me, legs clearly aching from ten hours on his feet, but his smile hadn't dimmed. “We survived Valentine's Day. That earns at least five minutes of standing still.”
“Five minutes.”
“Maybe ten.”
“Don't push it.”
He stopped in front of me. Tilted his head back to see my face, the angle sharp, familiar now. That particular vulnerability I'd stopped being able to look away from. He reached up and rubbed my jaw with his thumb. I went still under his touch.
“Holden.”
“Jamie.”
We both spoke at the same time. Both froze. The silence stretched between us, filled with everything neither of us had said for weeks.
“You first,” he said.
