"Fuck!"
I catch her hand before she can put the bleeding finger in her mouth. "Rule one - respect the thorns."
Her skin's soft, warm against mine. It takes effort not to bring that finger to my lips, suck the hurt away like I used to do when we were kids.
"There are rules?" she asks, staring down at our joined hands.
“Always.” I grab a tissue from the supply station, press it to the tiny wound. "Rule two - never rush. Flowers respond to patience."
"What's rule three?"
"Rule three is understanding that every flower has its own personality." I release her hand reluctantly, pick up a rose stem to demonstrate. "This one's elegant but demanding. Needs to be handled with respect."
I show her the proper grip - firm but gentle, supporting the stem without crushing it. She watches intently, and I find myself enjoying the role of teacher more than I should.
"Like this?" She tries to copy my technique, fumbles it.
"Here." I step behind her, cover her hands with mine. Guide her fingers to the right position. My chest is pressed against her back, and I can feel the way her breathing changes. "Feel that? The way the stem gives just enough but doesn't break?"
"Yes," she whispers, and the breathless quality of her voice sends heat straight through my bloodstream.
"Good. Now the placement." I guide her hands as she positions the rose in the foam base. "Each flower needs its space, but they also need to work together. Balance."
"You actually know what you're talking about." She turns slightly in my arms, looking up at me with surprise. "How long have you been hiding this?"
The question hits closer to home than she knows. Admitting I grow flowers feels like admitting weakness. Like giving her ammunition she could use to tear me apart.
"Since I was twelve," I say finally. "Mom bought me sunflower seeds after Dad left for good. Said every home needed something beautiful growing in it."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with understanding. She gets it. Always did, even when we were kids.
"Show me how to make something beautiful,”she whispers.
Dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous. But I do it anyway, because the way she's looking at me is addictive as hell.
I guide her through the process, my hands covering hers as we build the arrangement together. Add sunflowers for boldness, roses for elegance, baby's breath to soften the edges. Each touch is deliberate, necessary, and completely fucking torture.
"The key is understanding what each flower brings to the composition," I explain, reaching around her for a stem of fall foliage. "This adds texture, depth. Makes the other colors pop."
"Like this?" She leans back against me as she positions the greenery, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from reacting to the contact.
"Perfect." My voice comes out rougher than I want. "You're a natural."
"I had a good teacher."
She turns in the circle of my arms, and suddenly we're face to face. Close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose, see the way her eyes shift from green to gold when she's emotional.
"Griff," she whispers, and my name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a promise all at once.
I'm leaning down, drawn by forces I can't control, when Margaret's voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
"How's everyone doing over here?" The instructor materializes at our station like she's got radar for ruining perfect moments. "This is absolutely lovely. You two have real talent."
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. Savannah's flushed that pink color that drives me crazy, breathing unsteady.
"Thank you," she manages. "Griff did most of the work."
"Nonsense. This kind of harmony can't be faked." Brenda adjusts one of the baby's breath stems with practiced fingers. "You can tell when partners are truly in sync."
