The rest of the day passed in a quiet blur.
Amelia worked in her flower shop, arranging bouquets and preparing orders, but her mind kept drifting back to the library courtyard… to Ethan… to the moment his fingers had brushed her cheek.
She replayed it too many times.
The warmth of his touch.
The surprise in his eyes.
The way he hesitated, as if afraid she might break.
Her hands trembled slightly as she tied a ribbon around a bouquet.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Not again.
Not so soon.
She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, when the bell above the shop door chimed.
She looked up.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
Her breath caught.
His hair was a little messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it. His shirt had paint on the sleeve, and he looked tired—but the moment he saw her, something in his expression eased.
> "Amelia," he said softly.
She tried not to stare. "Is everything alright?"
He stepped inside, holding a small wooden box in his hands.
> "I came to return this," he said, offering it to her. "We found it while clearing the storage room. The label says it belongs to Petal & Bloom. Must've been moved there by accident years ago."
Amelia frowned, opening the box carefully.
Inside were old dried petals—pressed flowers, preserved between thin sheets of paper. Each one labeled with shaky handwriting.
Her breath faltered.
They were her grandmother's.
> "These… I thought they were lost," Amelia whispered, her voice trembling.
Ethan watched her closely, concern flickering in his eyes.
> "Are they important to you?"
She nodded slowly. "My grandmother used to press flowers and tell me stories about them. I didn't think I'd ever see these again."
A softness washed over Ethan's features.
> "I'm glad they found their way back to you."
Amelia blinked away the sting in her eyes.
"You didn't have to bring them yourself."
> "I wanted to," Ethan said simply.
The air between them shifted—warm, tender, fragile.
Amelia closed the box gently, holding it close.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Ethan took a slow breath, as if gathering courage.
> "Amelia… about earlier."
Her heart stopped.
He continued, voice low.
> "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
She shook her head immediately. "You didn't. I just… didn't know how to react."
Ethan took a step closer—not enough to overwhelm, but enough that she could feel his presence.
> "We can go slow," he said quietly. "As slow as you need."
Amelia's eyes glistened.
"Why are you being so patient with me?"
His answer was immediate, steady.
> "Because you deserve gentleness. Real gentleness. And because… I don't want to rush something that feels this important."
Her breath trembled.
A silence settled over them, filled with everything neither of them dared to say. Amelia lowered her gaze, overwhelmed by the honesty in his voice.
Ethan exhaled softly and stepped back half a step, giving her space again—like he always did.
> "I should let you finish your work," he murmured. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
Amelia hesitated.
Then, for the first time, she didn't fight her own answer.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Tomorrow."
A smile touched Ethan's lips—small, relieved, grateful.
He nodded, stepped outside, and the bell chimed gently behind him.
Amelia stood there, her fingers resting over the wooden box.
Her heart was beating too fast.
Too hopeful.
Too alive.
Maybe falling wasn't something that happened all at once.
Maybe it was something that happened quietly—
one soft moment at a time.