Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon at Petal & Bloom, but something felt different today.
She found herself humming softly while arranging orchids.
She caught herself smiling at nothing.
Even the familiar creak of the shop door sounded lighter.
Ethan's patience was changing something inside her.
Not rapidly.
Not dramatically.
But slowly, like morning light creeping across a dark room.
Around closing time, the bell above the door chimed again.
Amelia looked up from the counter—and her heart warmed instantly.
Ethan stood there.
A little out of breath.
Hair slightly messy.
Eyes softening the moment they found hers.
> "I didn't miss you, did I?" he asked, as if the idea bothered him more than it should.
Amelia shook her head. "No… you're right on time."
Ethan exhaled, relieved.
> "Good."
He stepped inside, and the scent of flowers wrapped around them both. He glanced around the shop with a quiet smile.
> "I like being here," he admitted. "It feels… peaceful."
Amelia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm glad. I always wondered if people saw it that way."
Ethan walked toward her slowly, his voice gentle.
> "I see it that way. Because it feels like you."
Her breath faltered.
"You keep saying things like that," she whispered.
He shrugged lightly.
> "I only say what's true."
The warmth in her chest tightened.
They stood in a soft pocket of silence before Amelia gathered enough courage to speak.
"Ethan… would you like to see something?"
His brows rose slightly. "Of course."
She walked toward a small door near the back of the shop. Ethan followed, careful not to rush her.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was a tiny workspace—warm, faintly scented with rosemary, sunlight filtering through a small window. On the table sat stacks of delicate pressed flowers, jars of dried leaves, and small notes in her handwriting.
Ethan paused in the doorway, his expression shifting—softer, deeper.
> "This is where you make your arrangements?"
Amelia nodded.
"This room… it's the only place that's truly mine."
Ethan stepped inside slowly, as if entering something sacred.
He looked at the shelves, the labeled rows of petals, the tiny sketches she'd made of arrangements.
> "It's beautiful," he whispered.
Amelia bit her lower lip. "It's messy. And old. And small."
"No," Ethan said gently.
> "It's you. And that makes it beautiful."
Her eyes softened, her heart trembling.
She'd shown this room to no one.
Not in years.
Not since she'd learned to hide parts of herself.
But today, she opened the door.
For him.
Ethan walked closer, stopping at the table of pressed flowers. His fingers hovered over a page, not touching—just admiring.
> "You made all these?"
She nodded.
"My grandmother taught me."
Ethan's voice quieted with something like reverence.
> "You carry pieces of her everywhere. I can see it."
A lump formed in Amelia's throat.
She looked away, blinking fast.
"She used to say flowers can tell stories."
Ethan smiled softly.
> "Then these are your stories."
She turned back to him slowly—and found him watching her with a tenderness so deep it threatened to undo her completely.
> "Thank you," he said.
Amelia frowned slightly. "For what?"
"For letting me see this part of you."
Her breath trembled.
"I don't let people in here," she whispered. "Anyone."
"I know."
Silence hung between them—warm, fragile, shifting into something new.
Ethan took one small step toward her.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just choosing closeness.
> "Amelia… you trusted me enough to open a door that mattered to you. That means more than anything you could have said."
Her heart stuttered.
The room seemed to shrink around them—not uncomfortably, but intimately.
Amelia reached out, hands shaking, and touched one of the pressed flowers on the table.
"I'm trying," she said quietly.
Ethan's voice was almost a whisper.
> "You're doing beautifully."
She looked up at him.
He looked right back.
Warmth spread through her chest, slow and overwhelming.
For a moment—
a long, trembling moment—
she thought he might reach for her hand.
But he didn't.
He waited.
She stepped closer instead.
Barely half a step, but enough that their breaths mingled in the tiny room.
Ethan's eyes widened slightly, then softened.
> "Amelia…" he whispered.
Her voice was barely audible.
"I like when you say my name."
A breath escaped him—quiet, shaky, full of restrained emotion.
He lifted a hand—but stopped halfway, asking without words.
Amelia's heart pounded.
She nodded.
So Ethan gently, carefully, touched her cheek—
his thumb brushing her skin like it was something delicate and precious.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't pull away.
Instead, her hand moved up and rested lightly over his—
small, trembling, brave.
Their eyes locked.
And in the tiny room behind her flower shop,
with pressed petals surrounding them like memories suspended in time,
something shifted between them forever.
Not a confession.
Not a kiss.
Just a moment—
so tender it could change everything.