The moment lingered in Amelia's mind long after she pulled away from Ethan's chest.
Her heart still felt full—soft around the edges, as if something new had begun to bloom inside her.
She walked around the shop in a daze, touching petals, adjusting ribbons, pretending to work. But Ethan saw straight through her.
He leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching her with that gentle patience she had come to recognize.
"You're quiet again," he said softly.
Amelia paused, turning toward him.
"Is that bad?"
He shook his head.
"No. Just… different."
Her lips curved just slightly.
"You notice everything."
Ethan smiled.
"Only when it comes to you."
Her breath trembled.
She looked down at the bouquet she'd been holding, fingers brushing the petals.
"Sometimes…" she whispered, "I feel like you're seeing parts of me I didn't even know were still there."
Ethan moved closer—slow, careful—until he stood beside her.
"That's because you're letting those parts come back," he said gently.
"And I'm honored I get to witness it."
Amelia's heartbeat stuttered.
She wasn't used to being seen like this.
Softly.
Lovingly.
Without being pushed.
She looked up at him, eyes searching.
"Why are you always so gentle with me?"
Ethan's expression shifted—deepened.
"Because strength doesn't have to be loud," he said quietly.
"Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it's patient.
And sometimes it's just… holding space until someone feels safe again."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
"And you're… holding space for me?" she whispered.
Ethan nodded once.
"As long as you need."
Amelia swallowed hard.
No one had ever spoken to her like that.
No one had ever offered her softness without expecting anything in return.
A quiet warmth rose in her chest.
"Ethan?"
"Yes?"
She stepped back just enough to look at him fully.
"I want to do something," she said quietly.
"But you have to tell me if it feels like too much."
Ethan blinked—confused, gentle, hopeful.
"Alright."
Amelia took a slow breath, gathering courage that felt both fragile and strong.
Then, with trembling hands,
she reached up—
and very carefully—
brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.
Ethan inhaled sharply.
Not out of shock.
Out of tenderness.
Her fingers hesitated near his temple, unsure, but Ethan didn't move away.
He stayed perfectly still, letting her choose every inch of closeness.
Amelia's voice was barely a whisper.
"I keep… wanting to be near you."
His breath trembled.
"I want that too," he murmured.
She lowered her hand slowly, her cheeks warm. Ethan reached out instinctively—but stopped himself, fingers hovering near hers.
"Can I?" he asked softly.
Amelia nodded.
Ethan took her hand gently, lifting it and pressing it briefly between both of his—warm, steady, grounding.
Her eyes fluttered closed at the feeling.
"This," Ethan whispered,
"is enough. More than enough."
Amelia opened her eyes.
"I don't want to hurt you," she said quietly.
"You couldn't," he replied. "Not by going slow. Not by being unsure. I'm here for all of it."
Her chest tightened again—this time with something close to relief.
She squeezed his hand lightly.
"You make it easy to breathe," she said.
Ethan smiled, a slow, tender curve of his lips.
"And you make it easy to stay."
---
They spent the rest of the morning working side by side, their bodies brushing occasionally, their hands lingering just a little longer when they passed things. Every moment felt soft, warm, familiar—like a quiet symphony made of small touches and unspoken affection.
Amelia found herself humming again.
And Ethan, watching from the corner of his eye,
couldn't help but fall a little deeper
into the woman who didn't yet realize
how breathtaking her healing truly was.