The afternoon drifted into early evening, and the soft gold outside shifted to a muted, bluish calm. The shop grew quieter, the last of the customers gone. Amelia dimmed the front lights a little, letting the room settle into a warmer glow.
Ethan stayed, as he promised.
Not hovering, not pushing—just present in a way that made the silence feel full instead of empty.
Amelia gathered the trimmed stems and petals near the counter, sweeping them into a small bin. Ethan moved beside her and instinctively reached for the broom.
"I can do that," she said.
"I know," Ethan replied, "but I want to help."
He gently brushed the petals into a neat pile, working with a seriousness she found both adorable and deeply touching. It wasn't the task that mattered—it was the intention behind it. No one had ever stayed after hours just to help her clean before.
When he finished, he leaned the broom against the wall.
"There," he said softly.
"Perfect."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Ethan smiled.
"You don't have to thank me for every little thing."
She paused.
"I'm not used to… people staying. Or helping. Or wanting to."
He softened immediately.
"Amelia," he murmured, "I'm not here out of obligation. I'm here because I want to be."
Her heartbeat warmed.
She busied herself with tying some leftover ribbons, her hands almost steady.
"Do you ever feel like this is going too fast?" she asked quietly.
Ethan approached slowly, standing beside her but not touching.
"No," he said honestly.
"It feels slow. And right. And careful. Exactly how it should be."
She exhaled shakily, relief flickering in her eyes.
"Good," she whispered.
"I don't know if I could handle fast."
"You don't have to," Ethan said gently.
"I'll match your pace. Always."
The sincerity in those words settled deep inside her.
She finally turned toward him fully, her hands still holding a small ribbon.
"Ethan… can I ask you something personal?"
"Anything."
"When did you start… feeling something for me?"
Ethan's expression softened instantly.
"The first day I came here," he admitted.
"When you handed me that tiny pot of lilies like it was something fragile. You didn't look at me like most people do. You didn't want anything from me. And for the first time in a long time… I felt seen."
Amelia's breath caught softly.
"You barely knew me," she whispered.
"Sometimes you don't need time," he said.
"Sometimes you just know."
Her cheeks warmed, her chest tightening with something tender and overwhelming.
"What about you?" he asked gently.
"When did you start feeling something?"
She swallowed.
"When you listened," she said quietly.
"Really listened. And stayed. And didn't make me feel small."
Ethan's gaze softened with emotion.
"I would never make you feel small," he murmured.
"Not now. Not ever."
Amelia's fingers trembled, and the ribbon slipped from her grasp. Ethan instinctively reached for it—and his hand brushed hers in a feather-light touch.
She froze.
Then slowly, deliberately, she turned her palm to meet his.
Their fingers intertwined—warm, searching, certain.
"Ethan…" she whispered.
His voice lowered to something almost reverent.
"Yes?"
"I think I'm falling deeper than I expected."
Ethan exhaled softly, a mix of relief and emotion crossing his face.
"I want that," he whispered.
"And not because I expect anything from you… but because I want to earn your trust, one moment at a time."
Amelia took a single brave step closer.
Their bodies didn't touch—
but the space between them tightened with gentle, emotional gravity.
"I trust you," she whispered.
Ethan's breath caught, his eyes warming in a way that made her knees weaken slightly.
"You don't know what that means to me," he murmured.
"Trust is… everything with you."
Amelia lifted her free hand and rested it lightly against his forearm.
A soft touch.
A choosing.
"Stay?" she whispered.
"Just a little longer."
Ethan nodded without hesitation.
"As long as you need."
Amelia let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her shoulders relaxing. She stepped even closer now, her forehead hovering near his chest but not quite touching.
Ethan didn't move, allowing her to decide.
After a quiet moment, she leaned gently into him.
Not as deeply as before—
just enough to feel him, to ground herself, to feel safe.
Ethan exhaled softly as he wrapped his arms around her again—
slowly, tenderly, perfectly.
"You're getting braver," he whispered into her hair.
"You make it easy," she whispered back.
And in the quiet, flower-scented glow of her shop,
with their bodies close and their hearts slowly intertwining,
Amelia felt something she hadn't felt in years:
Hope.
Warm and real and steady—
growing one gentle moment at a time.