The last ray of daylight faded outside as Amelia moved through the shop, closing the register, turning off the smaller lights, and arranging the last bouquet by the window. Ethan watched her from a respectful distance, his jacket draped over one arm, his presence quiet but constant.
When she finished, she turned back toward him.
He was leaning lightly against the counter, waiting—not impatiently, not expectantly, but calmly.
Like he was exactly where he wanted to be.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
Amelia nodded.
"Yes."
She reached for the shop's front switch, hesitating a moment before flipping it. The lights dimmed into a warm glow—leaving the shop looking cozy, intimate. Amelia locked the front door, her breath visible through the glass for a second.
Ethan walked behind her, keeping just enough distance to let her move freely.
As she slid the key into the lock, she whispered:
"Thank you for staying."
Ethan shook his head gently.
"You don't have to thank me for wanting to be with you."
Her chest fluttered.
They stepped outside together, the cool evening breeze brushing against them. The street was quiet—just a few passing cars, faint voices from a nearby café, and the soft glow of streetlights pooling against the pavement.
Amelia wrapped her arms around herself instinctively at the cold.
Without a word, Ethan slipped off his coat and held it out.
She froze.
"Oh—Ethan, no. You'll get cold."
"I'm warm," he said softly.
"Take it."
She hesitated for only a second before accepting the coat. It was heavy, warm, and smelled like cedar and him.
As she draped it over her shoulders, Ethan's fingers brushed the fabric near her collar—gentle, not touching her skin, but close enough that she felt the warmth anyway.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she whispered.
But her voice trembled—not from the cold.
Ethan noticed, of course.
He stepped a little closer, his tone soft and careful.
"Nervous?"
She nodded once.
"About dinner?" he asked.
"No," she said softly.
"About wanting to be with you this much."
Ethan exhaled slowly, like her honesty pulled something deep from him.
"I'm nervous too," he admitted.
"You are?" she asked, surprised.
"Of course," he said gently.
"You're not someone I want to get wrong."
Her breath hitched.
A few quiet steps later, Amelia asked:
"Where should we go?"
Ethan looked at her thoughtfully.
"Somewhere you'll be comfortable.
Somewhere quiet."
She considered this, then gestured down the street.
"There's a small bistro two blocks away. They're calm in the evenings."
Ethan smiled warmly.
"Lead the way."
They walked side-by-side—close but not touching.
Amelia's hand brushed against her skirt occasionally, as if she was aware of her every move.
After a few steps, Ethan spoke softly:
"You keep looking down."
She flushed.
"I just… don't want to trip."
"You won't," he murmured.
"And if you do, I'll catch you."
Amelia glanced up, her cheeks warming again.
"You always say things like that."
"I always mean them."
She slowed her steps without realizing it.
Ethan slowed too.
"You can hold onto me if it makes you feel steadier," he offered gently.
She hesitated—her fingers flexing slightly at her side.
Then, with a breath of resolve, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm.
Ethan's entire posture softened instantly.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?" she asked shyly.
"For trusting me," he replied.
Her heart fluttered as they continued down the street, her hand resting lightly against his arm, his warmth grounding her more than she expected.
They approached the little bistro—soft lights over the entrance, faint music drifting from inside.
Ethan glanced down at her.
"Still comfortable?" he asked.
Amelia nodded.
"Yes."
But her hand tightened around his arm—just a little.
Ethan covered her hand with his own, warm and steady.
"Then let's go in," he said softly.
Amelia took a breath, held it, and stepped forward with him.
Together.
And Ethan's hand stayed on hers the whole time—
not pulling,
not guiding,
just being there.
Exactly the way she needed.