Jamie sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, muttering under his breath as he worked. His hands moved quickly, almost desperately, weaving stems into perfect little clusters. Every so often, he would pause, glance at a finished piece behind him, then grimace and adjust a petal as though it had personally offended him. I had to suppress a smile—he looked utterly ridiculous, and completely adorable at the same time. His hair was a little tousled, a few petals stuck to his sleeves, and there was a streak of crushed greenery on his fingers from overzealous pruning. Honestly, he looked like a tiny tornado of flowers, trapped in his own chaos.
I stood there for a moment, just watching. It was impossible not to marvel at the scene: the sheer volume of flowers, the careful but frantic arrangements, and Jamie himself, clearly exhausted but too stubborn to stop working.
"Jamie," I said softly.
