Page 37 of The Florist By Chance
I step back from the counter, pretending to adjust a vase, but my mind is anything but occupied. Relief and warmth swirl in the shop, but underneath it all is that familiar, stubborn knot of fear. Fear of failing her. Fear of losing the shop again.
I glance at Mia as she bends to lift a bucket of roses, her hair falling just so, catching the dim light. For a moment, she’s oblivious to me, absorbed in her work. And that’s when the memory hits—of me leaving, of the distance I put between us. The guilt twists in my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
I shouldn’t be standing here. I should be careful, keeping a safe distance. But every instinct, every heartbeat, is screamingat me to stay, to step closer, to finally make the choice I’ve been avoiding.
I close my eyes for a second, taking a slow, steadying breath. I’ve run from too much already. From responsibilities, from fear, from her. But this time… this time is different.
Opening my eyes, I watch her straighten, brushing petals from her apron. There’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on her lips, one I’ve only seen when she thinks no one’s watching. And for a moment, I’m caught off guard by how much I want to protect that, to be a part of that smile permanently.
The fear creeps up again. What if I fail her? What if Titan comes back stronger? What if my past mistakes are too heavy for her to forgive? My chest tightens, and I almost turn away, almost retreat into the safety of caution.
But then I catch her gaze, subtle but present, just for a fleeting moment, and it hits me—she’s here. She’s present. She’s choosing to be in this moment with me, too. And that, more than anything, pushes back the fear.
I step closer, letting the tension in my shoulders ease, though my heartbeat is still rapid. “Mia,” I say softly, letting the name fall like a vow between us. She looks up, eyebrows lifting, curious but calm.
“I…” My words falter, but I force them out. “I’ve been scared. Scared of failing, scared of losing, scared of letting you down again.” The truth tastes sharp and raw on my tongue, but I let it linger, letting her hear the fear I’ve buried for months.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She just waits. And that silence gives me courage.
“But,” I continue, voice firmer now, steady despite the tremor in my chest, “I’m done letting fear decide for me. I’ve spent too long running from what matters. From you.” I take a careful step closer, letting my hand hover near hers, the spacebetween us almost too small to bear. “I choose you, Mia. I choose us. All in. No reservations. No running. Not this time.”
Her eyes widen, shimmering, and for the first time in months, I see the relief there—the unspoken acknowledgement that the walls between us are finally breaking down.
“You… you mean that?” she whispers, voice soft, vulnerable, yet steady.
I nod, and the knot in my chest finally begins to unwind. “Every word.”
She doesn’t say anything more, just lets that small smile grow, the one I’ve been waiting to see for months. And I let myself breathe, let myself believe. Because I’ve made my choice, and for the first time in a long while, fear isn’t in control. Love is.
Chapter Seventeen
The morning sun drifts lazily across the shop, catching every petal, every dewdrop of water left from last night’s arrangements. It’s quieter than the festival, quieter than the chaos of Titan, quieter than the months of tension that seemed to cling to every corner of this shop. But the silence isn’t empty—it’s warm, like the world itself is exhaling with us. I breathe it in, letting the soft, floral scent fill my lungs, and for the first time in a long while, the shop feels like home again.
I’m perched on a stool behind the counter, arranging a bouquet of daisies and lilacs into a vase that’s taller than it should be, my hands deliberate, slow, savoring the process. Luke is bustling behind me, carefully sorting ribbons, fluffing greenery, and occasionally humming that awful—but oddly comforting—tune he calls a work soundtrack. I glance over my shoulder, catching his grin as he notices me watching.
“You know,” I say lightly, “for someone who claims he’s not sentimental, you’re awfully careful with those flowers.”
He glances up, cocking his head, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “Careful? That’s ridiculous. I’m meticulous, precise… professional.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Professional, right. And your humming is… part of the process?”
“It is, thank you very much,” he replies, mock indignation curling the corners of his lips. “Keeps the flowers from wilting under stress. You should try it sometime.”
I snort. “Oh, I’m sure you’d love to see me humming while holding scissors over a bloom. Disaster waiting to happen.”
He steps closer, brushing past me to adjust a vase, and I feel that familiar heat rise in my chest—the one that comes with knowing he’s near and with realizing that even now, after all we’ve been through, I still care more than I want to admit.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” I tease, spinning a lilac between my fingers.
“And yet,” he says softly, voice dropping a fraction, “here you are, arranging flowers with me, laughing.”
My heart stumbles, and I look down, cheeks warming.
He doesn’t press, just lets the pause linger, steady and patient. And somehow, that is enough. That quiet presence, the way he respects my pace, the way he’s been here for me without ever demanding more than I could give—it’s something I’ve never had before.
Then, without warning, he kneels in front of me, right there on the tile floor, and my breath hitches. My eyes go wide when I see the small wooden box he holds, polished and plain, yet somehow the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’ve got that look,” I say, voice shaking with a mix of skepticism and hope.
