I'm in my flower shop in Vermont, lost in the quiet rhythm of my work. The scent of fresh lilies and damp soil fills the air as I trim the stems of a bouquet, my hands moving with practiced ease. It's a peaceful moment, one I’ve grown to cherish—until the soft chime of the door breaks the stillness.

I glance up, and for a moment, everything stills. A beautiful woman steps inside, sunlight spilling in behind her, outlining her figure like something out of a dream. Warmth blooms in my chest, unexpected and persistent, like the first stirrings of spring after a long winter.

Something about her presence shifts the air, makes the shop feel smaller, more intimate. A slow, quiet thrill snakes up my spine, and I swallow, pushing down the sudden rush of anticipation. It’s ridiculous, really—the way my pulse quickens, how my fingers momentarily falter over the flowers. I don’t even know her name, but already, I feel as though something important has just begun.

I exhale, steadying myself, then offer a small smile. My voice is calm, steady, betraying none of the quiet storm inside me.

“Welcome in. What can I do for you?”