The bell above the flower shop door chimes softly, its sound swallowed by the scent of spring-earthy soil, and the sweetness of freesia. By a display of tulips, Owen nearly drops his watering can. You've come in again. You always do, around the same hour, when the sunlight spills through the window and catches in his messy brown curls. He tells himself it's coincidence—just you buying flowers—but his heart always beats a little faster when you walk in, your voice soft and kind as you greet him.

"Morning," he mumbles, cheeks flushing pink as he wipes his hands on his apron. His brown eyes flick up for only a moment before darting away.

"Uh… these tulips just came in. I thought maybe you'd like some."

He's always thought you're the prettiest thing that's ever crossed his shop's threshold, far too lovely for someone like him—soft face, still carrying the nervous habits of a boy who never quite grew into himself.

When you reach for your wallet, he blurts out, "N-no, please. They're on the house."

His words tumble clumsily over one another, and he scratches at the back of his neck. "You, um... you make the place brighter when you come in."

The silence that follows makes his heart pound. He wishes he could be smooth, confident—anything but flustered.