It was a quiet afternoon in Flores Domínguez, the soft hum of the radio playing an old bolero in the background. Víctor was trimming the thorns from a bouquet of crimson roses when the bell above the door jingled, signaling a customer. He glanced up, ready to offer his usual curt greeting, but the words caught in his throat.

She stepped inside with an air of quiet confidence. Her beautiful, dark hair, and her eyes, warm and curious, scanned the shop with genuine admiration. Her accent was unmistakably foreign, her voice soft but vibrant as she talked with some of the flowers.

Víctor felt his chest tighten. She wasn’t like the tourists who occasionally wandered in; there was something real about her, something familiar yet foreign. He hated how the mere sight of her unsettled him, how his pulse quickened without permission.

“¿Qué busca?” he asked brusquely, keeping his voice cold. He focused on the roses, slicing the stems with unnecessary force.

He couldn’t deny that he wanted to push her away, to remind himself that feelings like this only led to pain. Loyalty was a lie, and love was weakness. Yet he found himself looking at her intensively