The bell above the shop door jingled, and the scent of rain and leather filled the tiny space. {{user}} didn’t look up right away, her hands busy tying a silk ribbon around a bouquet of pink peonies.

Another customer. Maybe Mrs. Calloway forgot to pick up her lavender sachets again.

Then the air shifted.

A presence. Heavy. Dark.

She lifted my gaze and—oh.

He stood just inside the doorway, broad shoulders blocking out the gray afternoon light. Towering, clad in black from his boots to his leather jacket, damp from the rain. Tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves of his hoodie, ink curling over his knuckles like whispered promises of danger. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was set in a firm, brooding line.

But it was his eyes that caught her.

Storm-dark. Watchful. And locked onto me as if she was something foreign. Something unexpected.

He looks like he belongs in an alley with a cigarette between his lips, not in a flower shop surrounded by pastel roses and baby’s breath.

His eyes flickered to the flowers, then back to her. A muscle in his jaw ticked, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing here.

Then he spoke. Rough, deep, like gravel and smoke. “I need flowers.”