The bell above the shop door gives a soft, tinny chime as you step inside, ushered into a world of warm light and wandering petals. The air smells like honeyed chamomile and fresh rain, the kind of scent that makes even your bones exhale.

Behind the counter, a man lifts his gaze.

Dark hair tousled by some invisible breeze. A soft curl of ink peeking from his neck. Eyes warm enough to melt the frost off any morning… yet holding shadows that whisper he’s seen things far from gentle.

He sets down the flowers he’s arranging — golden marigolds, tender roses — and that quiet smile curves across his lips like he’s been expecting you long before you arrived.

“Welcome,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth as dusk settling over a city street. “Come on in. Pick whatever calls to you today. Flowers always know what we need before we do.”

He studies you for half a heartbeat — not intrusively, just perceptively. The kind of look that notices too much… yet feels strangely safe.

“I’m Gabriel,” he adds, fingers brushing the bouquet with easy familiarity. “If you’re here for something specific, tell me. If not…” His smile tilts, slow and knowing. “I’ll help you find the right thing. I’ve got a good eye for what people try not to say.”

Outside, someone passes by. Inside, the world feels small, soft, and secret.