The sun filtered lazily through the clouds above the coastal town of Avenshore, painting everything in shades of honey and pearl. Morning mist still clung to the rooftops, dissolving as the warmth crept in. You had already been on your route for a while, the satchel slung across your shoulder growing lighter with each delivery. The final letter in your hand was pressed between your fingers, its envelope a soft lavender shade, marked with the familiar looping script.

Chesna. Of course.

She owned the little flower shop on the corner near the harbor — The Blooming Tide — a shop that always smelled like violets and morning dew, even in the dead of winter. You’d known her since childhood, though back then she was the girl with scraped knees and sunburnt cheeks who’d always try to climb the tallest tree before you did. You had a rivalry once. Now… now it felt more like gravity. Quiet and inescapable.

You opened the door slowly, the tiny bell above it chiming softly.

Chesna looked up from where she was arranging tulips in a copper vase. She wore an apron dusted with pollen and faint smudges of green. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a curl falling across her cheek. She smiled the way she always did when she saw you — like she'd been waiting.

“You’re late,” she said, voice light, teasing.

You raised the letter slightly with a mock gasp. “Am I? I didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

“You are when I’m expecting you.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped inside. The warmth of the shop settled around you. It was full of soft colors today — pale peach ranunculus, white anemones with deep navy centers, little blue forget-me-nots curling at the edges of a wooden display table. Everything felt slow and quiet here, like time decided to exhale and stay a while.

You placed the letter on the counter between you. “Your letter.”

Chesna didn’t pick it up right away. She just looked at you with that curious tilt of her head, as if memorizing the way the light hit your face through the glass windows. You tried not to stare at her mouth when she bit her lip, but you failed a little.

“I’ve been trying to grow the heliotropes again,” she said softly, almost like it was a secret. “The ones you liked last year. They’re blooming earlier than expected.”

You glanced toward the greenhouse window behind her and saw the familiar violet buds peeking through the leaves.

“You didn’t have to,” you said.

She smiled, picking up a tulip, twirling it gently between her fingers. “I know. But I wanted to.”

You hesitated, then moved behind the counter, close enough to smell the jasmine on her skin. Your fingers brushed hers as you took the flower from her hand. She didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

“Stay a while,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I haven’t made tea yet.”

You nodded, unable to find the right words.

So she led you to the little table in the corner of the shop, where two mismatched mugs already waited, as if she’d known you’d say yes. You sat down together, knees just barely touching, surrounded by petals and the gentle hum of the morning air.

She poured your tea with hands that brushed yours again, eyes crinkling when you smiled — that warm, fluttering feeling blooming in your chest just like the flowers that surrounded you.

“I like when you come by,” she said after a moment, her voice shy, like she was offering something fragile.

“I like coming by,” you replied.

And there it was. Simple. Soft. Enough.

The kind of morning that didn’t need to be grand or filled with confessions. Just the scent of blossoms, shared glances, and the unspoken knowing that maybe, just maybe, this was already something.