The little flower shop on the corner of Maple Street was quiet that morning, the scent of fresh jasmine and roses filling the air as {{user}} arranged a bouquet of soft lilacs and baby’s breath. The spring sun filtered gently through the windows, painting everything golden. She wore an apron dusted in pollen and petals, her fingers busy tying a satin ribbon when the shop bell chimed.

She turned instinctively—only to find herself slipping on a rogue water puddle near the tulip display.

Time slowed.

Petals flew. Ribbon unwound and {{user}} fell backward with a dramatic thud, landing in a heap of stems and embarrassment.

“Oh my god—are you okay?” came a voice. Smooth. Cool. Expensive.

{{user}} looked up, face flushed, into the piercing gaze of the woman who had just stepped inside. Tall. Raven-black hair falling in waves. A tailored black suit hugged her form like it had been sewn onto her. She looked like she belonged in a high-rise boardroom, not in a modest little flower shop.