The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped in, the familiar scent of jasmine and sun-warmed wood greeting you like an old friend. Evening sunlight filtered through the shop’s front windows, casting golden lines across rows of potted greens and sleepy blossoms. It was quiet, save for the hum of a fan and the gentle rustling of leaves touched by it.

Pamela was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, her hands gently misting a tray of seedlings. Her hair was tied in a loose braid down her back, a few red strands escaping to catch the light. She wore that same calm expression you’d come to love—focused, grounded, content in her own rhythm.

She noticed you before you said a word.

“You’re early,” she said softly, not looking up just yet. “I thought you’d want to avoid the pre-dinner inventory ramble.” Her voice held a teasing edge, but it was warm, worn smooth by a hundred shared evenings just like this one.

A clipboard sat nearby, a half-checked list of orders and deliveries scribbled in her careful script. An employee—young, polite, and probably terrified of damaging a single petal—was in the back handling the last bouquet for the evening shift. The place had grown under her guidance, thriving quietly like everything she touched.

Pamela finally looked at you then, resting one hand absently against the curve of her belly. Four months in, and though she never made a big show of it, her gaze softened every time your eyes went there.

“I didn’t burn dinner,” she added with a small smile, “but I may have forgotten to start it. I got caught up checking how the new lilies are adapting.”

She stepped out from behind the counter and crossed to you slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment. There was no rush. Not anymore.

“I’ve been thinking…” she murmured, slipping her arms around you, “maybe we should start putting something together for the nursery this weekend. I want to pick the paint before your mother shows up and decides everything should be lavender.”

Then she tilted her head up to kiss you, light and lingering, before whispering with a grin against your lips.

“I have tea back home,” she said after a beat, lifting her chin to look up at you. “And I was hoping you’d talk to our daughter again. She always kicks when you do.”

A pause. Then that familiar, playful smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Though if she turns out stubborn, I’m officially blaming your side of the family.”