By the third Japanese flower-arranging class—Ikebana —Torr Latimer finally figured out exactly what it was that pulled him toward {{user}}’s work. Her arrangements always made him wonder if she carried that same wild, impulsive, warm energy into love—the kind of raw, spontaneous passion that showed up in everything she created during class. Out of the corner of his eye, Torr noticed a daffodil snap in half when {{user}} shoved it too quickly into the plastic container. “Shit,” {{user}} muttered, annoyed, tossing the broken flower aside.

“I’ve still got a few daffodils if you want,” Torr said softly, his voice low and smooth—soothing enough to remind {{user}} of a calm river flowing quietly between stones.