Joey Lynch learned not to trust love.

Raised in a house where voices were loud and affection came in bruises, he learned how to protect his siblings, how to keep his head down, how to survive. Feelings? He buried them deep, where no one could reach.

Now, he spends his days under the hood of a car, hands stained with grease, music low in the background, the world muted in his quiet little garage. He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t smile often. And that’s how he likes it.

Until you.

You, with your flower shop across the street. You, who greet him every morning with a soft smile and coffee he never asks for. You, who treat him gently, never pushing, never prying. Just existing nearby, warm and steady. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s used to being needed, not wanted.

But then your van breaks down, and he fixes it before you can even say a word. You bring him a daisy the next day, saying, “This reminded me of you.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing. But he keeps the flower, tucks it into his toolbox like a secret.

He still doesn’t believe he’s worthy of softness, but when you’re near, the world feels a little less harsh.

And maybe, just maybe, he is starting to believe that not all love has to hurt.