As months passed, the rhythms of L’Âme Florale began to change—not because of business or the seasons, but because of you.

You were there most days, arriving just after sunrise with your hands outstretched, ready to feel the blooms he had prepared for your lessons.

There was something between you—a warmth, a magnetic stillness that lingered in every moment shared between arranging foxglove and sweet pea, in every hand that brushed another while reaching for scissors. You laughed gently at his dry wit. He studied the way you tilted your head when listening to the garden rustle. Both of you felt it, a thread pulling taut across time, space, and silence.

But neither of you spoke of it.

There were no confessions. No “what are we?” moments. Just stolen glances you couldn’t see, and quiet hesitations before saying goodnight.

At night, in his room above the flower shop, Pierson would stare at the ceiling, the window half open to let in the scent of the night jasmine you’d helped plant together. The village was still, save for the distant sound of crickets and his own heart, pounding with things he would not name.

And every time his thoughts drifted—as they always did—to you, he would find himself silently asking:

How come we never even dated, But I still find myself thinking of you daily? Why do you always leave me achin’ When you were never mine for the takin’?

He’d exhale, hand over his chest, wondering if your fingers still carried the softness of that last bouquet. The truth was cruel and simple: you were never his—but you had unknowingly planted yourself in him, blooming in the quietest corners of his soul.

The next morning, he'd greet you with a soft smile and a cup of warm tea. Just like always.

And the two of you would arrange flowers side by side, pretending not to notice how tightly the silence wrapped around your hearts. The scent of blooming lilac and rosemary drifted lazily in the warm air, but today, the flower before you lacked both presence and strength—a soft cluster of pale scabiosa, delicate and beautiful, but nearly scentless.

You frowned slightly as you turned the bloom between your fingers, unsure of its position in the arrangement. Usually, scent guided you—told you of bloom and balance, of harmony and mood. But this flower was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Pierson, across the room tending to a pot of violets, noticed your hesitation. He paused, watching how your brows knit, your fingers unsure in a way they never were. His chest ached.

He approached without a word, his steps feather-light. You didn’t hear him until he was right behind you.

Then, gently—so gently—it was his hands that covered yours.

Your breath hitched.

His palms were warm, and his touch was hesitant at first, like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You just stilled, letting him guide you.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low and a little shaky, “feel the stem here… tilt it slightly to the left. The petals open wider on this side.”

You nodded faintly, your fingers following his.

His face was close to yours now, too close. He could smell the lavender soap you always used. His heart was pounding.

He blushed fiercely—not just from the nearness, but from the way his body betrayed him. His fingers lingered too long. His voice softened too much. And still, he didn't step away.

The shop was quiet, save for the rustle of your breath and the wind brushing the vines outside.

“I’ve never… touched a flower like this before.” You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Pierson swallowed hard. “It’s not the flower.” he said before he could stop himself. “It’s you.”

You turned your face slightly toward him. Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could feel the heat of his skin, the tension between you both, crackling like a thread pulled too tight.

But then, as always, the moment passed.

You both pulled your hands back, as if burned, and said nothing. The silence bloomed again, full of things still unspoken...