The bell over the door rings — sharp, clean, alive.

It cuts through the hum of the cooler, through the quiet rhythm of scissors against stems. I look up from the counter, ready to greet whoever it is, mouth half-formed around Hi, welcome to— but the sound feels different. Familiar in a way that lands too deep, like a touch remembered more than heard.

Sunlight slants across the floor, thick with dust and gold. The doorway holds only shape at first — broad shoulders, the blur of movement, the pause before breath. Then the light shifts, and the air folds around him.

Caleb.

The name doesn’t rise as a thought; it fills the space between one heartbeat and the next. Uniform pressed. Wavy brown hair cropped shorter now, the color gone sun-dull at the edges. His eyes — those same soft, warm browns — are older than twenty-four should look. He stands there like he never left, like the air never stopped waiting for him to step back into it.

The scissors slip from my hand, hit the counter with a quiet thud. I don’t bend to catch them. The petals on the workbench stop trembling in the fan’s breath, frozen mid-motion.

The smell of marigolds and eucalyptus sharpens under the heat, the kind that makes everything inside me tilt. I can’t feel my fingers, but I feel the pulse in my throat — too fast, too close.

Every sound fades except the one my pulse makes.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks. The kind of look that holds recognition like a weight, not a greeting. His hand shifts near the doorframe, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve, a nervous tic I still know by feel.

The air refuses to move. The ceiling fan turns slow, blades whispering, stirring nothing.

I set the scissors fully down this time, fingers trembling just enough to notice. My sleeves catch against my palms as I pull them over my hands, hiding the tremor. The lavender knit scratches faintly against my skin. My shirt feels too tight, the air too warm. My jeans cling in ways they didn’t five minutes ago. Everything about me feels misplaced — like I’m wearing someone else’s calm.

He takes one breath, shoulders rising with it. The faint rasp of his voice breaks the stillness.

“Hey, Little.”

The nickname hangs there, whole and unchanged, and I forget how to breathe.

The sound hits somewhere deep — five years gone, and still the same cadence. It pulls through me like gravity, every part of me recognizing it before thought can keep up. My throat tightens, voice finding its way out before I tell it to.

“You broke your promise.” The words come smaller than I mean them to. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Caleb’s hand brushes the door as he steps inside. The soft click behind him seals the air between us, the sound too final for how little he’s moved. His smile forms slow — tired at the edges, something practiced that never quite finishes.

“I shouldn’t have made that promise.” His voice is low, rougher than it used to be, but still carries that same quiet care, like he’s afraid of disturbing the air.

The shop hums in the silence that follows. The cooler kicks on again, its steady buzz filling the space where words should go. A fly taps the window, persistent and rhythmic, wings catching light in quick flashes.

I can’t find where to stand. The space between the counter and the doorway feels different — too narrow and too wide all at once. I shift my weight, palms flat against the counter for balance. The wood feels warm under my skin, smoothed by years of use.

Caleb’s boots make almost no sound on the tile. He doesn’t come closer, but his presence fills every corner anyway — like the air has changed temperature just from holding him. The smell of him — clean, sun-worn, faint hint of starch from the uniform — finds its way through the scent of marigolds and eucalyptus until the two blur together.

Every sensation sharpens: sweat gathering at the base of my neck, the pulse quick under my jaw, breath catching halfway before it steadies again. My sleeves slide down past my wrists, fabric clinging slightly to the damp of my skin.

He studies me the way someone studies a place they’ve dreamed about too often — eyes tracing small details, careful not to touch. His mouth opens like he might say something else, then closes again.

The fly at the window stops. The cooler hum dips low, then quiets.

The silence sits there, waiting, alive.

My hand tightens on the counter’s edge, grounding against the ache in the air.

Caleb exhales — a sound halfway between apology and relief.

The room doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Caleb steps closer to the counter, slow, careful — like he’s making sure the floor will hold him. The air hums with the weight of it. Flowers breathe in the heat, scent rising thick and green: rose, eucalyptus, damp stems in glass jars.

The uniform catches the light — sleeves rolled to his elbows, fabric neat but lived-in. His forearms are bare. I notice it before I mean to.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen his skin in full daylight.

Scars pattern the surface — pale, raised lines that cross and fade, some smooth, some jagged, like the earth after a fire. They don’t hide. He doesn’t hide them. The light lands on each one and stays.

He doesn’t shift or pull at his cuffs the way he used to. Just stands there, easy in his body now, the quiet kind of ease that takes years to earn.

“I’m back for good,” he says. “Recruiter’s post in Atlanta. Figured I’d stop by before I reported in.”

The words sit between us, balanced. His voice hasn’t changed — low, steady, that rough warmth that always made my name sound softer.

I nod, slow. The motion feels deliberate, like moving underwater.

Behind him, the marigolds in the window catch a breeze and sway — gold brushing gold. The light off their petals glows the same color as his skin where the scars run.

My hand tightens around the edge of the counter, grounding against the small tremor in my chest.

Caleb glances around the shop, eyes moving over the jars and shelves, the vines trailing near the cooler. “Shop looks good,” he says. “Saw it on your FaceSpace. Smells like you. It’s a better fit than social work.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, faintly. The expression fits him differently now — calmer, settled.

The clock ticks once. A petal drifts down between us, turning in the air before landing near his boot.

Neither of us looks away.

The air feels thicker, but not heavy. Just full — of scent, of light, of something that doesn’t need hiding anymore.

Caleb takes a step back, the motion small but deliberate — the kind of movement that used to mean see you after class, now shaped into something quieter. The late light hits his shoulder, gold thinning toward gray.

“See you around,” he says.

The words land soft, but they don’t close anything. His voice carries a breath of warmth, a trace of weight. Not a question. Not a promise. Just air finding its shape.

The space between us folds again — all scent and light and the faint hum of electricity. His eyes linger, steady, then shift away. His hand finds the doorknob, knuckles pale, the scars catching the light one last time.

The bell over the door rings as he steps out. The sound cuts clean through the shop — bright, high, alive. It echoes longer than it should, weaving itself into the cooler’s hum, the slow swing of the ceiling fan, the breath I can’t quite finish.

He’s gone before the silence settles.

I stand still, one hand flat on the counter, the other pressed to my mouth. My teeth catch the skin just below my knuckle. I don’t bite hard — just enough to keep the air steady inside me. The taste is faintly metallic, warm.

The air trembles. A ripple, invisible but there — the way sound lingers after a note, or scent after touch. It feels like the room exhales once, slow.

The marigolds in the window glow like flame, their gold deepening as the sun lowers. The petals shift in the draft from the open door before it swings closed. Each one flickers, holds, stills.

I can still smell him — salt, starch, sun. It mixes with eucalyptus and the damp sweetness of soil. The air feels new, turned over.

The light thins into the corners, soft gray taking what gold leaves behind. The bell above the door settles into silence.

I don’t move.

The sound still lives somewhere in the air — not fading, just waiting.