The shop hums with the low, steady rhythm of morning — the cooler breathing, the faint rustle of stems shifting in water, the scrape of scissors against the counter. Light drifts through the front window, pale and gold, softening the edges of everything it touches.

My phone buzzes against the wood beside a bucket of tulips. I glance at it, half expecting another order, another vendor check-in. But the name on the screen pulls all the air out of my lungs when I realize it’s a FaceSpace DM.

Caleb Steele — “Coffee? Just to catch up.”

The words sit there like they know what they’re doing.
I blink once, twice. The world narrows to the size of that blue message bubble.

The scissors are still in my hand. My fingers ache from holding them too tight. I set them down, slow, listening to the faint clink against the metal tray. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Sure.

No.
Delete.

Yeah, okay.
Delete again.

Finally: Sure. Peachtree? One hour?

I hit send before I can think. The small sound it makes feels too loud.

My hands are wet from trimming stems; I dry them on my cardigan, dragging the sleeve across my palms. The cotton sticks slightly, damp from the air. I stare at the screen until the message turns gray — delivered. Final.

“It’s only coffee,” I whisper, voice barely a sound. The petals in the vase tilt toward the light, their colors waking slow. “Just coffee.”

But my pulse won’t slow. It sits high in my throat, shallow and familiar, like the beginning of something I already lived once and never meant to live again.

He replies before I can take a long breath, my heart thudding.

Caleb Steele – I’ll see you there.

Outside, a delivery truck rumbles past, the sound vibrating through the glass. The door swings open for a gust of warm air, carrying the smell of rain-soaked pavement and earth.

I look up from the phone. The light shifts — brighter now, sharper. The tulips sway, stems knocking gently against the glass.

The shop smells like soil and cut green, like something about to change.

The café hums like a heartbeat — espresso machines steaming, the clink of spoons against porcelain, low music woven into conversation. The smell of roasted beans and vanilla syrup wraps around the air, sweet and sharp at once.

I sit in the far corner, where the light bends soft through the tall windows. The booth’s wood is warm against the back of my legs; I’ve tucked my feet under the edge of the red-rust corduroy dress, the hem brushing my calves when I shift. My white turtleneck catches the café lights, a little too bright against all the muted tones around me.

Steam curls from the mug in my hands, slow and steady. I trace the rim with a thumb, the heat grounding. The door opens, a bell chiming faintly, and the cold air outside folds into the room.

He’s early. He always was.

Caleb steps in — shoulders squared, boots soft on the tile. The red and black flannel hangs loose over a white shirt, jeans faded, cuffs brushing the tops of worn leather boots. His hair’s shorter than it used to be, his posture a little straighter, but the quiet still sits in him the same way: like it’s made of patience and ache.

He scans the room once, eyes catching the light. Then he sees me.

For a second, the noise of the café dulls. My pulse trips, not quick — just louder.

He smiles, not the full one, just enough for the corners to move. The kind that used to mean something private.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower than I remember, steady but soft.

“Hey.”

The word lands like a small exhale.

He nods, gestures to the seat across from me. I do, too — small, almost nothing — and he slides in. The bench creaks under his weight.

Up close, he looks older, but not foreign. Lines at the edges of his eyes that weren’t there before. A hint of tired under the skin, a kind of stillness I can’t name. The faint smell of soap and cedar, familiar enough to undo something quiet inside my chest.

Neither of us says much for a few breaths. The table between us feels impossibly small — not just wood and space, but history folded tight.

Caleb glances down at his hands, then back up. “You look—” He stops halfway. Tries again. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

The words sound calm, practiced, but the air between us tightens all the same.

The café hums around us, cups clinking, laughter lifting and falling. For a moment, none of it touches the space we share. The world narrows to the warmth of the table, the slow rise of steam, and the shape of his hands resting close to mine.

The air in the café moves slow — full of the scent of coffee and sugar, warm milk and something faintly citrus.
The low hum of conversation rises and falls, but I only hear his voice.

Caleb leans forward, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The scars catch the light, soft lines across tan skin. Not hidden, not explained. Just there.

He wraps both hands around his cup. “Seoul was good. Being stationed there fit me well,” he says. “But it was different. A lot quieter than I expected. I liked that. The structure, the way the day just... made sense.”

I tilt my head. “You always liked order.”

He grins, faint. “Yeah, but they were better at it than me.”
The corners of his mouth twitch when he says it — like the words surprise him.

The table between us hums with heat. My cup has gone cold, but I hold it anyway. The steam fogs the edge of my glasses before fading again.

“I opened the shop,” I say. “Leclair’s Floral Creations. I thought that fit me better than social work. Ren and Kieran helped paint the walls. Harlow built the counter.”

He smiles, nodding once. “I saw pictures. You look happy in them.”

“I am.” I pause. “Most days.”

Caleb studies me for a second, eyes searching the space between what I said and what I meant.
He sips his coffee. “You still live upstairs? I remember you posting that you were moving into the apartment above it a few years ago.”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s small, but it’s mine. Feels right.”

“That’s good,” he says quietly. “You always needed a place that felt like yours.”

The silence that follows is full — not awkward, just heavy with something we both remember.
The sound of the milk frother cuts through it — a sharp hiss, then quiet again.

He sets his cup down. “You seeing anyone?”

The question lands soft, almost casual, but my throat tightens anyway. “Yeah. Ellis.”
I make the name sound easy. “He travels a lot for work. Live in Macon right now. I uh… I haven’t seen him in almost two months.”

Caleb’s jaw flexes once, just enough to notice. “You deserve someone who stays.”

The words find their mark.
I look down at the coffee, swirl what’s left with my spoon. “We’re trying.”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. His eyes shift to the window, where the light has turned honey-colored against the glass.
Then he laughs — low, rough, real — at something he remembers.

“Harlow still sending me those dad joke emails. Five years worth now as if I’ll disappear if he doesn’t send one,” he says. “‘What do you call a flower that runs from the law?’”
I smile before I can stop it. “What?”
“An escaping plant.”

I groan, press my forehead into my hand, laughing anyway. “He’s unbearable.”

“Always was.” His grin lingers this time, soft around the edges.
The laugh still echoes between us, warm and familiar, the sound of something that used to fit.

I take another sip, cold now, and breathe around the ache it leaves — the taste of coffee and memory, equal parts bitter and sweet.

The air outside feels different — thinner, sharper, carrying the edge of evening. Dusk drapes itself over the city in slow layers of gold and gray. The hum of Peachtree never stops; cars roll by in pulses of sound, laughter spills from the café patio, the hiss of the espresso machine muffled behind glass.

We stand just outside the door, the space between us quiet and full. I can still smell the roasted coffee on my sleeve, the faint citrus from his aftershave.

Caleb shifts his weight, boots scuffing against the concrete. His hands tuck into his pockets, shoulders drawn but easy. The light catches the side of his face — softer now, almost the boy I remember.

He looks at me, steady and unguarded. “You look good, Little.”

The sound of it hits too familiar. I blink once, the word catching low in my throat. “Don’t call me that… Please.”

His mouth pulls into a faint, crooked smile. He looks down, then back up, meeting my eyes with something that lands gentle, not apologetic. “I know I shouldn’t. But it still fits.”

The wind picks up, tugging at the hem of my dress, brushing hair against my cheek. The air smells like roasted beans and the coming rain — the kind of scent that lives in the pause before a storm.

For a moment, I think he might reach out. His hand twitches once at his side, a reflex more than an intention. But he doesn’t. Neither of us does.

A car horn blares somewhere down the block. The streetlights blink on one by one, halos of amber against the darkening sky.

I shift my hands into my pockets, feel the folded napkin from earlier, the one I used to wipe the edge of my cup. The corner digs into my palm.

Caleb exhales, the sound more like a sigh than a word. He takes a half step back. “See you around.”

“Yeah,” I say, voice barely above the noise of the street. “See you.”

He nods once, then turns. The bell over the café door rings as it closes behind him — one clean note that hangs in the air longer than it should.

I stand there until the sound fades, until the scent of coffee gives way to rain. The city keeps moving. I don’t.

The apartment holds the day’s leftover heat, air thick and unmoving. I slip off my shoes by the door, the sound dull against the floorboards. The scent of the shop still clings to me — marigold and eucalyptus, faint coffee and dust.

I set my bag down on the counter. The weight leaves my shoulder, but the quiet presses heavier.

The city hums through the windows, low and endless — traffic, a siren far off, someone laughing on the street below. The sound rises and falls like breath.

I unbutton my cardigan, one loop at a time, fingers slow. The fabric slides from my arms, catching on my wrist before falling to the stool beside me.

The phone lights up. The sound cuts through everything.

Ellis.

The name flashes in pale blue across the screen.

I stare at it, the vibration thrumming faintly against the counter. It feels too loud, too alive in this small space.

I don’t move.

The ringing keeps going, sharp and steady. Then it stops.

The silence after feels realer than the noise ever did.

I breathe out, long and quiet, forehead pressing to the cabinet door. The wood is cool against my skin. I stay there until my breath finds rhythm again.

Outside, a car passes — headlights sweeping a brief wash of light across the ceiling, then gone.

The phone sits dark on the counter, its surface still humming faintly with leftover warmth.

I trace the edge of it with one finger, not answering, not deleting, just feeling the stillness hold.

Through the half-open window, the city hum carries on — steady, alive, indifferent — and beneath it all, softer than sound, the echo of his voice still rings.