The bell rings — sharp, alive — and I look up from the counter.

Caleb stands in the doorway, sunlight haloing his shoulders, a cardboard drink carrier in one hand. Two cups — one black, one pale with milk. Warm air follows him inside, carrying the scent of asphalt, coffee, and cut stems.

He hesitates, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. “I was hopeful that you opened this early but I wasn’t sure.”

“I always do,” I say.

He takes another step in. “You used to skip breakfast. I figured that part hasn’t changed.”

“It hasn’t.”

He sets the carrier down on the counter, fingers brushing the rim of one cup. “Didn’t know what you liked anymore, so I guessed.”

“I still take oat milk.”

His mouth curves, small. “Good. I got lucky.”

The cooler hums. Outside, traffic hums under the open door — the low, steady rhythm of morning.

He glances around, slow, like he’s memorizing where to stand. “Smells better than the recruiter’s office,” he says. “Less paper. More life.”

“Hard competition,” I say.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

He picks a bouquet — marigolds and eucalyptus — and holds it like he’s afraid to bend a stem. “These. They look alive enough to make the room feel honest.”

I wrap them in brown paper, the twine rough against my fingers. Our hands touch when I tie the knot. The air tightens and doesn’t move for a second.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Anytime.”

He lingers halfway to the door. “See you, Aster.”

“See you.”

The bell rings again when he leaves. The scent of cedar and soap folds into the sweetness of flowers. Warm air drifts through the doorway before settling still.

I stand behind the counter, one hand damp from trimming stems, the other still remembering the shape of his.

The silence hums — not empty, just waiting.

The air smells like lavender and dusted wood. Late light slips through the front windows, laying stripes of gold across the counter.

Caleb stands by the door, a half-smile tucked under his breath. “You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

“I’m thinking about that shelf in the back,” I say. “It’s been leaning for a week.”

He glances past me, toward the doorway that leads into the storeroom. “You got tools?”

“A screwdriver and a prayer.”

“That’ll do.” His mouth twitches. “You want me to take a look?”

I shrug, but it’s already yes. “If you don’t mind.”

“Never did.”

The back room smells like soil and sawdust. The shelf leans against the wall like it’s tired of trying.

He crouches beside it, sleeves rolled high, screwdriver in hand. “It was leaning like it wanted to quit.”

I steady the far edge with one palm. “You always did hate things that gave up.”

“Still do.” The screw tightens with a sharp click.

We stop at the same time. The shelf stands straight again — plain, quiet, fixed.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, the fabric darkened at the knees. “Guess it just needed someone to believe in it.”

“Most things do.”

The cooler hums in the next room. The scent of wood, pollen, and sunlight drifts between us.

He reaches for another screw, brushes my wrist by accident. The contact is small — enough to make the air hold still.

I hand him a glass of water. “You look like you need this more.”

He takes it, fingers brushing mine again. “You always think I’m worse off than I am.”

“You always pretend you aren’t.”

A breath of laughter escapes him — quiet, rough-edged. “Still got that mouth on you.”

“Still fixing things that don’t ask to be fixed.”

We both pause. The silence stretches — not heavy, not fragile, just full.

He sets the glass down, stands. “There. Better.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Better.”

He glances toward the door. “Need anything else patched up?”

“Not yet,” I tell him. “But the shelf upstairs has been squeaking lately.”

His eyes lift, faint light catching in them. “Then I’ll bring my tools tomorrow.”

The sun slants lower. The air smells like cedar and warmth.

When he leaves, the space he filled feels quieter, but not empty — like the air’s still catching its breath.

The air turns syrup-gold as the sun leans low against the windows. The shop smells like eucalyptus and honey, the kind of quiet that asks to be shared.

Caleb sits on the counter, boots scuffed against the lower shelf, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The wood creaks softly beneath him. “So this kid walks into the recruiting office,” he says, “reeking of whiskey and confidence.”

I glance up from trimming stems. “That’s a combination.”

“Yeah, he tried to salute the vending machine.”

I laugh before I mean to — quick, full, pulled straight from the ribs. The sound startles me as much as it does him.

“You still laugh with your whole face,” he says. It’s not teasing now. It’s something quieter — wonder softened by time.

I look down, trying to hide the warmth in my cheeks. “You still talk too much.”

He leans forward, grin crooked. “You missed it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The moment holds, small and easy. Dust catches in the light between us, swirling slow. His shoulder brushes a hanging fern; a few leaves fall onto the counter beside him. He picks one up, spins it between his fingers.

“You’ve done good here,” he says. “Feels alive.”

“It’s just flowers.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s you.”

Before I can answer, the bell above the door rings. The sound folds through the room like a breath being drawn back in.

Caleb slides off the counter, straightening. “Duty calls.”

“You’re leaving already?”

He smiles, pulling his jacket from the hook. “Same time tomorrow?”

“You don’t even have a reason to come by.”

“I’ll find one.”

He winks as he pushes the door open. The evening light spills around him, warm and brief.

The bell chimes again when it closes, softer this time, like it’s remembering the sound of him.

I stand there with the scissors still in my hand, pulse steadying under the hum of the cooler, the day folded neatly into its final light.

Outside, the street hums — steady, ordinary. Inside, I breathe it all in, the air still holding his laugh.

The city hums low beneath the window — a faint vibration in the glass, steady and distant.

The apartment smells faintly of soil and soap. I sit cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard, phone lighting the room in blue.

A new message slides across the screen.
Ellis: Goodnight, love. Sorry, busy again. I’ll try to call tomorrow.

The word love looks too clean — like glass that’s never been touched.

My thumbs hover above the keyboard. Goodnight feels small, but it’s what fits. I send it. The dot disappears.

The room stays blue for a beat too long before the light fades to nothing.

I set the phone face down on the quilt, thumb resting against its back. The heat from it seeps into my skin, then cools.

The silence afterward feels alive — not empty, just aware of itself.

Somewhere below, the shop’s cooler kicks on, a low hum threading through the floorboards. The scent of marigolds drifts up with the warmth — earthy, sweet, stubborn.

I lie back, eyes open to the faint strip of light that leaks through the blinds.

The day replays in fragments — Caleb’s laugh, the tilt of his head when he looked at me, the brush of his sleeve against my arm.

Each sound echoes against the one that came before it. Each breath feels like a decision.

I pull the blanket up to my chest. The air moves through the room — slow, deliberate, unbothered.

The word try lingers where the light used to be. Why does he have to try to find time? That is the part that confuses me.

I let my hand fall onto the bedspread, palm open, waiting for stillness to settle.

Below, the hum softens again. The world keeps moving.

The ghost of his laughter stays tangled somewhere between my ribs, quieter now, but impossible to shake loose.

I close my eyes, breathing through the weight of it — guilt and warmth braided into the same pulse.

Outside, the traffic fades. Inside, everything holds.