The knock comes soft — two short taps, a pause, then one more. Ellis’s pattern.

Light from the window spills long across the floor, touching the marigold vase on the counter, the corner of the rug, my bare toes. I open the door.

He fills the frame like he always has — tall, broad, every edge softened by travel. Six feet, shoulders that block the morning light, hair a sun-shot blond that curls faintly at the nape where rain has dampened it. The first thing I notice is the smell — hotel soap and asphalt after rain, coffee on his breath, the faintest trace of cedar from whatever cologne he uses now.

“Hi baby. I missed you,” he says, voice low, shaped like gravel softened by sleep.

The sound runs through me before I can catch it.

He steps inside, his bag thudding softly against the wall. His hands — wide, tan, calloused — find my waist like they never stopped knowing where to land.

I laugh, a small, surprised sound. He lifts me easily, arms firm beneath me. My legs circle his hips out of habit. The motion is muscle memory, practiced, too fluid to feel new. His mouth finds mine; the kiss is warm and coffee-sweet and two months too late.

He sets me down slowly, palms dragging against my sides before letting go. His eyes — deep, ocean blue, lighter in the center — trace me like a map he’s afraid might’ve changed.

It feels like stepping back into a room where the furniture moved while I was gone.

He brushes a thumb along my jaw, rough skin against softness. “You look tired,” he murmurs, voice barely there.

“Long week,” I say. The lie slides out smooth.

He smiles — small, faint, one side higher than the other. A dimple cuts through his stubble, the kind that once made people trust him before he even spoke. The shadow of road fatigue clings beneath his eyes, and still, he smells like something that doesn’t belong to this room — too open, too far away.

“You been taking care of yourself?”

“Trying to.”

His gaze shifts to the kitchen behind me, to the half-washed mug on the counter, the folded blanket on the couch. “Still keeping the place too clean.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He grins. “No, just... you always did hate a mess.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something small — a keychain, pressed copper in the shape of a bloom. “Found this at a gas station somewhere outside Chattanooga. Made me think of you.”

I take it from his hand. It’s warm from his palm, edges faintly dented. “You always think of me in gas stations?”

“Only the good ones.”

The smile that comes to me isn’t big, but it’s real enough to sting.

He leans in to kiss me again, slower, steadier. My fingers find the back of his neck, hair soft where it curls. His breath catches — just once — before he presses closer.

The scent of marigolds drifts up from the shop below, folding into the warmth of him. The air thickens — sweet, golden, heavy with everything we aren’t saying.

The shop smells like damp stems and earth — that mix of water and green that clings to skin.

Ellis carries in the last of the boxes, one under each arm, sleeves rolled past his elbows. His hair sticks to his forehead, darkened by sweat. He looks out of place against the pale walls and soft colors — all edges and movement in a room built for quiet.

“You really do this every day?” His voice comes light, teasing, the kind of warmth that expects laughter in return.

“Someone has to,” I say, trimming stems, sliding them into water. The shears click, rhythm steady.

He grins. “Guess I always knew you liked control.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “And you always liked being late.”

“Not this time,” he says, dropping a box too hard. The thud shakes the counter. “See? Early.”

The laugh that follows is bright, too loud for the space. It bounces off the glass door, the vases lined along the wall, fades without settling.

I move through the motions — stems, ribbon, paper, repeat. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve, glances at the marigolds near the window. “These are yours, right?”

I nod. “Second bloom this season.”

He leans in, smelling the petals. “Still can’t believe you grew something that survives in this heat.”

“They just need attention.”

He hums, stepping back. “Figures.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy — just hollow. We fill it with noise that doesn’t matter. The hum of the cooler. The faint song on the radio. My breath matching the slow turn of the ceiling fan above us.

A customer comes in — a woman with a list. Ellis smiles at her, polite, practiced, the kind of charm that used to make waitresses linger at tables. I wrap tulips while he bags a bundle of lavender. Our hands brush when I pass him the receipt. His fingers are warm, rougher than I remember.

“Thanks,” he says, softer.

The door closes behind the woman, bell chiming once. The shop settles again. Light flickers against the glass from passing cars — brief shadows over his face.

He reaches for another box, voice casual. “You’ve built something real here.”

“Trying to,” I answer.

“Doesn’t look like trying.”

Before I can respond, the bell rings again.

The air changes — sharper, charged.

I look up.

The bell rings again — sharp, clean.

Ellis straightens from the counter, hand still on the open box. I look up.

Caleb stands in the doorway, light behind him, one hand lifting in casual greeting. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimmer light inside. He looks the same and not at all — sleeves rolled, collar open, a thin line of sunlight cutting across the curve of his throat.

“Didn’t know you had help today,” he says, voice even, eyes flicking from me to Ellis and back again.

“This is my boyfriend, Ellis,” I answer. The word boyfriend catches somewhere low in my throat before it leaves me. “He helps when he’s in town.”

Ellis steps forward, polite but solid in the space. “Customer?”

Caleb smiles faintly, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “New regular. Just picking up some flowers for my desk.”

He moves to the counter, fingers brushing through a bucket of stems before choosing a small bouquet — white daisies, a few sprigs of eucalyptus. His hands are clean, nails short, forearms dusted faintly with freckles that catch the light.

The air hums with the cooler’s low vibration. The scent of water, soil, cedar.

I ring him up. When he reaches for his wallet, our hands meet halfway — skin against skin, brief, too warm. The touch sparks, small but sharp, a current too quick to name.

Caleb doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do I.

Ellis’s presence feels larger behind me — the sound of his breath just audible, a shift of weight against the counter.

“Desk flowers,” Caleb says, softer now, as though reminding himself.

“Good choice,” I manage, voice steady but too quiet, the smile creeping onto my face.

He nods once. “See you around.”

His eyes meet mine — steady, unreadable, all the words we aren’t allowed sitting just beneath.

The bell chimes when he leaves, a clean, single note that feels too loud for the space.

The door closes.

Cedar lingers in the air, folding into the sweetness of marigolds.

Ellis doesn’t move. Neither do I. The hum of the cooler fills everything that might’ve been said.

The door clicks closed behind Caleb. The air doesn’t move for a long time.

Ellis’s hand still rests on the counter — fingers splayed, knuckles pale. His reflection wavers in the glass of the cooler door: tall frame, tense shoulders, jaw sharp in the dim light.

He turns toward me, the space between us shrinking. His palm finds my waist, warm and deliberate, a gesture that lands more like a claim than care. The pressure of it makes my breath catch.

“You smiled at him differently,” he says. The words come low, steady, not quite anger — something quieter, heavier.

My throat tightens. “What?”

He nods toward the door, still staring at the glass instead of me. “That man. Who was he?”

“Caleb.”

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just enough that the light shifts across them — darkening the blue. “That Caleb? The one from high school?”

“Yeah.” The word comes small. It doesn’t fill the space between us.

The hum of the cooler stretches the silence. A delivery truck passes outside, a faint rumble under the floorboards.

Ellis exhales through his nose, long and quiet. His arm falls away from my waist. “Guess I need a nap,” he mutters, voice dulled around the edges.

He turns for the stairs, movements neat, controlled — every step measured. The sound of his boots fades into the ceiling above, one tread at a time.

I stay behind the counter. My hands find the rag I left near the register, twisting it without meaning to. Dust drifts through the air where the light cuts across the floor — a thin, golden stripe that wavers each time the AC breathes.

The marigolds in the window tremble. Their color stays bright, stubborn against the dim.

I listen to the quiet until even the cooler hum sounds like a heartbeat.