Clara hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.
She placed the roses gently into a vase the moment she stepped into her apartment, her fingers lingering on the petals longer than she meant to. Their pale color glowed softly under her lamp, filling the small room with something warm, something unexpected.
Her heartbeat still hadn’t returned to normal.
She set her keys down, unwrapped her scarf, but everything she touched felt faintly different—charged, almost. As if the air itself had absorbed the moment he held out the roses.
She had seen him walk away.
She had waited until he turned the corner.
But even after the street emptied, she stood at her window for a long while, watching the night like it might bring him back.
It didn’t.
Yet the quiet didn’t feel empty.
The next morning, she arrived at *Wren & Bloom* earlier than usual. Marla stumbled in ten minutes later, coffee in hand and curiosity practically glowing around her.
“Okay,” Marla announced, “you need to start talking.”
Clara blinked. “About what?”
Marla dropped her bag dramatically. “Don’t ‘what’ me. You were glowing last night. Actually glowing. Like—you had a whole aura.”
“I did not have an aura.”
“Oh, you did.” Marla narrowed her eyes. “And it was tall, broody, and looked suspiciously like Elias Vance.”
Clara froze.
Marla’s gasp was instant. “OH MY GOD, IT WAS HIM.”
“Marla—”
“No, no, no. Do not lie to me. Do not deprive me of this. Tell me everything.”
Clara sighed, smoothing the front of her apron. “He just… walked me home.”
Marla’s eyes nearly launched out of her skull. “He WHAT—”
“Please don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” Marla planted her hands on the counter. “Clara Wren, that man is walking CEO energy. Men like that don’t just ‘walk someone home.’ He probably doesn’t even know how to walk casual. He probably has a walk for mergers and acquisitions.”
Clara tried not to smile. She failed.
“It wasn’t like that,” she insisted.
Marla stared at her for three full seconds before declaring, “You’re blushing.”
Clara turned away. “I’m not.”
“You so are.”
Before Clara could bury her face in the nearest bouquet, the bell above the door chimed.
Both women turned.
Elias stood in the doorway.
Again.
Morning light fell behind him, outlining him in a muted halo—as if the world had decided to emphasize the fact that this was not a coincidence.
Marla’s whisper was viciously excited.
“Oh my god.”
Clara’s breath caught.
Her pulse jumped.
Elias’s eyes found hers immediately, steady and intentional.
“Good morning,” he said, voice low.
Marla made a noise that could only be described as a suppressed scream.
Clara swallowed. “Good morning.”
He stepped farther inside, and the scent of cold air and something clean—something like cedar—followed him.
“I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” he asked.
Marla muttered, “Depends on what definition of ‘bad’ we’re using,” then fled to the back.
Leaving Clara facing him alone.
Elias’s gaze softened.
“You got home safely?”
She nodded. “I did. Thank you.”
A brief silence settled.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
“I was… in the area,” he said.
Clara lifted a brow. “Were you?”
His lips twitched. “Not even a little.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
And something in him—something guarded and old—bent toward the sound.
For a moment, they simply stood there.
The shop smelled faintly of eucalyptus and morning air, the kind of scent that paired strangely well with his presence. Clara tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek in a small, nervous gesture she hoped he hadn’t noticed.
He noticed.
“I brought something for you,” Elias said.
Her eyes widened slightly. “You… did?”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded envelope. No flowers this time. No rosemary. Just a simple cream-colored envelope with her name written in his handwriting—precise, steady, unexpectedly elegant.
Her breath caught.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to.”
That same phrase.
Softer this time.
More certain.
Clara took the envelope carefully, feeling the weight of the moment more than the weight of the paper.
“Should I… open it now?”
“If you’d like.”
She opened it with gentle fingers. Inside was a single photograph—printed on thick matte paper. A street corner at dusk. The corner. Her corner. The one he walked her to last night.
The light was soft.
The atmosphere quiet.
A moment captured with surgical precision and emotional clarity.
Under it, a single line written in his hand:
*I didn’t want to forget where the night ended.*
Clara felt something warm unfurl behind her ribs.
“You took this?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “After you went inside.”
“Why?”
Elias met her eyes, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“I wanted to keep it.”
Keep the moment.
Keep the feeling.
Keep… her.
Before she could respond, the front door swung open.
Julian Hart stepped inside.
Of course.
He froze when he saw them—Clara holding the photo, Elias standing close enough that their shadows almost overlapped.
“Well,” Julian said slowly, “I see I’ve walked into something.”
Elias exhaled, a silent prayer for patience. “Julian.”
Julian looked Clara up and down, then grinned. “Ah. *This* is the florist. The infamous florist.”
Clara blinked. “Infamous?”
“Oh yes,” Julian said dramatically. “The woman who single-handedly disrupted my friend’s cognitive function.”
“Julian,” Elias warned again.
Julian ignored him completely. “Delightful to meet the legend in person.”
Clara tried, very politely, not to laugh. “I… think you’re exaggerating.”
“Oh, I never exaggerate,” Julian said. Then, to Elias: “The board wants a follow-up. I told them you’d be tied up.”
Elias’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t—”
Julian raised both hands. “Relax. I bought you some time. Ten minutes.”
Then he winked at Clara.
“You’re welcome.”
He left as quickly as he came, the bell chiming once behind him.
Clara looked down at the photo again, her thumb brushing its edge.
“You didn’t have to tell him,” she said gently.
Elias shook his head. “He already knew.”
She looked up. “About… us?”
His voice lowered. “About me.”
Something inside her softened.
He wasn’t just choosing her.
He was letting himself be known.
“Elias,” she whispered, “this is… a lot.”
He stepped closer—slowly, giving her the chance to step back.
She didn’t.
“I don’t want to pretend any more,” he said.
Her heart caught against her ribs.
“Then don’t.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full.
He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the air between them felt warm enough to count.
“I’ll come back after your meeting,” he said quietly.
Clara’s breath trembled. “Okay.”
He turned to leave, the scent of cedar trailing behind him.
Just before he reached the door, he paused—then looked back at her over his shoulder.
“Don’t close early,” he said softly. “Not today.”
She didn’t smile.
She glowed.
“I won’t.”
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