The hours slipped by without either of them noticing.
Clara didn’t know how long she and Elias had stayed at that small table—only that every time she thought he might leave, he didn’t. And every time she thought the silence might get awkward, it didn’t.
If anything, it felt easier.
Like they had stepped into a rhythm that didn’t need to be explained.
At some point, she stood to check the flowers in the cooler. When she returned, Elias had rolled his sleeves again and was quietly straightening the stack of ribbon spools on the counter.
She stopped mid-step.
“…What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “They were uneven.”
“They’re always uneven.”
“Not anymore.”
Clara bit back a smile. “You don’t have to help.”
“I know.”
He kept organizing.
She watched him for a long moment before laughing under her breath.
He froze. “What?”
“Nothing. Just…” She gestured at him helplessly. “You look very out of place.”
“I am,” he said simply. “In every possible way.”
“But you’re still here.”
He paused at that—only a second, but she saw it.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I am.”
Clara’s chest tightened, soft and warm.
Before she could respond, the front door chimed again. A young man stepped in, carrying a wrinkled note and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Uh—hi,” he said, approaching the counter. “I…need a bouquet. For my girlfriend. I messed up.”
Clara smiled gently. “What kind of messed up?”
He sighed. “The kind where she won’t talk to me.”
“That covers a lot of ground,” she laughed. “Any idea what flowers she likes?”
“Um…pink ones? I think?”
Clara nodded and moved toward the display.
Elias followed.
She blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He stayed anyway.
Clara pulled roses, peonies, and small clusters of waxflower from different buckets, handing them to Elias one by one. He held them carefully this time—less stiff, more aware.
“You’re learning,” she teased.
“I’m attempting to survive.”
She tried not to laugh. “Same thing.”
The young man watched nervously as Clara assembled the bouquet. When she finished and wrapped the stems in soft paper, the man stared at it like she’d just handed him a miracle.
“Wow,” he breathed. “You’re really good at this.”
Clara smiled. “Say it with sincerity when you give it to her.”
“I will,” he promised, then glanced at Elias. “Is he… also a florist?”
Clara almost choked. Elias reacted before she could.
“No.”
The young man blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I just thought you two were—”
“We’re not,” Clara said quickly.
“We are,” Elias said at the same time.
Clara froze.
The young man stared.
Elias didn’t move, didn’t look away from the customer, but his voice didn’t waver.
“I’m not a florist,” he clarified. “But I’m with her.”
Clara’s breath caught so sharply she forgot how to inhale for a second.
The young man nodded slowly, paid, and fled.
Silence landed.
Heavy. Warm. Completely unavoidable.
Clara turned toward him. “Elias—”
“I meant it.”
Her heart stumbled. “You…can’t just say things like that in front of strangers.”
“Why not?”
“Because it means something.”
He finally looked at her then. Really looked.
“It does.”
The tension between them didn’t break.
It changed.
Shifted.
Deepened.
Clara stood still, hands lightly gripping the edge of the counter. Elias didn’t move either. It was the kind of moment that could easily tip into something else—something bigger—but neither of them pushed it.
He spoke first.
“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” she said quickly—too quickly. “I just… didn’t expect it.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
She lifted her eyes. “Then why did you say it?”
Elias hesitated, searching for the words.
Not because he didn’t know them—
but because he wanted to say them correctly.
“Because it was true,” he finally said.
Clara’s breath hitched.
He stepped closer—not touching, not crowding, simply shrinking the distance by an inch.
“I don’t say things unless I mean them,” he added.
“I’m starting to figure that out,” she whispered.
They stood there for a moment, quiet settling again—not empty, never empty.
Then Clara asked softly, “Do you… want to stay a little longer?”
Elias answered without even thinking. “Yes.”
“Even if I’m working?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you’re just… sitting here, doing nothing?”
“I’m not doing nothing.”
She blinked. “You’re not?”
He held her gaze.
“I’m with you.”
Her heart flipped violently.
Clara swallowed and nodded toward the table again. “Then… sit. I’ll finish the arrangements.”
He obeyed easily—almost too easily—and sat back at their table near the window. His presence settled into the shop like it belonged there, like the room shifted to make space for him.
She worked in short bursts, checking on the flowers and the register, but her eyes kept drifting toward him.
He wasn’t pretending to read anything.
Wasn’t checking his phone.
Wasn’t pretending to be occupied.
He was just watching her.
At one point she caught him, and he didn’t even look away.
Her pulse fluttered in a way she couldn’t hide.
After a while, she walked over with a small bundle of fresh lavender. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “Just smell it.”
Elias took it slowly, as if she’d handed him something fragile.
He lifted it to his nose and paused.
“It smells… clean,” he said.
Clara smiled. “You don’t have to know plant words. Just say what you think.”
“What I think,” he said, lowering the lavender, “is that it reminds me of you.”
Her breath faltered.
“Elias—”
He didn’t push the moment.
He didn’t need to.
His voice stayed low. “I like being here.”
Clara looked at the lavender in his hand, then at him.
“I like you being here,” she said quietly.
Something changed in his expression then—
not dramatic, not sharp—
just a softening, a settling, like a piece clicking into place.
“Good,” he said.
Simple.
Certain.
He reached for her hand again.
And this time—
she reached back without hesitation.
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