Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The shop feels different at night. Quieter, softer.
The street traffic outside has thinned, and the steady hum of the cooler is louder than usual.
Petals litter the workbench like confetti after a parade, and the air smells faintly of lavender and coffee—because Luke insisted on brewing a pot at nine p.m. “For stamina,” he said, sliding a mug across the counter as if I’d cave to his logic.
I didn’t. But I drank it anyway.
Now it’s just the two of us, surrounded by unfinished arrangements for tomorrow’s charity gala, and every tick of the clock makes the room feel smaller. I trim stems with a little more force than necessary, pretending I’m not hyper-aware of him humming under his breath across the bench.
“You always hum when you work?” I ask, finally breaking the silence. My voice comes out sharper than I intended, like I’m annoyed by the sound, but the truth is I find it… soothing.
He glances up, sheepish. “Bad habit. My mom used to say it kept me out of trouble.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Guess it didn’t work.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile—one of those sideways ones that tug at my chest in ways I’d rather not acknowledge. “You’re not wrong.”
We lapse back into work, but something’s shifted. The tension in the room isn’t just jagged edges anymore; it’s got a pulse, a rhythm. I drop a handful of greenery into the wrong vase, and Luke’s low chuckle follows almost immediately.
“Planning to reinvent floral design, or just mixing genres for fun?” he asks, nudging the vase toward me.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe I like breaking rules.”
“Oh, I know you do,” he says, voice warm with amusement.
I roll my eyes, but a laugh escapes before I can swallow it. The sound bounces off the shop walls, startling me. When was the last time I laughed here without it feeling forced? Probably before Mom got sick.
Luke notices—of course he does. His expression softens, like he’s cataloging the moment. I look away quickly, focusing on the stubborn rose stem in my hands. My pulse is too fast, my smile too easy.
“This is dangerous,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
“What is?”
I shake my head, dodging. “Staying up this late. Tomorrow we’ll both regret it.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with that steady gaze that sees too much. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s worth it.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. I busy myself with the roses, but my hands aren’t as steady as I want them to be.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, I jab my thumb with the clippers.
“Ow—”
Before I can even process it, Luke is at my side, taking the clippers from me and inspecting my hand like I’ve lost a limb. “You okay?”
“It’s just a nick,” I say, trying to tug my hand back. But he doesn’t let go right away. His fingers are warm, steadying mine, and suddenly the shop feels about ten degrees hotter.
He finally releases me, but not before murmuring, “You’ve got to stop trying to do everything at once, Mia.”
My laugh is shaky. “And you’ve got to stop acting like you’re the boss of me.”
“Never gonna happen,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice this time, not a challenge.
And somehow—somehow—it feels good.
The clock strikes ten, and it feels like the hands are moving slower on purpose.
The arrangements are only half done, and my energy is running on fumes and caffeine.
Luke, of course, looks annoyingly composed—shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed from running his hand through it too often, jaw set in quiet concentration.
He’s the picture of competence, and I hate that I notice.
“Why do your roses always look perfect?” I ask, eyeing his arrangement. The stems fall into place like they’ve been choreographed. My own vase looks like it survived a minor windstorm.
“Trade secret,” he says, lips twitching.
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Oh, come on. You can’t just swoop in here, rearrange my shop, and keep secrets.”
His eyes flick to mine, something playful sparking there. “Sure I can.”
The way he says it, low and smug, makes my stomach flip. I grab a carnation just to have something to do with my hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, working late with me.”
I toss the carnation at him. He catches it midair, grinning like it’s a game. “Reflexes,” he says. “Another trade secret.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. “Do you ever get tired of being so full of yourself?”
He steps closer, still holding the flower between two fingers, and tucks it gently behind my ear. My breath catches.
“Not when it makes you smile,” he murmurs.
The room tilts. For a second, it’s just the sound of my heartbeat and the faint hum of the cooler. He’s too close, too steady, and I hate how much I don’t want to move away.
I break the spell by snatching the flower from my hair and setting it back on the bench. “Don’t think you can charm your way into this shop, Luke.”
He smirks, but there’s something quieter under it, like he’s testing boundaries. “I’m not trying to charm my way into the shop.”
The air thickens with meaning I refuse to touch. I force a laugh, sharp around the edges. “Good. Because it wouldn’t work.”
“Wouldn’t it?” His tone is light, but his eyes linger, searching.
I turn back to my half-finished bouquet, throat tight. “You should focus on the arrangements, not on… whatever that was.”
“Arrangements,” he echoes, amusement curling around the word. “Got it.”
But the warmth in his voice, the heat in his gaze—it lingers, pressing against me in ways I’m not ready for.
I remind myself, firmly, that this is dangerous territory. Luke is good at looking reliable, at making me feel like maybe I could lean on him. But I’ve been burned before, and trusting him again? That’s like balancing a vase on the edge of a shelf—sooner or later, it’ll crash.
Still, when he laughs again, low and easy, I can’t help the way it lodges in my chest.
The hum of the cooler fills the shop, low and steady, like it’s the only thing holding us together. Luke is a few feet away, sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked with green where he’s stripped leaves from stems. He doesn’t notice the mess—he never does. He just works until the job is done.
And I hate that part of me finds it comforting.
I stack another bunch of hydrangeas into the bucket beside me, but my hands hesitate. The blooms are heavy, lush, and a little too much like my thoughts right now—crowding, spilling, impossible to contain.
“Those need cutting down another inch,” Luke says without looking up. His voice is steady, practical, but I catch the barest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, like he knows I’ll argue just to argue.
“Or,” I counter, clipping them my way, “we keep them tall so they don’t disappear in the centerpiece.”
Finally, he glances up. A challenge sparks in his eyes, but it’s softer now, more playful. “Stubborn as ever.”
“Efficient as ever,” I shoot back, though my lips twitch despite myself.
It shouldn’t feel like flirting, but it does.
I turn too quickly toward the counter, hoping distance will dull the edges of this awareness. My chest is tight, my pulse uneven. He’s just Luke—my best friend’s brother, the one who left and came back like nothing had changed. The one I told myself I’d never let close again.
But tonight, with the shop quiet and the world outside pressed dark against the windows, it’s harder to keep those walls up.
Grace’s voice echoes in my head from dinner last week: “You don’t have to carry the whole shop alone, Mia. Let someone stand beside you.”
Easy for her to say. She hasn’t watched Titan chew at our business like termites, or felt how thin the floorboards of this place are under our feet. And she hasn’t spent years nursing the sting of Luke walking away when I needed someone steady.
I glance back at him, and my chest does that uneven lurch again. Because the truth is, he is steady—at least now.
He catches me watching. His eyebrows lift just slightly, the kind of subtle tell that says he’s not sure whether to tease me about it or let it pass.
I clear my throat and focus on trimming stems, the snip of scissors sharp in the quiet. “Don’t read into it,” I mutter.
“Into what?” His voice is light, innocent, but there’s a current under it.
“Into me… looking.” The words slip out before I can cage them. My cheeks burn.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. He just studies me for a moment, long enough I have to grip the scissors tighter. Then he says, quiet but sure, “I wouldn’t—unless you wanted me to.”
The floor seems to tilt beneath me. Trusting him feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—you’re not falling yet, but the air whips sharp in your lungs, reminding you of the drop.
I busy my hands with another bucket of flowers, but my thoughts won’t quiet. Every laugh tonight has felt too easy, every silence too charged. And the longer we work side by side, the harder it is to remember why I built those walls in the first place.
Because if I let him in again and he leaves—if he decides Bloom & Vine or San Francisco or some other dream matters more—I don’t know if I’ll recover this time.
The cooler hums on, steady, steady, steady. My hands tremble anyway.
“Hey,” Luke says softly, and when I look up, his expression is gentler than I expect. No challenge, no smirk, just sincerity that cuts straight through me. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
And just like that, I feel the edges of my resolve fray. Because part of me wants to believe him. Part of me already does.
The bell above the shop door jangles, sharp in the quiet. Both Luke and I freeze. No one should be here at this hour.
It’s Mr. Kwan, our landlord, his umbrella dripping a puddle on the entry mat. He glances around the shop, eyes narrowing at the buckets of flowers still scattered across the floor, the stems and leaves we haven’t swept yet.
“Late night?” he asks, voice clipped.
I wipe my hands on my apron, trying to sound breezy. “Big order for the community event. We’re just finishing up.”
Luke sets down his shears and steps forward, solid as a wall between me and whatever this is. “Evening, Mr. Kwan. Everything all right?”
Mr. Kwan shifts, clears his throat, then blurts it out: “Titan made me an offer.”
The words thud like a dropped stone. My fingers curl into the apron, knuckles tight.
“What kind of offer?” I manage, though my voice feels like glass about to crack.
“To pay higher rent for this space. A lot higher.” His gaze flicks between us. “They want the building if I won’t renew with you. I haven’t decided yet, but—”
“But?” Luke’s tone is sharp, protective.
“But I need to think of my family. Rising costs, property taxes. Titan’s promise would cover everything.” He looks at me, almost apologetic. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
My mouth goes dry. The walls of the shop—the walls that still smell faintly of my mother’s perfume and fresh roses—feel like they’re pressing in, smaller, smaller, smaller.
Luke steps closer to Mr. Kwan, steady but firm. “You’ve had loyal tenants here for years. Titan won’t bring you community, they’ll bring turnover.”
“Luke—” I whisper, but my throat is tight.
Mr. Kwan sighs, shaking his head. “I haven’t agreed yet. But you should prepare yourselves. Titan doesn’t usually take no for an answer.”
And just like that, he’s gone, the bell jangling again as the door swings shut behind him.
Silence settles heavy. The cooler hums. Rain lashes against the windows. My breath feels thin.
Luke curses under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. “They’re not stopping, are they? Every move we make, Titan’s already one step ahead.”
I lean against the counter, pressing my palms to the cool wood. “If we can’t even afford to stay here, what’s the point?”
“Don’t say that.” His voice snaps sharper than he means, then softens. “Mia, this shop is you. It’s your mom. It’s the heartbeat of this community. Titan can’t take that unless you hand it to them.”
I lift my eyes to his, and the intensity there nearly undoes me. He means it. Every word.
But my chest aches with the truth I can’t shake—trusting him feels like balancing on that cliff edge again. The wind pulling, gravity waiting.
Luke steps closer, slow, deliberate. His presence fills the small space between us. His eyes search mine, steady, unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before.
And suddenly the air is thick with something I can’t name, but I feel it down to my bones.
“Mia,” he says quietly, my name falling from his lips like a vow.
My breath catches. The distance between us is gone, his hand brushing mine on the counter, fingers tentative, waiting. The weight of his nearness pulls at me, magnetic, dangerous.
He leans in, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him, to catch the faint scent of rain on his shirt. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he hears it.
For one dizzy, terrifying second, I want nothing more than to close the gap. To forget the years of hurt and let myself believe in him again.
But fear spikes sharp. If I fall now, if I trust him and he leaves, I’ll shatter.
At the last second, I turn my face, breaking the almost-kiss. His breath skims my cheek, warm and aching.
“Luke, I—” My voice breaks. “I can’t.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods, stepping back. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand. Just looks at me with an ache in his eyes that mirrors my own.
The silence is deafening, full of everything unsaid. Outside, the storm rattles against the glass, relentless, like Titan’s shadow pressing closer.
And I know one thing for certain—things between Luke and me can’t go back to the way they were.
Not after this.