Aurora balanced the last vase of white lilies on the display shelf, blowing a stray curl out of her face. Morning sunlight filtered through the glass windows of Lane's Petals, warming the wooden floor and filling the shop with the soft, sweet scent of petals.
"Please don't fall," she whispered to the vase as she stepped away.
It fell.
Shattering into glittering pieces.
Aurora groaned. "Of course."
She grabbed a broom and crouched down, sweeping the mess. The flower shop might look dreamy and magical to customers, but behind the scenes? It was chaos held together by caffeine and hope.
The bell above the door jingled.
"Sorry, we're not open yet—" she said automatically.
"I noticed."
The voice was deep. Calm. And annoyed.
Aurora looked up.
A tall man stood at the entrance, wearing a dark coat despite the warm weather. His black hair was messy in a poetic way—like someone who stayed up all night brooding and writing sad things. His eyes, a stormy blue, scanned the room as if checking for escape routes.
He held a stack of papers under one arm. A LOT of papers.
"I—um—we open in ten minutes," Aurora said, trying to sound professional while kneeling on the floor.
He didn't move.
He didn't smile.
He simply said, "Your sign says 'Open.'"
Aurora blinked and glanced at the door.
…Lila had flipped the sign again.
"Oh. Well. We're technically almost open," she corrected weakly.
The man sighed, long and tired, as if her existence personally exhausted him. "Fine. I just need a single rose."
"A rose?" Aurora brightened. "Red, white, pink—"
"Whatever dies the slowest."
She stared. "Excuse me?"
"The slowest," he repeated with complete seriousness. "Something that won't wilt in a day."
Aurora slowly stood up. "You know, flowers are living things. They're supposed to wilt eventually."
He raised a brow. "So am I. But I'd prefer not to do it before lunch."
Aurora almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, she moved past him toward the coolers. "All right, mysterious grumpy stranger. You get the sturdiest rose I have."
He followed her with his stormy gaze, like someone who'd rather be anywhere else—but somehow stayed.
She handed him a bright, stubborn red rose.
"This one survives almost anything," she said proudly.
He examined it like it was a mathematical equation. "I'll take it."
When she rang it up, she meant to hand him the receipt.
Instead, she accidentally knocked the stack of papers from under his arm.
They exploded across the counter. Across the floor. Everywhere.
"Oh NO— I'm so sorry!" Aurora gasped, diving to pick them up.
"Please don't touch those!" he said sharply.
She froze.
He didn't shout. But the weight of his voice made her chest tighten.
He knelt to gather the pages himself, hands trembling slightly—not with anger, but something softer. Something that looked a lot like fear.
Aurora swallowed. "I really am sorry…"
He finally straightened, hugging the papers close.
"It's fine," he said quietly. "It's just… important."
She nodded, unsure why her heart suddenly felt heavy.
He turned to leave.
At the door, he paused.
"Damian," he said without looking back.
Aurora blinked. "What?"
"You were going to ask my name. It's Damian."
"Oh." She smiled. "Nice to meet you, Damian. I'm Aurora."
He didn't smile back.
But something in his eyes softened—
Just a fraction.
Then he left, the bell chiming behind him.
Aurora let out a long breath.
Lila emerged from the back room, grinning. "Wow. That was a whole romance scene."
"It was not."
"It SO was. I'm calling it now—mysterious, gloomy guy plus sunshine flower girl? Classic."
Aurora rolled her eyes.
But her heart disagreed.
Because for a moment, under that impatient, cold exterior…
Damian Hale had looked at her like she was the only spot of color in his grayscale world.
And she couldn't remember the last time someone looked at her that way.