The bell above Lane's Petals jingled for the third time that morning.
Aurora looked up from the counter, expecting Mrs. Willow coming back to complain about the price of daisies again.
But no.
It was him.
Damian Hale.
The man who looked allergic to sunlight and human interaction.
He hovered near the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—like he hoped no one would notice him.
Which, unfortunately for him, was impossible.
Aurora grinned. "Twice in one day yesterday, and now you're back this morning? Careful, Damian. People might think you like flowers."
He gave her a flat look.
Then looked away, embarrassed.
"…I need another rose."
Aurora blinked. "Already? The one from yesterday should still be fine."
"It isn't." He cleared his throat. "It died. Rapidly."
She frowned. "That's impossible. They last at least a week."
"Mine lasted eight hours."
"…Damian, what did you do to it?"
"Nothing," he insisted, but the way he refused to meet her eyes said otherwise.
She crossed her arms. "Explain."
He hesitated, jaw flexing.
Then muttered:
"…I stared at it."
Aurora burst into laughter. "Damian! You can't kill a rose by looking at it."
"You don't know that," he said darkly.
"No, I'm very confident."
He sighed—long, suffering, dramatic. "Just—please. Another rose."
Aurora picked a new one carefully. "Here. Try not to glare it to death this time."
He made a face but took it.
And then… he didn't leave.
Damian hovered near the counter instead, eyes flicking over the shop.
The shelves.
The plants.
The soft, warm glow of fairy lights.
Finally he asked, quietly:
"…How do you work in a place that smells like this?"
"Like what?"
He wrinkled his nose slightly. "Like emotions."
Aurora laughed. "Flowers smell like emotions?"
"Yes. This place smells like… hope. Too much of it."
She softened. "Maybe that's not a bad thing."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked… troubled.
Almost haunted.
Aurora's smile faded a little. "Damian? Are you okay?"
He looked at her then—really looked—
and she saw something raw flicker in his expression.
A storm.
Silent but heavy.
Locked behind his ribs.
"It's nothing," he murmured, but the tightness in his voice said it wasn't nothing at all.
Aurora stepped closer, this time gently. "You can tell me. If you want."
He froze.
For a terrifying second, she thought he would shut her out completely.
But instead…
He exhaled, slow and shaky.
Not weakness—
no.
More like someone finally letting go of a breath they'd held for too long.
"I'm… supposed to be writing," he admitted softly.
"A new book?"
He nodded.
"And…?"
"…I can't."
The words came out cracked.
Aurora's heart tightened. "Writer's block?"
"No." He shook his head. "Worse."
He looked down at the rose in his hand.
"Everything I write turns into a graveyard."
Aurora didn't understand. "What does that mean?"
Damian lifted his eyes to hers.
And she felt it—
the loneliness.
The pressure.
The grief tucked behind every word he wasn't saying.
"I used to write stories about love," he whispered. "And now every time I try, all I see is everything I ruined."
Aurora's breath caught.
Not because of what he said.
But because of how honestly broken he looked saying it.
She reached out without thinking, her fingertips brushing his wrist lightly.
"Damian…"
He tensed—like he wasn't used to being touched.
But he didn't pull away.
Her voice softened. "You didn't ruin love."
His throat bobbed. "Didn't I?"
"No." She stepped closer. "You just forgot what it looked like."
He searched her face for something—
truth, maybe.
A reason to believe her.
Aurora held his gaze steadily.
Warm, steady, unflinching.
And then…
"Hey, sis!"
The spell broke.
Lila burst into the shop holding a bag of pastries. "I got extra croissants—oh. Ohhhhh."
Her gaze bounced between Aurora and Damian like she'd stumbled upon a secret kiss.
Aurora flushed so hard she nearly combusted. "Lila—! It's not— We weren't—!"
Damian immediately stepped back as if distance could save him. "I should go."
Aurora grabbed his sleeve without thinking.
"I'll help you," she said quickly.
They both froze.
Aurora let go instantly, flustered. "I—I mean with the writing. If you want."
Damian looked stunned.
As if no one had offered him help in years.
"…Why?" he whispered.
"Because you're my neighbor," she said.
Then, quieter:
"And because I don't like seeing you hurt."
He blinked, slowly.
Then nodded.
"Tomorrow," he murmured. "If you're sure."
Aurora smiled—small, but certain.
"I'm sure."
Damian left the shop, shoulders a little less tense, the rose held carefully—almost protectively—in his hand.
Lila stared at Aurora, eyes wide. "OH. MY. GOD."
Aurora groaned. "Don't say it."
"You're in a romance novel."
"I said DON'T—"
"You LIKE him!"
Aurora didn't answer.
Because even she wasn't sure.
But her heart…
Her heart knew something was changing.