C3

Every Wednesday morning had its own rhythm. A quiet hum of predictability wrapped in the scent of fresh-cut stems and the rustle of paper. And just like the chrysanthemums that bloomed right on time in October, he walked in.

Casimiro Pagnotto.

Fleur didn’t have to look up from the bouquet she was finishing. She knew his step by now—the confident but unhurried pace, the faint squeak of his leather shoes on the wood floor, the sound of someone who always carried something delicate in his chest.

She glanced up only once he was at the counter.

“Good morning, Casimiro,” she greeted with her usual calm warmth.

“Fleur,” he said with a gentle smile, shrugging off the light grey coat that always seemed to match the weather outside. “You know what day it is.”

“Roses?” she asked, already reaching for the order pad even though she didn’t need it.

“A dozen,” he nodded. “Red, as always. But… could we add a touch of white this time? Just to change it up.”

Fleur smiled as she wrote it down. “Red and white. Classic and soft.”

“Exactly.” He paused. “You always know how to word it better than I can.”

She felt her chest flutter, and she hated it.

It wasn’t him. It was what he represented—consistency, devotion, a kind of affection people were too embarrassed to show anymore. For a year now, Casimiro had walked into her shop with the same intention: to send beauty to the woman he loved.

It never felt like routine. It felt like ritual.

“Same address?” she asked, eyes still on the order slip.

He nodded. “And a card. I’ve written something,” he said, pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from his wallet.

Fleur took it gently, unfolding it.

For Nina,

You once said flowers were an unnecessary luxury.

I say they are the physical form of how I see you—always worth the gesture.

C.

Fleur’s throat tightened slightly, but she kept her expression neutral. “Beautiful,” she said quietly.

“Think so?” He gave a nervous laugh. “It’s always hard knowing what lands with her.”

“She’s lucky,” Fleur murmured, then cleared her throat, regretting how soft that sounded. “To have someone who expresses love so intentionally.”

Casimiro leaned on the counter. “I keep wondering if she thinks it’s over the top by now. A year of flowers… maybe it’s become background noise.”

Fleur busied her hands tying up a ribbon to keep from saying too much. “I don’t think love ever becomes background noise. Some people just aren’t great at showing appreciation, but that doesn’t mean it goes unnoticed.”

Casimiro smiled at that—tired, grateful. “You sound like someone who knows how it feels.”

Fleur froze for just a beat too long, then offered a soft shrug. “I own a flower shop. It comes with the territory.”

That wasn’t entirely true. She’d loved, yes. Been left, yes. But she’d also observed—love, heartbreak, reconciliations—through the lens of other people’s gestures. And Casimiro, with his quiet devotion and expressive eyes, had always struck something deep in her.

He glanced around the shop while she moved behind the counter to prepare his arrangement. “Place smells like honeysuckle today.”

“It’s the new candles,” she said over her shoulder. “Miri insists it’s better than vanilla.”

“Smart woman.” He gave a little smile. “How’s business?”

“Busy,” Fleur replied, grateful for the small talk. “Spring weddings coming in. People asking for more color palettes lately.”

“And what about you?” he asked, arms crossed loosely, watching her work. “Still writing all the cards yourself?”

“Most of them.” She smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised how many people want to say something but don’t know how.”

He nodded. “That’s the thing. We don’t always get taught how to love out loud.”

Fleur wrapped the bouquet in soft white paper and tied it with a crimson ribbon. It looked effortlessly elegant—just like she knew he wanted.

“There,” she said, setting it gently on the counter.

Casimiro smiled as he pulled out his wallet. “Every week I think, This is the best one yet. And then somehow, you top it.”

Fleur waved him off. “It’s the roses. They know how to show off.”

He took the bouquet, holding it like something precious. “Thanks again, Fleur. Really.”

She nodded, watching as he turned and walked out the door, bouquet in hand.

And then he was gone, as always, leaving behind a trace of his cologne and a strange quiet in the air.

Miri poked her head out from the storage room just in time to see him disappear down the street. “Was that him again?”

Fleur didn’t answer right away. She busied herself with cleaning the counter.

“Red and white this time,” she finally said.

Miri smirked. “That’s practically screaming romantic crisis. You okay?”

Fleur gave a noncommittal shrug, but her fingers lingered on the countertop longer than they needed to. “Just another customer.”

But Miri wasn’t buying it.

Because the truth was—Casimiro wasn’t just another customer. Not to Fleur.

He was the kind of man who made you believe in love again… even if that love was for someone else.

The bell over the door jingled gently as Casimiro exited, the cool draft he left in his wake curling around the shop like a sigh. Fleur stood for a moment, fingers still on the counter, eyes fixed on the space he’d just vacated.

Then, with a quiet exhale, she turned and resumed trimming stems at the workstation, letting the snip-snip of the shears replace the thoughts swirling in her mind.

Miri reemerged fully this time, wiping her hands on her apron. She leaned against the counter, watching Fleur with the kind of look that meant something was brewing.

“You know,” she started, “I don’t think he even realizes how poetic he is.”

Fleur gave a half-smile. “That’s the thing about people like Casimiro. They don’t perform love. They just… live it.”

Miri tilted her head. “Sounds like someone’s feeling a little wistful this morning.”

“Not wistful,” Fleur said, moving toward the back fridge. “Just observant.”

“You say that every time he leaves.”

“I say a lot of things,” Fleur muttered under her breath.

Miri grinned, waiting until Fleur returned with a few bundles of daffodils and waxflowers. “Speaking of love… or the lack of it. Guess what happened last night?”

“No idea,” Fleur said, eyes down on her flowers.

“My cousin Tania set me up on a blind date.”

Fleur raised a brow. “You went?”

“I did! And guess what—he had a neck tattoo and brought his mother’s homemade soup in a thermos.”

Fleur winced. “Yikes.”

“I know,” Miri said, laughing. “But still! He tried. He talked too much about cryptocurrency and asked me if I believed in soulmates before dessert.”

Fleur chuckled. “That’s either romantic or deranged.”

“Bit of both.” Miri reached over to pick up a stray petal. “But that’s not the point. The point is—I put myself out there.”

Fleur glanced up, already sensing where this was going.

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“I’m just saying—you haven’t put yourself out there in... years.”

“Because I don’t need to. I have flowers.”

Miri rolled her eyes. “You say that like peonies can warm your bed.”

Fleur flushed and returned her focus to arranging. “I’m busy. This shop takes up all my time.”

“You say that every week. And you’re right, the shop does take time—but you’re also hiding behind it.”

Fleur didn’t answer. She wrapped a bouquet in soft pink tissue and slipped it into a delivery sleeve.

Miri gave her a moment before casually adding, “There’s this guy Tania knows. A friend of her husband. Not too weird. Not too chatty. No thermos. She swears he’s normal.”

Fleur looked up. “Does he know it’s a setup?”

“Yes.”

“Then definitely no.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want pity setups.”

“It’s not pity, Fleur. It’s curiosity. And maybe a little fun. What’s the worst that could happen? You get free wine?”

“I already have wine,” Fleur said, nodding toward the little kitchen corner where a bottle of rosé sat unopened.

“You know what I mean.”

Fleur hesitated, tapping her fingers against the counter. “I don’t hate the idea. I just don’t… want to need it. I’m fine.”

“I know you are. But fine and fulfilled aren’t always the same thing.”

That silenced her.

For a beat, the shop was quiet—only the soft hum of the cooler and the rustle of leaves as she adjusted a tulip stem.

Fleur looked at Miri, then gave a small, reluctant smile. “Let me think about it.”

Miri’s face lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“But if I end up on a date with someone who collects antique doll heads, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Miri grinned. “You’ll have a story to tell either way.”

Fleur laughed, shaking her head. “Let’s just focus on Valentine’s week for now. That’s all the romance I can handle.”

“Fair enough,” Miri said, reaching for her own bouquet to wrap. “But one of these days, Fleur Marion… your perfect arrangement might just walk in and order itself.”

Fleur looked at her sideways. “That sounds like the plot of a cheesy romcom.”

Miri winked. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just real life waiting to surprise you.”