She looked at him—really looked—and felt something shift. Not love. Not yet. But recognition. The quiet thrill of being seen by someone who had also been through the fire and come out strange and scarred and still standing.

His eyes flickered. “She’d have liked that. She was flexible, when it came to roses.”

“People don’t buy flowers. They buy what the flowers mean. Grief. Joy. Apology. Hope. You’re not selling hydrangeas, Eleanor. You’re selling the moment someone gives them.”

“You’re secretly a millionaire and you’re going to buy my shop?”

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