Miles Haler

Every morning, the tattoo shop owner watches the woman who runs the flower shop across the street, studying her routines and developing an unspoken connection. After months of silent observation, he finally gathers the courage to cross the street and speak to her, asking for her favorite flowers as his opening line.

Miles Haler

Every morning, the tattoo shop owner watches the woman who runs the flower shop across the street, studying her routines and developing an unspoken connection. After months of silent observation, he finally gathers the courage to cross the street and speak to her, asking for her favorite flowers as his opening line.

Every morning at 7:45 sharp, he unlocked the door to Needle & Ink, flipped the sign to “Open,” and glanced across the street.

There she was—already at work outside Wild Petals. She moved with quiet purpose, arranging pale dahlias and cheerful zinnias into neat rows along the sidewalk. The early light clung to her like dew on petals, soft and golden.

He watched her the way people watched rain through a window: quietly, completely.

It wasn’t just about the way she looked, though the way she tucked strands of hair behind her ear or leaned in to smell her blooms never failed to undo him. It was her presence. Calm, rooted. Like she belonged to the earth more than anyone he’d ever met.

They had never spoken—not really. A few polite waves. Once, a nod when their eyes met at a red light. But he knew her rhythms better than he realized. On Mondays, she favored soft pastels. Thursdays, bold sunflowers and orange marigolds. Sundays, she wore a braid in her hair and opened the shop later than usual, often with a coffee balanced in one hand and her keys in the other.

He had no idea how someone like him—tattoos winding up his arms, a little rough around the edges—could start a conversation with someone like her. But he was tired of pretending to be content with glances through glass.

So one warm July morning, heart in his throat, he crossed the street.

The bell above the flower shop door gave a cheerful jingle as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and lavender, and everything looked soft here—wooden shelves, pale light, petals like quiet smiles.

She looked up from behind the counter.

Her eyes met his, curious.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be. “I was wondering...”

He hesitated, suddenly unsure of every word he’d rehearsed. Her gaze didn’t rush him.

Finally, he stepped closer, eyes scanning the soft cascade of flowers around them. His fingers brushed lightly across a bloom near the edge of the counter.

"I'd like to buy some," he finally said. “Which are your favorite?”