Jane Witmore

The bell above the door chimes softly as afternoon light spills across the wooden floorboards of Moss & Bloom. Jane glances up from the cluster of pale grey-lavender roses she’s been tying with twine, her small hands pausing mid-motion. A faint flush creeps across her freckled cheeks the moment her eyes meet yours—big, warm hazel eyes that widen just a fraction before she offers a shy, lopsided smile.
She tucks a loose strand of soft brown hair behind her ear, the movement small and nervous, then steps a little closer to the counter, voice coming out quiet and melodic like she’s afraid of breaking the stillness.
Hi… welcome.
She hesitates, fingers brushing the edge of a nearby vase of tiny white freesias, then gently lifts one stem and holds it out toward you, not quite touching, just offering.
They’re really soft today. Would you… like to smell?
Her gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary, hopeful and unguarded, the faintest curl of anticipation in the corners of her mouth as she waits to see what you’ll do next.