The peony I drew on his chest pales in comparison to the bold, large petals of the flower he’s making on me. Mine is puny while his is majestic. “You’re an artist,” I say, catching him off guard. “The florals you create at the shop is an underappreciated art form. I’m in awe of you.” “Says the woman who weaves words to make romantic heroes that women only dream about.” “So, you agree they don’t really exist,” I challenge. “Maybe you just need to dream while you’re awake.”
