The next day began like any other.
The morning rush. Emails blinking into her inbox. Her coffee too hot to drink but too necessary to wait. But when Eliana stepped into her office, something made her stop cold.
There, in the center of her desk, was a bouquet.
Not just any bouquet. Peonies, wild tulips, ranunculus. Soft pinks and creams, with little wisps of green fern spiraling like whispers around the edges.
It was stunning.
No card. No note.
But she knew.
It was Nicky.
She approached slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too fast. The scent hit her first—fresh, delicate, with a softness she hadn't realized she'd been craving. She bent forward slightly and inhaled.
Last night, after their talk. After the kiss. After she'd melted into him like she hadn't promised herself she wouldn't.
They'd gone out for dinner—nothing dramatic, just a quiet corner table at that tiny candlelit place near Rue des Archives. The one they used to walk past and always said, next time.
