"SOFT THINGS ROT TOO''
Flowers.
So many flowers that the air itself feels heavy with them. The shop smells almost holy thick with sweetness, pollen, damp stems, and something green and alive underneath it all. It hits me the moment we step inside, and for a second I just stand there breathing, letting it fill my lungs like incense in a cathedral. After days of stale rooms and closed windows and the quiet suffocation of the house, the scent feels unreal. Like stepping into heaven by accident. Like seeing colour again after living too long in grey.
Buckets crowd every corner, petals spilling over their rims. Lilies with velvet throats. Gladiolus rising tall and proud. Roses curled tight like secrets. Water beads along the leaves and catches the light, trembling whenever someone passes. My fingers brush against them as I walk, slow and careful, afraid they might bruise under my touch. Or maybe I'm the one who will bruise.
I choose the darker ones without meaning to. My hands reach for indigo lilies first — their petals deep and saturated, edges stained in shadow like ink bleeding through paper. Then come the ruffled gladiolus, dramatic and elegant, the kind you'd see lining the aisle of a church or laid across a coffin. Violet-blue. Crisp white. Colours that feel too quiet, too solemn. The florist wraps them together, adding a single near-black ranunculus at the center like a hidden heart. When she folds everything in sharp matte black paper and ties it with satin ribbon, the bouquet looks less like a gift and more like a memory. Elegant. Dramatic.
The blue catches me off guard.
It's the same blue that clung to my mother's lips in the tub.
The thought slips in softly and still manages to choke me.
I swallow and tell myself it's just a colour.
Nothing more.
Ethan, of course, picks the opposite. His bouquet is bright, alive, almost laughing at mine. Stargazer lilies flare open in pink and white, soft blush roses tucked between them, deep magenta alstroemeria framing the edges. It looks warm. Loved.. Wrapped in dusty rose paper, it feels gentle in a way mine doesn't. When we stand at the counter together, the bouquets side by side, they look like night and morning touching.
"Bold choice of colour," he says as we step outside.
The sky has turned a dull sheet of grey, clouds hanging low and swollen. I glance down at my lilies, their dark petals almost glowing against the light.
"She'll like it," I say. "I'm sure."
A drop of rain lands cold on my nose. Then another. The air smells metallic, like a storm sharpening itself somewhere above us. We rush to the car, laughing under our breath, doors slamming shut as the first real scatter of rain begins to fall.
"I'm grabbing coffee," Ethan says, already halfway out. "You want one?"
"Uh, nope."
He nods and jogs toward the café next door, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the engine and the soft rustle of flowers in my lap.
I keep staring at them.
I don't know why.
Maybe because they're too pretty. Maybe because they feel like they're watching me back.
Movement catches my eye through the windshield.
Two people heading into the flower shop.
Blond hair.
My heart stutters.
Cade.
Even from here I recognize the slope of his shoulders, the way he walks like he's trying not to take up space. But he isn't alone. There's a girl beside him. Red hair, bright against the grey day. Pretty. Effortlessly pretty.
My eyes fix to the window like I'm pinned there.
Inside the shop, he talks to the cashier, profile calm, expression neutral. The girl laughs at something he says , easy, familiar laughter and something sour twists inside my chest.
Did he forget about me?
Maybe they're just friends. From the orphanage. That makes sense. It has to.
But what if they're more?
What if they're dating?
Why didn't he tell me?
The questions pile up so fast I can barely breathe. My fingers crumple the black wrapping paper without realizing it. For one sharp, ugly second, something violent flashes through me ,a wild urge to storm inside and tear everything apart, to dig my nails in his eyes till I feel the blood caressing my hands. I want to rip open his skull and eat his fucking brain.
The thought scares me.
No.
I'm not like them.
I don't even know who them is.
The car door clicks open and I flinch. Ethan slides in with his coffee, the scent of it warm and bitter. The moment passes. The shop disappears behind us. Cade disappears too, swallowed by rain and distance like he was never there.
By the time we reach the mansion, the sky is almost black. The house rises ahead of us, tall and still, windows dark like empty eyes. It always looks less like a home and more like something waiting. Watching. The air feels colder here.
Aunt Serena isn't back yet, so we place the bouquets and gifts in the guest room. They look strange lying on the bedspread, too bright for the dim space, like offerings left at an altar.
"Wouldn't they be less fresh tomorrow?" I ask quietly as I close the door.
"That's why we're wishing her today," Ethan says, rolling up the sleeves of his button-up with lazy efficiency.
"Oh— wait." A small spark of excitement pushes through the heaviness in my chest. "We could cook something too. Surprise her."
He pauses mid-step and gives me a look.
"The idea is good," he says slowly. "But the one proposing it… you cooking? Seriously?"
He walks downstairs before I can react, amusement tugging at his mouth.
"What was that?" I mutter, following him. "I'm a good cook."
"Yeah… sure…"
He's trying and failing not to laugh.
"What about you, then?"
"Me?" He grins over his shoulder. "Darling, I'm a seven-star chef."
I roll my eyes. "Then you cook. It's your wife's special day after all."