Roxy meows again, louder, as if agreeing that this is unacceptable.
And then, through the wood, I hear a familiar voice—loud, furious, and absolutely unhinged. “I swear to god, Cooper, if another delivery guy shows up, I’m throwing him off the fucking balcony!”
Crap. Maggie’s furious with Vincent.
I shove my shoulder into the door, and it gives only an inch, pressed against something soft and... leafy? Leafy?
“Maggie?” I call, still pushing. “Is something blocking the—”
The door suddenly bursts inward like it’s been holding its breath, and I practically fall into the apartment.
And then I just—stop.
My jaw drops. My brain short-circuits. Roxy goes silent in awe.
Because my apartment... God, my apartment has become a forest. No. A wedding venue. A botanical garden. A fairytale set. A fever dream of someone who discovered what flowers are for the very first time and said, “Yes. All of them.”
Bouquets cover every surface. Roses, tulips, daisies, lilies, sunflowers—an entire encyclopedia of flora. Vases are stacked on stools, on tables, on the floor. There are potted plants everywhere, like someone tried to terraform my living room. There’s even a garland hanging from the ceiling fan, slowly rotating like it’s part of some enchanted ritual.
Roxy pushes her face against the carrier door likewe live here now?
And Maggie’s standing in the middle of all of it, knee-deep in flowers, hair wild, expression feral, screaming into her phone like a medieval warrior preparing for battle. “I left for thirtyfucking minutes, dumbass!” she roars, pacing angrily through a meadow of roses. “Only half an hour! And you send a fucking tsunami? Are you fucking insane?!”
She kicks a vase, but it doesn’t fall—there are too many other flowers propping it up. Her voice echoes so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors called animal control thinking a large predatory bird got loose.
I step further inside, careful not to crush... whatever rare species might be on the floor.
“Mag,” I whisper, stunned. “What happened?”
She whirls toward me with the dramatic flair of a telenovela villain. “What happened?! Your idiot boyfriend—wait, sorry, ‘not boyfriend’—has decided to turn our damn home into the freaking garden of Eden!”
“He’s not—”
She raises a finger like she’s about to smite someone. “Do. Not. Start.”
I shut up immediately and my best friend lifts her phone again. “Vincent, I know you can hear—no, I do not think this is romantic. I think you’re a pathetic idiot. I swear I’m going to cut your balls and feed them to Roxy! This is a fucking crime scene. A plant massacre! Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep? Or pee? You have a fucking death wish!”
At some point she pauses, listening to him. Then she starts screaming again, “No, I don’t want a ‘complementary bouquet’ to say sorry!”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh because my best friend scares me in this moment, and because even through the chaos, the mess, the pollen-induced madness...
something warm curls in my chest. Something stupid. Something hopeful.
Maggie notices and gasps dramatically, pointing at my face. “No. No. No. Are you—are you smiling?!”
“I am not,” I lie.
“Of course you are,” she insists, scandalized. “You’re smiling like a girl in a romance movie who just got a horse and a love letter!”
I turn away, cheeks burning. “I am absolutely not.”
Maggie throws her hands in the air. “Unbelievable.”
She stares at me, then at the apartment, then at the ceiling like she’s asking the universe why it hates her. Finally, she hisses, “And he said—and I quote— ‘Tell her to get ready for the love story of a lifetime.’”
My heart stops.
Get ready for the love story of a lifetime.
