And there it is on the bed, a yellow flower. Bright against the muted bedding, impossible to ignore. Somehow it seems out of place in December, yet perfectly alive. He must know some secret place where wildflowers still bloom in the dead of winter.
I reach for it, fingertips brushing the soft petals. The touch is delicate, grounding. Then I unfold the note, hands trembling slightly, careful as if the paper might shatter in my grip. My eyes scan the words, reading them slowly, reverently, like opening a window I’m not yet sure I’m ready to peer through.
I slide the flower and note between the pages of a book with the others. My fingers linger on the old notes, already dried and fragile, that I’ve tucked away in a box in my closet. I shouldn’t keep them. I shouldn’t care. But I do. Every petal, every carefully chosen quote, feels like a thread, tethering him to me, and me to him.
I pull the box closer, fingertips tracing the edges, over the crinkled paper and the faint, lingering scent of flowers and ink. I want to resist. I want to put it all away and stop myself from feeling so raw, so exposed, but I can’t. My fear screams, tells me to protect myself, to stay behind the walls I’ve built. And yet something quieter, steadier whispers that maybe… maybe he’s really seeing me. Really thinking about me.
These little gestures, they’ve grown into something heavier, something that aches in my chest. A longing I can’t shake, following me into every quiet moment of the day. I stare at the stack in the box, wondering if he knows how much they matter, if he’d be surprised to know that every night, I go to bed thinking about him and the words he leaves behind.
I let myself hold the fear and the longing together, fragile and trembling. I don’t know how to separate them yet, and, truthfully, I’m not sure I want to.
CHAPTER 11
Ethan
I push open the door to Sugar & Spice, the bell above it giving a soft jingle that somehow sounds like Christmas morning. The scent hits me first, freshly ground coffee beans, vanilla, and something warm and sweet, brownies cooling on the counter. My brothers trail in behind me like a damn parade: Cas, Dex, and Jude.
I told them I wanted coffee in town. Didn’t invite them. They came anyway.
And then I see her.
Summer.
She’s by the window, serving an older couple who look like they’ve been married forever. Her long black hair is half-tied up with a red ribbon, a few strands falling loose around her face. The soft blue blouse she’s wearing hugs her curves, and that black apron sits perfectly against her hips. My pulse jumps. Every cell in my body comes alive at the sight of her, like I’d been running on low battery for weeks and she’s the charge I didn’t know I needed.
My hands itch to hold her. My mouth waters just looking at her lips.
“Damn,” Dex whistles, dragging out the word like he’s savoring it.“Another Hawthorne’s got it baaaad.”
I kick him under the table as we sit. I make sure to choose the seat that gives me a clear view of the counter, of her. Cas laughs, Jude smirks, and Dex just leans back with that smug grin of his.
“Fuckers didn’t have anything else to do this morning?” I glare.
They only laugh harder.
Summer turns then, a coffee pot in her hands, the smile she gave that old couple still lighting up her face. I swear that smile could thaw winter itself. I’ve seen it a hundred times, but it still knocks the breath out of me. That one dimple in her cheek makes an appearance, the one she probably doesn’t even know she has.
But when her eyes meet mine, the smile falters, just a flicker, and she replaces it with a polite, guarded one. I know I took a step towards her yesterday, pushed her, she opened up and for a little while she let me see behind the walls she has around her heart. But now it looks like she pulled those walls back up thicker and higher than before.
Most people would think she’s cold. Standoffish. Maybe even uninterested.
But I grew up watching Dad and Jude work with the horses no one else wanted, the wounded ones, the ones people labeled as“too difficult” or“too far gone.” Animals who didn’t know the difference between a gentle hand and a cruel one anymore. They’d let you close one day, then shy away the next, not because they were stubborn, but because hurt rewired them. Because trusting themselves felt dangerous.
Summer reminds me ofthat part,not the horse, but the fear. The flinch that comes from being taught love isn’t safe. The instinct to retreat the moment something feels good, because good never lasted where she came from.
She’s not pushing me away out of anger. She’s bracing. Protecting herself.
And that’s okay.
She needs patience. Consistency. Someone who’ll stay even when she retreats.
And I’m here. I’ll always be here.
“She doesn’t look happy to see you, bro,” Cas mutters under his breath.
Summer squares her shoulders, lets out a small sigh, and makes her way over to our table. Now that she’s closer, I notice her sweater, soft knit, v-neck, the kind that looks warm and delicate at the same time. My gaze betrays me and dips for a second, tracing the gentle line of her collarbone before I drag it back up to her face. She keeps her eyes glued to my brothers like I’m invisible.
“Morning, guys,” she says. Her voice is warm, but there’s tension underneath, subtle, but I hear it. Feel it.“What can I get you?”
