The first thing I see is light. Not the sick white fluorescence of Westpoint’s halls, not the guttering yellow of cafeteria bulbs, but candlelight. Dozens of candles. Melted to the nubs, some guttering, some tall and untouched. They line every flat surface: the kitchen counters, the window sills, the table. They climb up the stairs, staggered in empty jars and old coffee mugs. Light rolls in slow motion over everything, making everything feel surreal.
The second thing I see are the flowers.
He’s filled the whole goddamn room with them. Some I recognize from the forest—mountain laurel, bluebell, something white that looks like baby’s breath but isn’t. Wildflowers, not bought, arranged in Mason jars and chipped drinking glasses, every stem different height, each bloom open and reaching for the nearest light. The air smells like honey and pine and a dozen crushed stems. It’s dizzying. Overpowering.
The third thing I see is him.
He stands by the far window, arms folded, face half-lit by the sea of candles. He looks different. Not tired, but… undone. Like he’s unspooled the thread that holds him together and is daring me to tie it back up again. His hair is a mess. His hands are folded neatly in front of him. He’s wearing a button-up, sleeves rolled, collar open to expose the red ring at his throat where I bit him last night.
He doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t move.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, half-expecting him to charge. He doesn’t. Instead, he watches me, his eyes tracing the path I take as I cross the room.
He has made it beautiful. And I have no idea why.
“I said to wait.” He says.
“I needed to pee. Colton… this is… beautiful.”
Looking around, I’m in awe. Then he moves up behind me and turns me to face him. The light makes his eyes softer, less the color of bruises, more the color of the ocean before a storm.
“Did you do all this?” I ask, even though I know.
He shrugs, shifting his feet. “Do you like it?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s… unreal.”
“Come here, baby girl,” he says.
Not an order. Not even a request. It’s an invitation.
I take his hand.
He pulls me in, slow. My body fits against his chest the way it always has: perfectly. He wraps his arms around my waist, not tight, not possessive, just holding. His breath stirs the hair at my crown, and I feel the full exhale vibrate through him, like he’s been waiting to breathe until now.
We stand in the dark, candles flickering, the forest pressing in on all sides.
I close my eyes, let the warmth bleed through the places that have always been cold.
“I, uh, made us a shark plate.”
“What’s that?” I’m intrigued, I’ve never eaten shark before.
His face reddens. “Um, those boards. I could never say the word.”
“Ooooooh, charcuterie!”
“Yep.” He turns from me as I giggle and catch his jaw with a light kiss.
“I wanna try this shark board of yours.”
He rolls his eyes as he leads me to the living room, the board beautifully done with wildflowers adorning it.
I must admit, I’m impressed. “Did you…”
“Issy.” He admits.
Still, I’m impressed that he did this at all.
