Because it happened approximately thirty minutes ago without her knowledge or consent. But this woman doesn't need to know that.
I chuckle, leaning against the counter in a way that's casual and conspiratorial. "It's very new. We're still figuring things out ourselves. But I wanted to make sure those flowers didn't sit down here all day."
"Well isn't that just wonderful!" She's beaming now, already reaching under the counter where I assume the delivery guy left the bouquet. "That girl deserves someone good. Three someone’s, apparently! She's been alone too long. Works so hard at the bar, always cheerful even when she must be exhausted."
She produces the massive bouquet—red roses that must have cost a fortune, baby's breath, the whole romantic cliché in crystal vase form.
They're beautiful. Expensive. Exactly the kind of thing that's supposed to sweep an Omega off her feet. And I hate everything about them.
"Thank you," I say, taking them carefully. "Actually, I should mention—there was a flooding incident upstairs. Reverie's bathtub overflowed. We're dealing with some health concerns right now so I'll keep you posted on any damage to your ceiling."
Her face immediately shifts to concern. "Oh no! Is she alright?"
"She will be," I assure her, because anything else is unacceptable. "Just a minor accident. But there might be some water damage to deal with."
She waves a hand dismissively. "As long as Reverie is in one piece, that's all that matters. That girl is a pack of sunshine for this town. Brightens everyone's day. Anything damaged can be replaced, though money is tight these days. But things are just things."
A pack of sunshine. That's exactly what she is. Even in the brief moments I've spent with her, that light is undeniable. The way she laughed last night. The way she responded to touch. The way she fits against me like she belongs there.
"Whatever damages and payments need to be made, we'll take care of it," I tell her firmly. "You won't be out any money. I promise."
Her eyes get suspiciously shiny. "You remind me of my husband. He was like that—always taking care of others, always stepping up when things went wrong."
"Was?" I ask gently.
"He's long gone now. Died doing what he loved—saving others. He was a firefighter. Went into a burning building to rescue a family and the roof collapsed." She says it matter-of-factly, the way people do when grief has had years to settle into something bearable. "Twenty years ago this Christmas."
Died saving others. That hits closer to home than she knows. I've lost too many brothers that way. Good men who ran toward danger because that's what we do. That's what we're trained for. Even when we know the cost.
I reach up, touching the dog tags under my shirt. The metal is warm from my body heat. Names etched into steel. Reminders of debts I can never repay.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I tell her. Mean it.
She smiles—sad but genuine. "Thank you, dear. Here—" She grabs a small box from the counter, filling it with cookies. "Welcome to Oakridge Hollow. Consider this a pack-warming gift."
She won't take no for an answer, pressing the box into my free hand alongside the flowers.
"Thank you, ma'am. I'll make sure Reverie knows how kind you've been."
"You take care of that girl," she says as I head toward the door. "She deserves happiness."
She does. More than she probably believes. More than she's been given. And we're going to make sure she gets it.
I head back upstairs—slower again because my knees are officially done with stairs for today. Make a mental note to take anti-inflammatories before bed. The flowers are heavy, awkward to carry with the cookie box. But I manage.
When I reach Reverie's apartment, the door is slightly ajar. I can hear movement inside—the sound of someone wringing out a mop, water sloshing in a bucket.
I push inside.
Grayson is on the couch with Reverie. She's dressed now—Christmas pajamas, pink with candy canes. He's laying a cold cloth on her forehead with the kind of gentle precision that speaks to medical training. His face is tight with concentration.
Nash is mopping the floor, his jeans soaked through, his shirt clinging to his back with water and sweat. The apartment looks like a disaster zone—puddles everywhere, towels scattered, the bathroom door wide open showing the aftermath of the flood.
I close the door behind me, setting the flowers and cookies on the small table by the entrance.
"Got the flowers," I announce. "Delivery guy said they're from the city—a few hours away. Someone paid premium forsame-day delivery but he doesn't know who exactly. Took the job because it was good money."
Nash looks up from his mopping. "No shit if it's from a city a few hours away. That's expensive as hell for last-minute delivery to a small town. Someone wanted her to get these today specifically."
