I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.
And then I stopped breathing.
Carson was standing there.
Not just standing — waiting.
He stood in the center of the kitchen, tall and breath-stealing and unfairly handsome in a dark Henley and jeans, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Sunlight from the window caught in his hair, and something in my chest flipped so hard I almost tripped into a sack of potatoes.
But that wasn’t what froze me.
He was holding flowers.
A bouquet.
A real, actual, soft-petaled, color-splashed bouquet.
I blinked like a malfunctioning robot. “Carson?”
His eyes found mine with that calm, steady warmth that always hit deeper than I wanted to admit. “Hi.”
I took a step forward but stopped, because my heart was doing ridiculous things and I needed my legs to behave.
“You’re…you’re back early,” I said, brilliant as always. “When did you, how…why are there flowers happening right now?”
His mouth curved. “I got here about an hour ago.”
“Carson. The flowers are… they’re really pretty.”
“They’re for you.”
My chest fluttered in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, voice a little too thin.
His expression softened into something that hit me right behind the ribs.
“I missed you,” he said simply.
The words landed with the weight of truth. Deep and warm and startling.
“Oh,” I breathed, because my vocabulary had abandoned me. “You did?”
“A lot.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
“And,” he continued, stepping closer. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t just miss you because we kissed. Or because of the sleeping bag. Or because of the trail. Or because you make me laugh when you don’t mean to.”
“Hey—” I tried to protest.
He smiled. “I missed you because being away made things clearer.”
A flutter of panic stirred in my stomach.
Not because I didn’t want him here.
Because I wanted himso much.
