We stood there for another moment, the great room quiet around us, the chaos of setup muffled behind closed doors. The fireplace crackled and popped, throwing warmth into the vast space. Holden's thumb traced small circles on my back through my jacket.
“We should go,” he said. “Let them finish setting up.”
“Yeah.” But I turned toward him instead of the door, rose up on my toes, and kissed him. Soft and quick, just because I could. Just because he was here and I was here and we were standing in a room full of wedding flowers he'd made with his own hands.
“What was that for?” he asked when I pulled back.
“Just because.”
His eyes went soft. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We walked out into the February sunshine, his hand in mine, the mountains sharp against the blue sky. The van was warm when we climbed in, and Holden didn't start the engine right away, just sat there for a moment, looking at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, but he was smiling. That rare, unguarded smile I'd spent weeks trying to earn. “Just… thank you. For coming with me.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know.” He leaned across the console and kissed me, longer this time, his hand cupping the back of my neck. “That's what I'm thanking you for.”
We spent the rest of Sunday doing nothing.
Not nothing—I called it “aggressive relaxation,” which made Holden snort coffee through his nose, but close. We picked up the dogs from my place and walked them through the park, the February air cold enough to see our breath but not cold enough to cut through the warmth I felt every time Holden's shoulder bumped mine. We ordered pizza from the place on Main Street that had been there since Holden was a kid. We started a baking show on Netflix, squeezed together on my small couch.
Holden kept reaching for me. His hand on my thigh during the show. His arm around my shoulders while we ate. His fingers threading through mine while we napped.
Like he couldn't quite believe I was there. Like he kept needing to check.
I let him. Reached back every time. Showed him with my hands what I'd already said with words.
Get used to it.
Holden
Tuesday afternoon, Jamie left for the dog exchange.
I offered to come. He said no—not unkindly, but firm. “I need to do this one myself,” he'd said, kissing me at the door. “First time seeing him since everything changed.”
I understood. So I stayed at the shop, found something to do with my hands, and tried not to watch the clock.
The wedding flowers had gone over well yesterday. Mrs. Redding had called this morning to say Emma cried whenshe saw the bridal bouquet, that the arch had been everything she'd hoped for. I'd accepted the compliment the way I always did, with a brief thanks and quick pivot to the next task. But something about it stuck with me this time. The quality of the satisfaction. Like maybe the work mattered beyond just being done right.
My grandmother would have understood that feeling. She'd spent her whole life making beautiful things for other people's milestones. Weddings and funerals, births and graduations. She'd taught me that flowers were just the medium. The real gift was attention. Noticing what people needed even when they couldn't say it.
Jamie had been gone forty-five minutes when the bell rang.
He stood in the doorway, no dogs, no leashes. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, but he was smiling.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I set down the ribbon spool I'd been holding without cutting. “How'd it go?”
He crossed the shop without answering, didn't stop until he was pressed against my chest, his arms around my waist, his face buried in my flannel. I wrapped myself around him and held on.
“Good,” he said into my shirt. “It was good.”
