I just know she’s shaking a little, and the whole town just watched her buy a weekend with a stranger, and she’s trying to act like she’s not terrified.
So, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I steer her toward the flower booth.
The vendor looks up, sees me, and her eyes widen like I just walked naked into church.
“Maverick?” she says, like she’s checking for a hallucination.
I ignore that too.
I point at a small bouquet. Not roses, too obvious. Something softer. Winter greens, white flowers, a touch of red tucked in like a secret.
“I’ll take that,” I say.
The vendor blinks. “You’re buying flowers.”
“Yes.”
“For you?”
My jaw clenches.
“For her.”
“Nova,” she says softly. “My name is Nova Jennings.”
I nod once. “For Nova.”
The vendor looks between us, stunned. Then she fumbles with the paper wrap like her hands forgot how to work.
I pay. I don’t even look at the price.
I take the bouquet and turn to her.
She stares at the flowers like they might bite.
“Take them,” I say.
Her brows pull together. “You didn’t have to.”
I shrug, because if I put feelings into words I’m going to choke on them. “Every woman deserves flowers on Valentine’s Day.”
The sentence feels strange coming out of my mouth.
I don’t do Valentine’s Day. I don’t do holidays. I don’t do hearts and romance and red ribbons.
But I do know what it’s like to go without kindness for too long.
And I’m looking at a woman who looks like she’s been starving for it.
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue, then she stops.
She takes the bouquet carefully, like it’s fragile.
Like she’s fragile.
Something twists in my chest.
She lowers her face slightly, breathing them in, and her shoulders drop a fraction. Just a fraction.
