They’re in the kitchen when I reach the doorway. Carson leans against the island, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his weight settled into one hip. Graham’s planted with hands braced on his hips, shoulders rigid, jaw locked tight. Hunter turns a folded card over in his hands, the crease between his brows deepening with every pass of his thumb.
I follow their stares—then stop cold.
Pink covers every surface.
Vases. Boxes. Carnations, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, spill across the island and onto the counter, as if someone tried to bury the entire apartment in flowers. The scent hits me next: sweet, powdery, familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.
My breath catches.
Landon.
I don’t need a card to know. He’s the only person who’s ever bought me pink carnations.
There’s a box, black and sleek, nestled among the flowers. I reach for it and open the lid.
Inside is a pair of custom roller derby gloves—sleek, reinforced, stitched at the wrist in bold pink thread.
Jinx.
My lips part. I recognize the brand. Top-tier. These would’ve had to be ordered weeks ago. Maybe longer. Which means he ordered these even before he told me he would prove it.
He already was. God, I’ve been so blind.
“He, uh…really went for it,” Carson says behind me.
Graham mutters something under his breath about overcompensation, but I barely hear it. My fingers trail over the gloves, light and hesitant.
I glance over at Carson. His brow is raised, but his tone is casual. “He did say he would prove he wanted to be with you, didn’t he?”
I nod once. “I didn’t think he would actually do anything.”
But he has.
Landon has been proving it from the moment he came back. Quietly. Steadily. And now, boldly.
This isn’t just effort. This is him remembering me. Theversion of me he barely had time to know—but clearly did anyway.
“Well,” he says with a little shrug, “guess this is him trying.”
Hunter sets the card down and gestures toward the table. “That’s not all. It looks like your stalker didn’t want to be left out.”
I follow his gaze—and my stomach flips.
It’s a sketch.
Black and white. Precise and intimate. Me and Finn. Sitting close, knees touching. His hand on my cheek. His camera resting in my lap. I’m smiling.
It’s not a memory. Not a moment we ever had. But it’s something he wants. I know it is.
There’s no note. Just a single initial in the bottom corner.
F.
No one says anything. They don’t have to. Because even though I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, surrounded by men who’ve already claimed me…I still have two unfinished connections waiting for me outside these walls.
I look up slowly.
Carson leans against the counter now, his arms crossed, but his posture isn’t closed off. If anything, it’s protective.
