Nothing about this makes sense. He said “stand and watch,” but what reason could he possibly have had to be there? At my apartment?
But for the first time since I woke up, my heart slows enough that I can breathe.
I’m not inhishands.
I’m safe.
For now.
Matteo doesn’t rush me. He steps farther into the room only after I nod, stopping a careful distance away, like he’s very aware of how easily he could spook me.
“You passed out after,” he says. “In the hallway. Someone tried to drug you. Put a cloth over your mouth. You fought.”
As he speaks, the memories come back in jagged flashes. The smell. The pressure. My lungs burning. The panic so sharp it bordered on clarity. I flinch without meaning to, Wasabi tightening his grip on my shirt like he’s anchoring me in place.
“And then you,” I say quietly. “You were there.”
“Yes.”
I swallow. “Did you see him?”
“No,” he says. “He ran.”
“Did I…?” The question comes out thin. “Say anything? Recognize him?”
“Not that I heard.” He watches my face closely. “Why? Do you suspect someone?”
Yes.“No,” I lie. “And I don’t think I saw him either, anyway. It was dark. It all happened too fast.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Do you have any idea who he might’ve been working for?”
There it is.
I shake my head immediately. “No. I mean—no. Florists don’t have many enemies, after all. Unless you count the pesticide industry.”
I don’t say the rest. That I do have a past. That there was a man once who didn’t like being told no. That white roses don’t just show up without reason. Saying it out loud would make it real, and I can’t afford that.
Worse, it would involve Matteo. And I have already involved him enough. He doesn’t need more of my problems dumped into his lap.
“It was probably random,” I add quickly, like if I say it with enough confidence it’ll stick. “Wrong place. Wrong time.”
Matteo studies me for a long moment. He doesn’t argue, but his expression tells me he doesn’t agree either.
“Thank you,” I say instead, because gratitude is easier than fear. “For helping me. For… all of this.” I gesture weakly at the room, the plants, my cat still glued to my chest.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
I draw in a deep breath. “I should go home.”
“You don’t have to.” His voice is calm. “You can stay here. As long as you need.”
The words land softly, but they hit something sharp inside me anyway. I look at him, really look, and the relief I felt twists into suspicion.
Finally, the question I’ve been avoiding flashes bright into my mind. The only thing I can see.Why was Matteo Moretti on my doorstep last night?
“You knew,” I finally say. My voice isn’t accusing, just careful. “You knew someone was going to hurt me. That’s why you were there.”
He doesn’t deny it. “I was watching you,” he says. “Making sure you got home safe.”
