I pocketed my phone and looked at the pen still sitting on my desk. After a long moment, I opened my drawer and dropped it inside, out of sight beneath a stack of old conference programs.
Better. That was better.
On my way home, I stopped at a florist.
The shop was small. I'd driven past it a hundred times. It smelled like earth and water and the sweetness of flowers. An older woman behind the counter looked up when I entered.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
"Roses," I said. "A bouquet. Something nice."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled. "How about these?" She gestured to a display of long-stemmed red roses. "Two dozen. Very romantic."
I stared at the scarlet petals and hummed. "Those are great."
She wrapped them in paper and ribbon while I stood there feeling like a fraud. Maya loved flowers. She'd mentioned once that her apartment felt sterile without them, all white walls and modern furniture and nothing alive to soften the edges.I'd meant to buy her flowers a dozen times and never followed through.
Why was I following through now?
I knew the answer. I just didn't want to admit it.
Maya was already home when I arrived, changed out of her scrubs into soft pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. She looked comfortable. Relaxed. Happy to see me.
Then she noticed the roses, and her expression shifted.
"Cassian?" She stared at the bouquet. "What's all this?"
"Just wanted to do something nice for you." I crossed the room and kissed her, trying to pour all my focus into the gesture. Her lips were warm and familiar, and I waited for something to settle inside me. Some confirmation that this was right, that she was enough. "You work so hard. You deserve to be appreciated."
Maya accepted the roses, but she didn't stop watching my face. "You're sweet. But seriously, what's going on? You're being different."
I swallowed the guilt. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know." She paused, tucking the flowers against her chest. "You're being very attentive. More than usual. It's nice, but it's also making me nervous."
"Why would it make you nervous?" I asked, faking a chuckle to ease the tension in my chest.
"Because you only get like this when something's wrong." She set the roses on the counter and turned to face me fully. "Talk to me. What's happening?"
"Nothing's happening. I just realized I haven't been showing you how much you mean to me. I wanted to fix that."
She held my gaze, and I could see her deciding whether to push, weighing curiosity against the desire to leave well enough alone.
"Okay," she said finally. "Let me put these in water. Then we can go."
We drove to the restaurant I had reserved earlier. Maya had mentioned it weeks ago and dropped hints about wanting to try it, and I'd filed the information away and done nothing about it until tonight.
Guilt made excellent motivation.
I asked about her day, her cases, and her plans for the weekend. I kept the conversation flowing, my attention firmly on her, refusing to let my mind drift to the woman who was probably still at the hospital.
Maya answered my questions. She told me about a complicated bypass, a difficult patient, and a resident who'd impressed her with unexpected competence. She smiled at the right moments and laughed at my jokes and played along with the charade of a perfect evening.
But I could see the doubt in her eyes.
"You're being weird," she said eventually, setting down her fork. Her plate was still half full. Neither of us had been eating with any real appetite.
"I'm not being weird."
