The world stops. The cooler hums. A petal falls off a wilting peony on the display shelf. Outside, a seagull screams. And I stand there holding a notepad covered in flower sketches for his brother’s wedding, with my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“Delilah.” My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer he’s been holding for years. Like a word he’s been turning over, wearing smooth, afraid to say out loud in case it breaks.
“Levi.” My voice comes out steady, which is a miracle, because my internal organs are staging a full rebellion. My stomach has dropped to my knees, my heart is in my throat, and my brain is cycling through every possible response and rejecting all of them.
The sunlight through the frontwindows catches the dust motes in the air, turning them gold, and for a second the whole shop feels suspended—like even the flowers are holding their breath.
Jo’s head swivels between us like she’s watching a tennis match in slow motion. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Neither of us answers. The shop feels smaller than it did thirty seconds ago. The walls have crept in, the ceiling has lowered, and the scent of every flower in the cooler—roses, eucalyptus, gardenias, lilies—is suddenly thick enough to choke on. My pulse is hammering in my throat. I press my fingertips into the counter to keep them steady.
Dean grunts.
“Dean.” Jo’s voice goes dangerously sweet. “Babe. Light of my life. Is there something you forgot to mention about your best man?”
“Nope.”
“Dean.”
“It wasn’t my story to tell.”
“Your brother has history with our florist and you didn’t think to warn me? Not even a heads up? A subtle hint? A carrier pigeon?”
“I don’t own pigeons, Jo.”
I’m barely listening. I’m too busy drowning inLevi’s eyes—darker than I remember, more tired—and trying to remember how my lungs work.
He’s older. Lines around his eyes that weren’t there before. A weariness that fame put there, maybe, or heartbreak, or both. His jaw is sharper, his shoulders broader, but his hands are the same—guitar-player hands, long-fingered, restless. One thumb is rubbing absently against his other palm, and I recognize the habit instantly. He does that when he’s nervous.
He’s nervous.
Somehow that makes everything worse.
He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, like he dressed specifically to not be noticed. It’s not working. Not on me. Not when I’m looking right at him.
The boy I loved at seventeen was bright and hopeful.
The man I loved at twenty-seven was hungry and restless.
This version of him looks tired. Like fame gave him everything except what he actually needed.
“You’ve been here awhile,” he says. Not a question.
“How did you—” I stop. Of course. “My mother.”
“She mentioned it.” His mouth curves, just barely. “Several times. I believe the words ‘you should visit’ came up in every conversation.”
“She’s never been one for subtlety.”
“Never has been.”
Silence stretches between us. Years of things we never said. Goodbyes that never got explained. The weight of it fills the shop like the scent of too many gardenias—sweet and heavy and almost suffocating.
I realize my jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache. I force it loose, exhale slow and careful, and the exhale shakes.
Jo clears her throat. “So. This is awkward.”
“Understatement,” Mads murmurs. She’s watching us with the quiet intensity of a woman who reads too many romance novels and is currently living inside one.
