The noise falls away behind me.
Outside, the air is cooler. The street is quieter.
Kieran is standing near the side of the building, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. His head turns when the door opens.
When he sees me, his whole face changes. The hard line of his jaw loosens. The furrow between his brows smooths out. His eyes go bright, crinkling at the corners, and that relaxed, unguarded look I have come to know spreads across his features.
I walk toward him, my smile answering his. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies.
We stand there for a second, the café noise muted behind us, the world narrows to this small space between us.
“I wanted a minute.” He shifts his weight, his gaze holding mine. “Just us.”
“I did too.”
He straightens suddenly and turns to face me. I turn to face him too. His hands come out of his pockets. One of them holds a small box.
“I, um—” He clears his throat. His gaze drops to the box in his hand, then lifts to mine, then drops again. His ears redden. “I made you something.”
I take it from him, my fingers brushing his, and open it carefully. The lid lifts and inside, against a bed of soft cotton, is—
My breath catches.
Inside is a delicate bracelet. A thin silver chain, each link catching the streetlight, throwing small, bright points of light against my palm. Strung along it are tiny, perfect dandelions,their yellow heads pressed flat and preserved in clear, glossy resin. They look like they’re floating.
My hand trembles around the box.
It’s the wild, stubborn flower I chose for myself, made permanent.
“I found this place,” he says quickly. “Where you can press flowers. Make things yourself.” He smiles, a little sheepish. “I messed it up twice before I got it right. The first time the resin bubbled—I didn’t mix it properly. The second time… I crushed a petal trying to fit it in the mold.” He shakes his head lightly, amused. “Took me longer than I thought it would.”
He looks back up at me. “But I wanted it to be right. I wanted to make you something.”
I imagine him bent over a table, concentrating, his hands careful and patient. Messing up. Starting over. Not giving up. Because that’s who he is. That’s who he’s always been.
I can’t look away from it. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words feel too small for what I’m holding. Too simple. Too ordinary.
Carefully, I lift it out. “Can you—?”
“Yeah.” He steps closer.
His fingers brush my wrist as he fastens it, careful, attentive. The contact is familiar now. It doesn’t startle me. It doesn’t make me pull back.
When the clasp is fastened, he lets his hand linger for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over the inside of my wrist, where my pulse is. I wonder if he can feel it racing. I wonder if his is racing too.
He pulls back. “There’s… one more thing.”
I look up.
He turns around. Just… turns his back to me completely, blocking my view.
I blink, confused. “Kieran?”
“Just—” He holds up one hand. “Give me a second.”
I hear the fabric shift. His hand goes to his pocket, then out. A few seconds pass. He breathes deep—I see the rise and fall of his shoulders.
